Kelechi Okafor is twerking her way to political and social empowerment
Words: Farzana Rahman
Publication: Magpie
Kelechi Okafor, a Nigerian-born dance innovator, has taken the West African roots of the dance form, known as ‘twerk’, and armed it with social meaning that transgresses the pejorative way in which many people think of it. Many of us became aware of twerking when Miley Cyrus infamously appropriated the dance style at the 2013 MTV VMAs.
I sat down with Kelechi, the day before the EU referendum was held, on a wide-ranging discussion which looked at her aspirations for twerk as an ‘act of resistance’ against’ the policing of women of colour in the fitness industry and beyond, and on being a social innovator.
Kelechi has an eponymous social media following; she’s one of those bright sparks who immediately capitalise on the importance of branding the heck out of everything you are good at and presenting it as an commodified offering to society. She also has amazing hair.
On social media: she goes by ‘Kelechnekoff,’ a nod to her palpable energy, ‘a mouth like a gun,’ and unapologetic embrace of her Nigerian heritage and black womanism. She’s an actor, a fitness instructor, a pole dance instructor, and for the past two years: a twerk teacher. Her twerking classes offered at a leading London-based dance studio have taken on a life of their own. When she started (as a cover teacher), there was a small interest in the class; since Kelechi took on the class demand has outstripped places and her classes are booked out two weeks in advance; such is her popularity as a teacher and crucially: an educator of West African dance.
Kelechi sees her role as a teacher of ‘twerk’ to educate with love, and encourages those attending her class to recognise and connect with the historical, cultural and social importance of the dances and routines. For Kelechi: twerk is not just an infamous command to shake your ass from DJ Jubilee and the 1990s New Orleans bounce scene; the movements and techniques have a deep-rooted history from West Africa, and by the way, very little to do with Miley Cyrus.
When asked about the appropriation versus appreciation debate regarding twerk and other cultural motifs which fall in and out of fashion with young white women (eg. festival season bindis), Kelechi commented that she was initially taken aback by the thousands of videos she uncovered during her research, of white women attempting to imitate Miley Cyrus and labelling their efforts as ‘twerking’.
She said she instinctively knew that the responsible thing to do was to ensure that her students connected with the techniques of twerking from a place of cultural and historical relevance. She wants to ensure that her students know that dance forms associated with black communities are mature acts of resistance and defiance against subjugation and slavery: and as such should be respected.
Her classes are full of women from different backgrounds, ages, and dance experiences, it is clearly an inclusive place, which she has worked hard to promote. She notes that there is an emerging language of love which she actively encourages in her classes, and one that is being adopted by her students.
While dance classes can be intimidating for the uninitiated – there tends to be a degree of ‘mean girlishness’ in finding a comfortable space in the class, and knowing where you are in the pecking order – Kelechi says rather than correcting students from a position where they might feel shamed and inhibited, she uses positive critiques without value judgements. She notes how proud she is of her students who do not engage in any churlish value judgements of their fellow students; instead the students have bonded through and at the classes.
When asked why and what her students thought of her class, Kelechi notes that many probably did come with the assumption that they would be shown the US twerk style which was at the fore of the commercial hip hop scene a few years ago.
However, by stripping the commercial movements out of the routines which she teaches (and the association with the misogyny and slut-shaming of some commercial hip hop lyrics, she picks the soundtrack for each class very carefully), Kelechi allows her students to connect with the raw movements of the routines. In the videos which are uploaded after each class, each student is pouring with sweat, and there is a visceral sense of emotional connection and collective empowerment.
Kelechi is rightfully dismissive of some of the backlash she’s received from commentators (read trolls) who take exception with some of the routines as being ‘slutty’ and ‘promoting promiscuity.’ The backlash has come from both men and women, and Kelechi along with many of her students feel that it’s generally indicative of societal misogyny and fear of empowered women. The class, Kelechi feels, is a safe space for women to connect with music and dance in a way that celebrates their womanhood. In such a space, there’s no space for slut-shaming or body shaming, by owning your sexuality and sensuality through dance, Kelechi feels this accentuates one’s identity as a woman.
Her plans for derivatives for her class centre womanism at their core: she has plans for a twerk workshop in heels and has set up a crowdfunder for a ‘twerk empowerment’ class which would provide a safe space for women of colour to connect through dance, the shared pain of their historical identities.
Her future plans are full of ambition and growth; she is set to appear in a television series later in the summer, and she will expand her twerk classes and offer workshops both at home and abroad. She’s an exponent of using dance as cathartic release – you can enter her class with all the baggage in the world, and after learning a challenging routine, which confronts students both physically and emotionally, you will feel empowered and ready to deal with the baggage.
Kelechi is one of the many social innovators who are effecting change in small and large ways, and I salute the work she is doing.