A girl is drunk. She’s screaming about her dumb ex-boyfriend. It’s contagious. I’ve never heard anybody speak well of the ex. Why is that? These are the same people you banged silly. The same folk you bragged to us how it was a match made in heaven. The super couple you were, for a while. Anyway, it’s not my area of specialty. I don’t have an ex, can’t say. It’s a jungle I’m yet to walk.

The drunk girl. She will jump around the room. She will sit on your lap, kiss you. You won’t return the kiss. The room is full of people, all of them lost in their fun. She will push back her dress to reveal a pair of bewitching thighs. You will go hard instantly. Zero to a hundred in two seconds, like a race car. She will smile and skip away, a teaser. She will mention the dumb ex-boyfriend again and something fleeting about her body count. Your hardon will go cold like a candle in the rain.

This is a collection of moments from amateur night promenades.

There are boundaries you never know when you cross them. One time you’re here, the next you’re on the other side. For instance, making love, one moment you’re cuddling, exchanging slimy kisses, bodies pressed together. Suddenly, clothes are nowhere to be found. What was a slow, poetic exchange, is a mad explosion. The two rational adults can’t be found. Just primal creatures ripping into each other, the air, sick with lust, longing, and animal contentment.

Nobody can capture that fraction of a second when marijuana busts through your lungs. You were rational, but now you’re flying through time. You could run all the way to Kakamega. If it’s night, the darkness seems to draw you in. If it’s day, the sky is a chiaroscuro of colours, a meeting of rainbows. When the high slides away, you’ll swear never to touch weed again. But that boundary between rationality and highness will haunt you. You will want to capture it, understand it. I’ll tell you for free, it’s an exercise in futility. You’re chasing wind.

How do you know that you’re drunk? When you smile as you down whiskey, neat. Then cringe your face as take the chaser. The good time friend, a tad sane will holler in your face “Zake zimenice!” You will gaze at him blankly and move your eyes around the establishment.

Music is blaring from the speakers. Chaps are moving tumblers from tables to their lips, mechanic movements. The ladies have lost it. By the way, I have noticed a very worrying trend. Why are girls so silent, almost angelic? But a few shots of vodka down the line, they transform into Inca like priestesses. The dignity slips away like reptiles shedding their skins. It’s all smoke, music, and dancing, and booze. People are engrossed in a weird play of sexual musical chairs. Folk entrusted with moving Kenya to the next level are but shadows of their sane selves. I would like to observe the clubbing scene in Rwanda. If it doesn’t peak Kenya’s, then it explains why Kagame’s backyard is progressing. But if it eclipses Kenya’s, we are a bewitched state.

I don’t understand the purpose of night clubs. Someone whispered to me that they are mating playgrounds. I cringed at that phrase. It makes sex seem like some disruptive act, embarrassing and dirty. You have your own experiences but hey, more folks are being born each day, that says something about the act. And there’s Oscar Wilde, who said that everything in this world is about sex, except the sex itself, which is about power. In ways, he makes sense, every other pursuit is a means to an end.

There, in the dim light, across dancing bodies, a couple will be making out. They’ve been at it for a while. You will wonder if they just met. Or on their second date, or their third. Or they’ve been to endless dates, but nobody was making a move. Thus, after an early dinner, they decided, lets hit a club. Propelled by alcohol, they’re bringing their wild selves to life.

I never head out to nightclubs with chicks I know. It’s wisdom from the 1500s when Wisemen coined this mammoth of a saying why take sand to the beach?  If we know each other and you’re reading this, no, it’s never going to happen. There’s something pretentious about it (clubbing with lady acquittances). You never know who is scamming who? It’s okay if we meet at the club.  Even then, I will try my best to avoid you. And no, you’re not the problem.

And of women, I’ve met in nightclubs. I struggle to remember them. Their names are distant echoes, their faces are buried in a smudginess of lipstick and makeup, weird eyelashes and scary smiles. Honestly, as I wrote this, I tried to recall the chicks I’ve met in clubs and the good times. I remember the good times, but I can’t put faces to those bodies, nor names. It’s something I can’t explain. I asked one of my boys, same story. They’re forgotten, utterly buried. There’s one who has popped up, it’s because she overstayed her welcome and wreaked havoc.

There comes a time in the night when everybody is bored at your table. Mostly it’s the girls. You promised them a good time but nobody is having a good time. You’ve danced your souls out. Drinks have run out. Nobody wants to order another round. You’re regretting showing up. You could have just stayed at home and concluded that series. Was it a must you party? It’s evident that the chicks aren’t going home with you. They don’t trust your drunken smile. You’ve been charming all night, they laughed at your silly jokes and egged you on as you danced. But when push comes to shove, they’re stuck in their chairs, as if they sat on glue. Your best friend is pulling you away but you don’t want to leave. A voice keeps whispering in your head “Get the girls another round. Maybe they’re not drunk enough.”  If you’ve ever heard such a voice, forget it. Get the fuck out of that place ASAP!

I don’t have anyone in my circle who blacks out or pukes. Which is something I thank the Lord for. I surely don’t know how I would deal with such a character. Chances are I would leave them behind in the club and skip away as if I came alone. I know, doesn’t make me friend of the year. But why would you allow booze to sway you as such? This poison was here before our great grandparents. It will be here long after we leave. And our great-grandchildren lose their teeth. Have a grip for Christ’s sake. I saw a video of some campus chap drinking vodka like he was thirsty. As if he’d run a race on a sunny day and he was cooling down, a cheetah after a hunt. Later in the video, he is being dragged by his friends. Like a wounded soldier. I wondered, what happens should that video land in his parent’s phone. We live in the age of WhatsApp. There’s that one insecure drunk who wants to film you and get retweets.

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