I want to tell you about this raunchy night I had. It had a club and it was during the lockdown. There were girls imported by stars and eagles wearing men, prides of our nation sent to restore the peace, offering service to the nation in more ways than one. Their well toned muscles glistened in the blue lights, and the buddha belly distinguished them as men amongst men. Men who had no curfew but imposed the curfew.

They were not the only ones, what’s a party without girls? The kind of girls you’d see in a dream but would be unable to remember, then one day you’ll have a deja vu moment and try to inculcate them into your dream, then you’ll remember having seen them in that club on that night when only men were out.

I don’t know how to describe the girls in words, but they were the kind of girls we all dreamed about. Slim, tall (but not taller than us, obviously) ashawo gown wearing babcock girls ready to live out their schools creed in cavalier manners with reckless abandon all for the fun of the night. How pretty girls are found for clubbing must be a closely guarded art, or we all just look beautiful after copious amounts of alcohol.

I was there by the will of the gods. That’s all I can tell you, but believe me when I tell you, the party had only started when the night had turn crimson with the moon evidently unsure of what colours to take.

As I gulped down potion after potion of whatever was dropped at our table, I remembered vaguely the age old African warning, “awoof de run belle”; my buddha belly was already at an advanced stage, protruding through my attire like the big belly button of a kid stuffed with food.

In between gulps, I had inadvertently spotted the beads off this girls waist sitting opposite me, cladded in a short skirt that will be left to your imaginations. I can however tell you that it was long enough to cover everything and short enough to tease. As I raised my eyes, I saw her staring at my ring. I could almost tell what one of her questions was going to be.

As the night progressed and the bottles became really familiar, the elusive spirit of dance which is said to fall on everyone when that one song was played rendered the air with its presence. As I jumped to my feet at the sounds of Joe Boy’s Alcohol, I noticed everyone had too, and since I was the man, I had to go with my cap in hand to beg for some dance. No words are needed in this begging though, just go and pray it works.

See, I’m horrible at dancing, but when I say dance just know its shaking my waist in the worst imaginable form, and before I knew it, she was rolling the waist on me as well. Lets just say “Not all fine girls can dance”. I thought I was bad, I have seen worse. My hands palming those beads, and feeling them clank even amidst the strumming beats was more therapeutic than I had imagined.

You know that moment when you go to the bathroom without knowing what took you there, then end up puking out your intestines? Well, I had one of those sessions right after the Dj played an undance-able song and to be honest it felt good. All the awoof was finally coming home to roost. As I was washing my face and taking a breather, I realized that I wasn’t the only one. Had I embarrassed my family by puking in the club bathroom with someone in the next stall? No Sir, all alcohol mixing fellows will tell you ” it happens to the best of us”, so I consoled myself and poured more water on my afro making it glisten some more.

As I made to leave, I heard whispers and saw two pairs of legs in that annoying opening that clubs have in bathroom stalls. What wood are they trying to save really? Can’t a fella have a private moment? Beneath the door, I saw entwined in that manner that reveals that humans have drawn themselves into the embrace of life attempting to procreate one of God’s beautiful creatures.
Is it my business? No. Shebi they want to sin? Who am I to interrupt their going to hell? In my mind however, Sammy Kershaw’s “third rate romance” came to the rescue and I savored all the truth, even imagining if she will say “I haven’t ever done this kind of thing before” and then he will probably lie and say “I love you”. Men are scum.

As I retook my seat, my new friend had become brave by alcohol and she was pointing to a fellow that had been looking at our direction furtively.

“Ogbeni, if na your babe come take am now oh. You know say broke boys sabi talk to fine girls” was what was on my head.

And as anticipated, “are you married?” She asked coyly as she rubbed her slender limb on my cheap silver. ” Ehhhn! No ohhhh, this old metal is just a signet ring dear”, she still persisted “why is it on your ring finger?” “Ahhh, me and my hand again?” I thought like a moron.

“Let’s talk outside dear”, and as we went outside hand in hand like new lovers observing each others gait, She was still transfixed on my ring, and as i leaned on my jalopy, she leaned into me and said some words and did some things with her tongue which I can’t clearly describe, but it made me go attention alright.

“Let’s go to your place!” That note of finality ended the night for me. I drove with the concentration of a tortured man, and today I recount the losses of regret. Whiskey d!ck has to be a curse.

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