In Lagos, a Homegrown Ballet Academy Leaps Into the Spotlight

Anthony Mmesoma Madu, left, with fellow students from the Leap of Dance Academy, in Ajangbadi, Ojo.Stephen Tayo for The New York Times
Anthony Mmesoma Madu, left, with fellow students from the Leap of Dance Academy, in Ajangbadi, Ojo.Stephen Tayo for The New York Times
TT

In Lagos, a Homegrown Ballet Academy Leaps Into the Spotlight

Anthony Mmesoma Madu, left, with fellow students from the Leap of Dance Academy, in Ajangbadi, Ojo.Stephen Tayo for The New York Times
Anthony Mmesoma Madu, left, with fellow students from the Leap of Dance Academy, in Ajangbadi, Ojo.Stephen Tayo for The New York Times

In June, a minute-long video featuring a young ballet student dancing in the rain began circulating on the internet. As the rain falls, forming puddles between the uneven slabs of concrete on which he dances, Anthony Mmesoma Madu, 11, turns pirouette after pirouette.

Though the conditions for such dancing are all wrong — dangerous, even — he twirls on, flying barefoot into an arabesque and landing it. He indulges the camera with a smile, but only for a moment, before assuming a look of fierce determination, lifting his eyes toward the sky, his lithe arms and graceful fingers following closely along.

The wide reach of the video — it has been seen more than 20 million times on social media platforms — has turned a spotlight on the unlikely story of a ballet school in a poor suburb of Lagos, Nigeria: the Leap of Dance Academy.

Founded in 2017, the academy has transformed the lives of its students, affording them a place to dance and to dream. And in the last few months, it has inspired influential people in ballet to lend a hand. Seemingly overnight, a world of opportunity has opened up: for the students, scholarships and invitations to attend prestigious schools and companies overseas; and for the school, sizable donations, which will allow for building a proper space, outfitted with a real dance floor.

For now, the Leap of Dance Academy is housed at the home of its founder, Daniel Owoseni Ajala, in Ajangbadi, Ojo, on the western outskirts of Lagos. Every day after school, Mr. Ajala’s 12 students walk to his apartment, where he pushes aside his furniture and spreads a thin vinyl sheet over the concrete floor for class, throwing open the doors and windows to let in the light.

AAgainst swaths of candy-colored chiffon — intended to make the humble setting a little more festive — students move through their lessons in small groups, leaning against a short, stationary ballet barre and craning their necks to watch Mr. Ajala, or an overseas instructor on Zoom, give corrections.

Much of this is filmed and posted to the school’s Instagram feed, where the students’ joy is evident in each video, their movements precise and praiseworthy — as the comments, hearts and trembling star emojis left by their fans attest.

In the early days of Leap of Dance, many Ajangbadi families were suspicious of ballet. The form’s strict, regimented movements were very different from the more fluid African dances they knew well — as were the skimpy costumes and painful-looking shoes, which, they soon learned, could leave feet cracked, calloused and bruised.

“In the beginning, people kept saying, ‘What are they doing?!’” Mr. Ajala said. “I had to convince them that ballet wasn’t a bad or indecent dance, but actually something that requires a lot of discipline that would have positive effects on the lives of their children outside the classroom. I always say, it’s not only about the dance itself — it’s about the value of dance education.”

When Mr. Ajala, 29, founded Leap of Dance three years ago, he was a self-taught recreational dancer with a dream: to open a ballet school for students who were serious about learning the art form and possibly pursuing it professionally one day. “I wanted, more than anything, to give that opportunity to those younger than myself so they wouldn’t miss their chance like I did,” he said, in a recent Zoom call. “It was too bad that I was as old as I was when I realized I wanted to dance.”

As a child, Mr. Ajala became obsessed with ballet after watching “Save the Last Dance,” the 2001 movie about a lapsed ballet dancer (Julia Stiles) who moves to the South Side of Chicago after her mother dies; she falls in love with a classmate (Sean Patrick Thomas) who shares her passion for dance and helps nurse her dormant dream of becoming a ballerina back to life.

Though he found the love story formulaic and glib, Mr. Ajala said he was captivated by the movement he saw onscreen and, perhaps even more, by the discipline and sacrifice that was evidently required to master it. Ballet appealed to him for another reason, too: It wasn’t widely taught or practiced in Nigeria. “I wanted to be different,” he said. “I loved that ballet is not common here. When you talk about dance in Nigeria, it’s like hitting one-way traffic: Everybody does the same thing, and they all end up in the same place.”

He taught himself what he could by watching lessons and professional companies on YouTube; he also signed up for a few crash courses in ballet at a local dance center. When it came time for college, he studied business administration at Lagos State University at the request of his parents, intending to pursue dance on the side. But after taking his final exams, he decided his calling lay elsewhere: in dance. “I had to explain to my friends and family that sometimes white-collar jobs are not the picture they paint themselves to be,” he said. “They lack heart.”

And so the Leap of Dance Academy was born, its name a nod to the leap of faith Mr. Ajala took in leaving more secure job prospects behind. Turning again to online platforms, he joined an international dance teacher network on Facebook. He posted a note explaining that he was starting a ballet school in Nigeria that would provide free instruction and asked if anyone had used or unwanted dance kits they could send him, since many families in Ajangbadi wouldn’t be able to afford costumes. Soon, he was put in touch with someone from Traveling Tutus, a nonprofit organization in Florida that donates gently used dance wear to students around the world.

The New York Times



Crashing Waves in Hilltop Village, a Night of Terror from Spain's Floods

A general view of an area affected by floods in Chiva, Spain, Friday, Nov. 1, 2024. (AP Photo/Manu Fernandez)
A general view of an area affected by floods in Chiva, Spain, Friday, Nov. 1, 2024. (AP Photo/Manu Fernandez)
TT

Crashing Waves in Hilltop Village, a Night of Terror from Spain's Floods

A general view of an area affected by floods in Chiva, Spain, Friday, Nov. 1, 2024. (AP Photo/Manu Fernandez)
A general view of an area affected by floods in Chiva, Spain, Friday, Nov. 1, 2024. (AP Photo/Manu Fernandez)

Irene Cuevas will never forget the sound of the waves crashing below her apartment’s balcony.

If only there had been a flash of lightning in the darkness to let her glimpse what sounded like a roaring sea.

“It was a constant fear because we didn’t have light to see by," Cuevas told The Associated Press. "We could hear the roar of the waves, which was unbelievable. The street was completely flooded and we were hoping for some lightning so that we could at least see what situation we were in. It was all waves, currents everywhere, The AP news.

“We have that sound of the waves burned in our memory.”

The devastating flash floods in eastern Spain this week that claimed over 200 lives and destroyed countless homes and livelihoods also seared a scar of terror in many survivors

Cuevas, a 48-year-old embryologist, is a resident of Chiva, a village perched on a hill about 30 kilometers (18 miles) from Valencia city, whose southern outskirts were likewise ravaged by the floods on Tuesday and Wednesday.

Chiva got more rain in eight hours than the town had experienced in the preceding 20 months. Cuevas was at home and saw how the gorge dividing her village suddenly overflowed with rushing water.

The tsunami-like wall of water claimed at least seven lives in Chiva, home to some 16,000 people, and the search goes on for more missing, either in collapsed houses or in the gorge.

“It was terrifying because that night it began to rain and the water began to overflow the gorge and started carrying away cars and trees,” Cuevas said. “The underpasses of the bridges started to clog with debris, and the water started to flow through the entire village.”

The gorge, called the “Barranco de Chiva,” is normally dry, but it is fed into by several other runoff gorges and channels water to vineyards below.

The huge storm sent a blast of water that knocked down two of the four bridges crossing the gorge, while a third was left unsafe to cross. The sides of the gorge were eaten out, bringing down a sidewalk and several houses and tearing holes in others.

Cuevas, who moved to Chiva when she got married 18 years ago, lives one street over from the buildings bordering the gorge. She and other people living in her apartment building helped several neighbors from the building in front when they feared it would come down. The neighbors said their building trembled from the force of the water.

Cuevas and her fellow residents helped tie ropes or cords across the street so that the people on the other side could hang on as they waded through the rushing water. They then made it up the stairs and some 20 people spent a sleepless night in her second-floor apartment and the apartment above.

Amparo Cerda, Cuevas' upstairs neighbor, described herself as traumatized by her memories of the fury of the waves and the sound of “doors exploding” from the water’s force.

It was as if their building had become a ship lost in a storm at sea in the pitch black night.

“There were waves in the gorge, waves in the street below where the water came in the other direction and ran into the water coming from the gorge," Cuevas said. "So right here, at this corner, just where the houses fell down, the two currents hit and produced terrifying waves.”

“When the daylight came we could see the damage,” Cuevas said. “We saw all the houses that had disappeared and there was a feeling of impotence because you didn’t know where to start looking for people.”

Five days have passed since that night of terror, and in Chiva and other localities, such as Paiporta, Barrio de la Torre, and Massanassa, citizens and volunteers are pitching in to clean up the mountains of debris and the thick brown layers of mud left by the water.

Five thousand more soldiers are arriving in the area this weekend to help the 2,500 already deployed. Thousands of police officers have also been sent in.

But for now it is the people themselves still leading the way.

“Now we need to clean up and try to get back to normal because there are more rains forecast for the weekend, and that won’t help," Cuevas said. "We are trying to get everything ready for when the rains comes back. Because they will.”