Usually, you won’t find me in a club bopping myself off, I can dance, technically. I have 5 to 6 good moves in my reserve that I’d finesse the hell out of, I just don’t know what I’d do after the sixth one. Suggestions? You won’t find me shit-faced, I get extra friendly and speak a lot of English when I’m intoxicated, that person is a piece of work. I teasingly flirt around my drunken threshold, that’s my limit. Music rocks my eardrums, an eclectic crowd throngs the dance floor; youngins with chunky soled shoes, older guys on the brink of losing their youth fumbling through ufamiliar lyrics as a couple of middle aged misplaced fellas somehow scrapping together not too shabby moves. Each time a new song plays a brouhaha erupts from the crowd, the Dj chimes in with some pathetic hyping and misadviced marketing strategy. For some reason I’m in a club.
I’m at the bar section, sipping cold fizzy beer, tissue (paper towels for bourgeois) wrapped around my glass to cushion my palm from numbing. Beside me sits a dejected man, probably a new divorcee sighing at least twice every three minutes. Eyes lurk, my attention fixates on a novice (I can tell), curvy, tan skinned girl in white booty shorts or ‘boory shorts‘, depends on whether you start your sentences with ‘me i will…’ or ‘i will…’ I’m certain people who wear shoes in their houses (The Joan Kubais) will say ‘boory‘ same goes for patronisers who castigate others for saying ‘Paris‘ in stead of ‘Pareee‘. I digress. The aforementioned lass is just a few feet away from me, bent over bossing her twerk with nothing but sheer flair. Her heinie gyrating indipendently from her body in ways only seen in erotic Carribbean music videos. She grinds on, ticking moves off her seasoned repertoire. At some point a queue formed behind her. A queue as long as a catalogue of Taylor Swift’s exes, no? Lads jostling for the opportunity to have a piece, one after the other thrusting their hips to her backside, nudging each other away within seconds. Blink, heck, hands on the floor feet against the wall, what! I gape. I hope you’re creativity is drawing the picture, is it?
The chain of thrilled guys waiting grows, blokes longing for the slightest of odds. I wonder what allure she has. Maybe she soaked in strawberry this afternoon, maybe has a charm she summoned ama her skin is coated in peanut butter? She wearies off after what seems like at least solid 50 minutes of pure energy, ‘unlucky’ guys trying to compell her to rail on, she attempts but the lethargy has kicked in. The situation surges. Now circled, petrified, rooted in shock, unconsented hands groping her from all sides. And just as fast as it escalated, a bouncer shoves the guys off and she walks away, strap missing from her top. I sight her outside, probably hoping some caring person would follow, nobody does. Did I just witness assault or have I been been reading too much of Chimamanda Adochie? No such thing as too much Chimamanda. Here I am, a little hazy but sure something went amiss. I snap to reality. Realising how hard It is to navigate the world as a woman; people misreading your actions for consent, having your guard up knowing everything might be taken away from you leaving life long scars – literal or emotional. Then futilely reporting to a police station and being asked abhorrent questions like ‘What were you wearing?’ ‘What were you doing that late in a club?’ like you don’t have the liberty to make choices. I realise the disparity we have security wise between the sexes.
The Dj seamlessly slips in the next song, a heavy voice complains over the stereo, did you get your heart broken again, Drake. Eh?
For what it’s worth
Kitunguu by Kalahi