For over a year now I’d been hearing about Mojo, the nightspot Monique took the nieces to when she was in town. Chaffing under protective parents, the girls clamored for these sorties with their bad aunt. I was exhausted after our first concert and should have stayed home. But it was Saturday night and I couldn’t resist this chance to see for myself what Monique and the girls got up to when the parents weren’t looking.

The pre-Mojo warm-up started at home in in the garden with a big bowl of Monique’s cocktail recipe (rum, orange & lemon juice, sugar, grated ginger, cinnamon stick, vanilla bean). Beef brochettes sizzled on the grill while a spicy tomato sauce waited on the table.

Joël, our incipient guitar genius, arrived. I don’t know who arranged this. But I had already suspected that Corine – the big sister, the “smart” one – was interested in him. I learned that Joël was ostensibly enrolled in business studies at the university. When I stated the obvious, that he should quit school and concentrate on music, he was genuinely surprised. “You’re the first one who’s ever said that.”

* * *

We took our time eating. You don’t want to arrive at Mojo much before midnight.

Heading downtown, our party consisted of Monique and me, Corine, Sarah, Joël and Gerald (Monique’s youngest son, in case you forgot). Needless to say, the girls and Monique were dressed to kill. Cars lined both sides of the narrow street in front of Mojo. But a few words from Monique and the bouncers found us a parking spot. “Doo Doo Doo” was pouring out of the open second-floor windows.

We filed along a claustrophobic, blood-red corridor and up a narrow concrete staircase. At the top it was all flashing lights and industrial chic. We pushed our way into the crowd, half Malagasy, half foreign (i.e. French). I went into my default mode, smiling and shaking hands with people I didn’t know, nodding meaningfully when they said things I couldn’t hear through all the din. Monique introduced me to a guy sitting at the bar, explaining, “It’s Baba.” I certainly knew his music. His album, produced by Monique’s brothers, is fantastic. Unfortunately, his follow-up live shows, promotion and organization didn’t match the level of the recording, and his career has since stalled.

We found seating near an open window as drinks arrived. The youngsters immediately hit the dance floor, propelled by a Congolese beat. Along with gazing at the dancers – the gauche French and the more adroit natives – I focused on the music. An African flavor slightly dominated. But there was also Indian bangra, Jamaican dub and salsa. Walk this Way, (the heavy 70s guitar made Joël ecstatic), early Michael Jackson, classic Outkast. In a place like Madagascar, you hear how porous geographical and temporal boundaries are. I wished our other boys, Thierry, Emeric, Milo and Oliver, could be there.

As I feared, it quickly became clear that Joël was fascinated by Sarah. It was easy to see why. With her tall, slim model appearance she drew the most attention. Yet I found Corine a more interesting dancer. Once she gets away from her sister (graduate studies in France next year) she’ll have no trouble attracting all the men she wants. Monique and I were pleased to see, however, that Joël and Gerald danced with both girls in gentlemanly fashion. Watching Joël’s bizarre moves Monique queried, “Why are musicians always such bad dancers?” Maybe a reader can answer this.

* * *

On their Mojo outings Monique enforces a strict “look but don’t touch” rule. On another occasion she had a guy thrown out when he got a little too hands-on. To give him the benefit of the doubt, there are prostitutes among the Mojo clientele. But he had already been warned. Since then the owner has always kept a close eye on the nieces. That, and the presence of Gerald, meant we could leave the place for a while to get some air and see something different.

We cruised through the streets while Monique decided where to go. We ended up at the Carlton, the main hotel. The bar attracted a different clientele, more bourgeois, all Malagasy. I was introduced to yet another famous musician. “A has-been,” Monique whispered. We didn’t linger.

Not long after returning to Mojo Monique decided it was time to go. On the way home we passed through streets along which prostitutes in ones and twos, evenly spaced at twenty-meter intervals, stood idly. “Poor girls,” said Sarah.