Learning to Catch My Fun – But For A Clog In The Wheel
The shindig was in full swing the time my friend, Tony and I sauntered into the boisterous scene in company of other friends. It was somewhere in the heart of FESTAC. It was a storey-building affair. The sound system is sound proof and state-of-the-art. The partygoers were reveling in high spirit that was infectious. Gosh!
There were too many handsome hommies and beautiful honeys attired in suggestive party gears. While the hommies took to the reliable tight-fitting jeans trousers with low-waist belt-line that enhanced their sexuality with the visible lethal bulges in full display and t-shirts of various cuts and sizes seeing that the evening was hot, the honeys stuck to their drop-dead seductive designer wears of micro to macro skirts and bum-shorts. The jingling of their multiple bangles and swinging drooping earrings aligned with the vibes coming from the scratches being doles out by the energetic Disc Jockey.
It was Tony’s 27th birthday party anyway, and he had invited some of his close friends to join him in celebrating his newest job offer by Zenith also so that we could while-away the virtual lethargy that has been our bane shuttling to and from work 24/6.
After going through the traffic horrors of Victoria Island – Lagos, I usually got home about 8.45 p.m. Because it was Tony’s day, I had left my office at 6 p.m. on the dot. I had earlier stopped by TFC on my way home to grab some bite.
Getting home, the veil of catacomb had enveloped my neighbourhood all but no thanks to the apparition known as Problem Has Changed Name aka NEPA. My psyche has always refused to adapt to this situation. Anytime I get home and there’s no power supply, I’m quickly weakened despite the fact that I have generating set which contributes to global warming. The little strength left in me is usually expended on hissing and sighing and visibly irritated. God! The life of a Nigerian bachelor!
I started pulling off my clothes as soon as I had turned the key in the lock that by the time I entered the bathroom, I had changed into my birthday suit. I ran my hands all over my body before turning on the shower. Thank God the mai-guard had remembered to pump some water into the overhead tank. The cold bath was a soothing relief to my steaming temperature and raw nerves. By the time I came out of the bathroom, my handset was spewing out Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie”.
Yes! Hips don’t lie. One of my girlfriends was on the door. I had earlier invited her over to join me to Tony’s birthday bash. The temptation of having a quickie with her crossed my mind but my member was numbed by tiredness.
To my utmost surprise in the face of my earlier nurtured trepidation, the reverie on the dance floor caught up with me. Such a sweet infection! The DJ had scratched a staccato of well-known numbers that got me into the midst of happy revelers with my babe-for-the-night girlfriend in toe. We danced till we were soaked to the skin.
Tony got us out of the dance floor when he parted me on the shoulder. He dragged us to the bar for a drink. Right there we sang him, “For he’s a jolly good fellow…”
Tony would not cease to amaze me with the way he does his things. Hmm! From him I discovered that celebrating one’s birthday in the club is cheaper than hosting it in one of the Fast Food eateries. To be honest with myself, this guy didn’t spend up to 10k on the drinks and sticks of different cigarette passed round for all his friends. When I pointed this out to him, he gave me a knowing wink and smiled as he was led away by arm by his babe back to the dance floor.
We danced till the break of dawn. I drove home in a healthier body with nothing but sleep on my mind.
When my ringtone of Hips Don’t Lie finally woke me up later Saturday morning, it was one of my colleagues wanting to know if I’d not make it to work. It was already 10.a.m.
Boy! I went into frenzy. My boss! That witch!
God! I’m in for it!