It is three minutes to midnight according to Boi-Boi’s phone. It has been an eventful night to say the least. What I have experienced so far equals approximately three normal nights out. I have further confirmed that IB is a far cry from the innocent boy he has branded himself as. Designated driver? He is very far from that. The way he cruises in his Corolla is nothing less of suicidal, not to forget the insults he hurls at virtually everyone outside of the car. He actually stopped to ruffle the feathers of a girl walking alone on a deserted street:
“Sema msupa,” he was calling out to the girl after slowing the car down to a pace corresponding with that of her mild trot. “Naskia kuna makarao hapo kwa corner.”
She stopped in her tracks visibly shaken by this false information. “Wako wapi?”
“Wako kwa corner. Sasa si uinigie kwa ndai tukufikishe penye unago?”
The poor lady was confused, caught between the potential threat of cops around the corner and moving around with people she had never met before. Eventually she decided to take off in the opposite direction, emitting tiny but sharp shrieks of terror. We have had a major laugh about it ever since.
Boi-Boi is not joking about his “paper power” policy either. The amount of money he has withdrawn at the Nakumatt M-Pesa and at the Equity Bank ATM combined amounts to almost fifty big ones. Before exiting Nakumatt, the chap bought a fan just because he felt that it was “kinda hot nowadays”. I’m beginning to love this lifestyle every minute.
We are at Spree Club, perhaps the only club in Eldoret with the uptown feel and a youthful energetic crowd. In other words, it is virtually the only place to pick up a chick after she has tired from dancing to the predictable playlist consisting of mainly crunk and kapuka. This time it’s a little different than the other times I’m clubbing there. Our table had been reserved, waiting for our arrival, suitably placed at a dimly lit corner of the club, conveniently close to an air vent for those of us who wish to smoke. The head bouncer, Brayo, has been excessively friendly especially after handing him a number of beers. We haven’t been frisked either so we came in with all the weed and mbachu. The drinks are freely flowing and of course, the girls are different, the ones who hang around the big money dudes, milling around our table like vultures on a recently discovered carcass. The other boys are enjoying the attention and taking full advantage of it. I however, am more interested in testing my weed and liquor limit. Every now and then I look at the bar and order what I’ve never drank before. That’s the best use of an open bar, according to me.
A familiar face catches my eye, a face which smiles back at me with mutual recognition. It’s dear Yvette, my primary schoolmate who was one year my junior. She is now a far cry from the girl I used to play hide and seek with. Standing at around five feet seven, long legs peeping out of her pleated miniskirt, supporting a trademark Luhya ass, and this girl is nothing but a symbol of fresh change. I’ve been hearing stories of her in the rumour mills of her strange addiction to white men so much so that she had sneaked off to England to see a certain man she met on facebook without the knowledge of her folks. The damn cracker was dying of cancer, or so I’ve heard, and he had mentioned the girl in her will so a girl apparently went for her cut. Too bad the mother discovered and breathed fire through Skype and Yvette was on her way back to Kenya without as much as a postcard.
“Yvette!” I shout out to her above the bass line of Ali Kiba’s Anita, “Hey, you’re looking good. Where have you been hiding at?”
“I’ve been around, it’s just that some people don’t bother noticing,’ she replies slyly.
“Well, then whoever doesn’t notice all this should have his eyes gouged out!” I make an imitation of her figure in the air.
I’m mesmerized by her laugh. It sounds like something out of an opera, a brief sonata, well arranged and varying pleasantly in tone. I ask if I can spoil her with drinks and she doesn’t seem to mind and pulls up a chair. She orders red dry wine, which she drowns in three brief gulps then suddenly orders red sweet wine in the middle of conversation and downs it in the same fashion. Boi-Boi is amused by her antics and tells the waitress to always have a full glass ready the moment she takes down her current one. It becomes a “red sweet – red dry” circus and she finally resorts to slow sips when it becomes apparent that it doesn’t matter to us how much she drinks.
“So you were serious about spoiling me, huh?” her voice is now slightly raspy and she is fidgety. She is high.
“Yeah, kwani you thought I was playing with you?”
“Well it’s not like that…” she pauses to listen to which song the DJ is introducing. It’s Lil’ Wayne’s Lollipop. “Oh, My, Gosh…I LOVE THAT SONG!” she is screaming and, before I know it, she has dragged me to an empty space and is gyrating against me skillfully. So, this is what Boi-Boi was talking about when he says a girl knows how to zungusha. Thoughts of my ex-girlfriend rush in, of how she could belly dance so nicely. Thoughts that don’t last long because somehow, my lips are locked in a tight kiss with Yvette’s. She firmly holds my face firmly to fend off all opposition I may put up. She tastes mostly of the wine we have been feeding her and PK Peppermint gum. When she is satisfied with her uncalled for coupe de grace she whispers fervently into my ear:
“I’ve seen you around but I never knew you were this fun to hang around. Is this how you and your boys roll every night?”
“Yah, that’s us pretty much…we love to do things in a big way.” I’m lying, given the fact that most times, it’s usually me and my regular pals nursing our half litre vodkas all night. I am not willing to take away my moment of glory tonight when even a white boy lover like Yvette can pay homage to me.
When we return to our table Yvette now settles on my lap and resumes her wine wasting game. The surrounding is turning blurry with every puff of the weed. The laser lights that are being reflected back by disco balls seem to grow fatter and fatter. The cue sticks at lying idle on a nearby pool table also seems to be glowing. It’s getting harder to make out forms and objects. Boi-Boi who was seated across me has either transformed into a tiny ant like figure or is very far away from what my eyes are telling me. The sheer weight of Yvette’s arms around my neck feels like one of those neck shackles slave drivers used to use to steer errant slaves to their will. Contrastingly, sounds are much clearer and, with time, I am getting a clearer understanding of how bats feel. It must be the weed…shit, it’s the weed. I can make out IB’s distinctive baritone arguing with Omosh about whether Sauti Sol are sons of members of Them Mushrooms or not. Much closer, Yvette’s breath is firing up my left ear. She is going on and on about something to do with relationships, studded condoms and why she hates most black men. My system soon cannot bear this Tower of Babel inside my head and I gradually sink into an abyss of blackness.
* * *
It is not everyday that you wake up between the sheets of a bed you do not recognize in a room that is certainly not yours. It is also not kawaida to realize that a strange person’s legs are possessively intertwined with yours, suggesting that something physical may have gone down between you two. It really bothers you as well that this person’s face is vaguely familiar but you cannot place where you had met. She is like a character from a lucid dream. You actually entertain the thought of her not even existing at all; she could be the figment of your imagination. However, when she yawns, emitting an unmistakable smell of PK Peppermint gum, she draws further away from the fancies of your mind. What is more bizarre is the fact that you pick up your phone from where it is lying on the floor to read a strange text message:
“U stupid punk! U were chips fungwad by that broad, huh? We bin lukin 4 u all ova da place. Nway, holla wen u get up. Wanna show u how 2 rob a bank minus breakin a sweat. Cheers, it’s your T-Money buddy!"
What is most disturbing though is that I am the one in this strange bed with pink sheets with a totally naked girl straddling me as if we have gotten married or something plus this strange text on my phone. What the heck is going on here? Shit! It’s the way of the world, ain’t it? It’s the way of this goddamn world!