We had been in the club since 6.30 p.m. It started with the usual two beers with no absolute intention of staying beyond 8 p.m. But 8 p.m. found us with two beers to spare (nobody notices the second round of beers by the way), and just about time, friends joined us, and more rounds were thrown.
Like all accidents in the bar, the devil himself advised that we buy a mzinga at around 10.30 p.m. Finally yielding, to the girls doing a Famous Grouse promotion, we bought the first bottle of the famous bird. We were six of us, now. Six people, four men and two women take an average of 1 hour 47 minutes to down a mzinga. And just like that, a second one was on the table. That means, by 12.30 a.m. guys were sufficiently drunk to dance with strangers.
I always love night outs. Because, there are girls who are willing to dance with strangers. Sometimes with no strings attached. Often with some expectations of a one-night stand, or coffee sometime in the next week, before proceeding with a forgettable tryst.
There were girls. There was a short one, with that ass that leaves men with their mouths open, and since she was in the mood to dance with any man, men did try their shot. All she asked for were shots of Tequila, and she would grind for you, as long as the DJ maintained the trashy Jamaican ragga. She moved around tables. Most people noticed her ass. But for me she had those thick those thick lips that if they kissed you, they will give you an electric shock. Good stuff.
She was wearing an extremely short jeans like those dancers in Hivyo ndio kunaendanga… Her light skin thighs looked edible, with no starch. She is that girl you don’t who she came with. But seemingly alone. And you don’t know on whose bed she will end at night. But in the end, one of your boys, danced with her, and did take her home. And for the next three nights out of drinking the girl was a regular in our table. Before she disappears from it for good.
Later Instagram brought her up as someone I would know. I discovered she is a young single mother of a two-year-old girl. But her body is so fine, not even a single cell betrayed her.
But that is not what caught my attention that night. Around 1.30 a.m. a bunch of four girls came in, and since the guys sitting across our lounge chair had left, the girls naturally moved there. They were in the highest spirits (no pun intended.) There was the plump one, seemingly mother hen, and she looked like what a particularly awful high school principal would look like. Fat girls come in two shapes: the good-hearted ones and the awful, even nasty ones. From the word go, we knew that she was in charge.
The rest of the girls were awesome. In their early 20s, and we later learnt that they go to school in JKUAT, which is a far cry from a time in 2009, that JKUAT had about five girls, all of them too serious for life, to go for a drink. Nowadays I hear, there is no place on earth filled with women, who know how to party, and smoke weed. Anyway.
One of the girls was a slender—almost model-like—, with a face to match. She had a coastal name that I forget. She was wearing a green dress, was approachable but highly reticent. The rest were the usual small (body wise) college girls. They are small but dangerous. You know those dangerous ones? The type that can give you a steamy blow job inside a cab…Yeah, those ones.
From their dancing, their flashing down shots of whisky, it looked like a night that they were down for whatever. Two of them got lucky. The matron, at some point became subdued, stopped bothering men who wanted to dance with the girls.
At around 4 a.m. the club started emptying out. Soon, there were just us, the earlier group of six and the girls, and the two men who had taken the two girls. The matron was alone. As usual, there was a young man conked out in the corner, about to be robbed his sixth phone in as many months.
I always have some sympathy towards waitresses and bouncers. Because I have been in tables with tenderpreneurs and kids of the rich, who swipe Sh 150,000 in a night out. And I wonder what it like is to be a waitress and see someone drink your two years’ worth of salary in one sitting. I often look at their gaze, when the club is a bit relaxed and they are waiting for their order. It is the worst designation in life, to have people have so much fun, when you are just staring, hoping that the tips will be enough to take a sick child out the following day, and rent is due. I have seen some try to dance, bump a head here, shake some ass, hoping that the seedy and petty manager does not see her.
A while back, while celebrating a birthday of a friend, one of the waitresses, definitely a weed smoker, became overly familiar and every time she was serving us, she took a shot of whisky and at some point, became visibly drunk. I wonder if she kept the job.
And then there are bouncers. Their job is to maintain law and order in a place where chaos can erupt any time. To get tips, they befriend regular revelers, are always polite, can fish a seat for you when the club is full to the toilet seat.
Lately I have observed as the night grows, some openly ask for shots from your table and you have to be a misanthrope not to share with them. I used to wonder what they make of the many girls they see. Do they have feelings like we do? What happens if they saw a nice girl and they wanted to talk to her. Maybe take her to bed. Or marry. Do they have the guts? Do they have the incentive?
Because their job is brawnier, less brainy, they are relegated to a certain zone where we look down upon them. However, I have never been more mistaken. Bouncers probably have better access to premium girls (corporate, rich and all) than I do. Because, women no longer rank stuff like intellect as a must have. Do you have money? Can you lay the pipe? This particular night, the bouncer, a tall and muscular dude, had been standing near our table, naturally because, we seemed as the ones likely to leave the club last.
I went to the loo and when coming back, one of the small girls, extremely hot, extremely delicious, with a body shape that is every man’s erotic desire was throwing herself at the bouncer, who while enjoying every moment was acting all mature.
She danced to him, and the dude, took the grinding in, must have been nice, he nearly cried. As the club was now empty, and the probably petty manager somewhere salivating at the night’s sales, the girl started to make out with the bouncer. Whereas the bouncer seemed to politely decline, the girl was too much for him and at some point, they sat down, and the girl did give him a proper red-light special. It is hard to predict how the night ended. Or if they had a tryst. Because we left.
But that scene has always stayed with me. I have always wondered, what made the girl opt for the bouncer. When coming out, did she intend to make out with the bouncer. Did she expect to be seduced in the club? Did she want to sleep with a stranger? Is it what she does every time she is drunk?
What I discovered, in the end, we all want human contact. Human touch. Touch is the most incredible sense. And when we are alone, or horny, anyone or anything can do the job and we tend to be less selective.
I would love to know if the girl would pick out on the bouncer if she was sober. Or would she be proud if she dating the bouncer.
I am alive to the fact that sometime, everything is more physical. Not any different from men who date women with big asses but nothing they can talk about in that post-coital relaxation.
The Deal 