I have never been a fan of coloured pants. When it comes to fashion trends, I tend to be conservative. Dark blue or black will do the trick for me. I have always perceived people who wear multicolored trousers as shady knuckleheads whoring themselves for attention because their character does not give them much reason to shine. However, last Saturday, I broke a custom. I did the unimaginable; committed sacrilege to the gods of modesty. Confession and penance will not be enough to redeem my hapless lost soul. What I need is mortification for my transgression. I joined in the reverie of dunces and committed the sin that I had forbidden.
I wore white pants.
There, I said it. But before you lob those rotten tomatoes to my face (deservedly) and trade me in for Barnabas; please listen to my justification. I was attending The Axe Party, and there was a dress code that invitees had to stick to. This was one of those parties where the color of your apparel passed a message about your relationship status.
Blue – I have a partner but I’m available.
Green – I’m here to meet my future partner.
Red – I want to get laid tonight.
White – I’m down for anything.
Black – I’m single and available.
Yellow – Back off I’m taken.
Pink – I’m still a virgin.
I chose white for two reasons: Black, as I predicted would be too cliché. Too stale for my liking. Everybody finds it easy to put on black. See, most of the people who attended this shindig were in black, not because they are single and available, but because it’s an easy look to pull off.
The rest of the colours aren’t my brand of vodka when it comes to dressing. I would rather throw myself into a Mexican dog fight than see myself in blue, green, red, yellow or pink slacks. So there I was looking like the black reincarnation of Mark Feehily in those painstakingly loud white slacks.
Aqua Blue Lounge has this erotic atmosphere hanging around. The whole tableau of dim blue lights and red bras dangling from the roof gives it a lustful appeal that made it most appropriate for The Axe Party.
The revelry was to begin at 7pm, but you know showing up late is the African’s original sin that the Good Book forgot to mention. We (I was in the company of 2 lady friends and a dude, Paul) were received at the entrance by models who rubberstamped a red kiss on every bloke’s cheeks.
They were intimidating and tall, as if destined for the heavens thanks to the heels. They had to bend to reach my cheeks, but if you find that funny, then you should have seen the model practically squat to get to Paul’s. Why do models have to be so tall anyway? Perchance JB had some sense when he said that heels were made for a lady who was kissed on the forehead.
She was in the blue and white sailor uniform like the other models, but her lips were scarlet, and when she ushered us in, my intuition couldn’t let me just let me pass a beautiful lady. Not when I am attending the sexiest party ever thrown north of the Great Limpopo and South of the Sahara. So I stayed my steps and asked her what she would be wearing if she wasn’t in a costume. She said blue, all the while fixing her gaze on mine, and I remember thinking that maybe she was the greatest reception model alive…or maybe we managed to hit something real. A connection; a lecherous animalistic nexus that made my blood change course and head South.
But you should have seen her. Towering high on those six inches stilettoes and still managing to keep her cool and throw me a compliment for pulling off that white look. A compliment that I presumed to hear because all the while she was talking, my concentration was held captive by the movement of her lips. All I heard was blah blah blah blah, and by the time I came to, she was gone, severed herself from my world and moved on to welcome other guests. I guessed it was that old chestnut about mixing business with pleasure.
That ship sailed before I was even aboard, but her name was Ruth.
People began trickling in slowly, and after about thirty minutes, the place was jam packed with revellers; some clearly missing the whole idea of the party colours, like that elderly lady who was putting on a pink dress. Now that was a brave woman with a sense of humor. For the love of Amadioha, she had white hair mushrooming from her head! I wanted to ask her if she was really a virgin, but bit my tongue to save her the embarrassment of having to respond. Plus she was holding a Bloody Mary and I was in white, and she looked like a woman with good reflexes for her age. Do the Math.
The music was fabulous. DJ Protégé- you might know him for his House mixes from Capital FM. Never been a big fan of House music, because noise and music are not from the same family tree. Thank God he managed to mind other people’s tastes and preferences on Saturday, saturating the otherwise quiet place with hits after hits of nonstop music of the licentious Jamaican riddims, soft rock, hip hop and a few local jams. However, the highlight of the evening was when he invited guests to the stage area and introduced some young chap with a violin.
Just then, I remember thinking; ‘Oh God, not Beethoven!’
The violinist did not look anything like a day past 22 years. But he was evidently nervous- scared shitless of blowing it. I presumed it was his first major performance, and I had this gut feeling that this was either going to be his biggest moment; or he was going to learn a horrible lesson that night. Both of which I would enjoy. Then Protégé dropped the beat and the lad began to play.
To say that he was good would be an unfair economy of the truth. He did a violin rendition of P-Square’s Chop My Money, Don’t You Worry Child by Swedish House Mafia, surprisingly DJ Madtraxx’s Kamares. His violin tune, together with DJ Protégé’s background beats gave life and sense to some hit songs that never deserved a place in the charts. I reckon most Kenyan artists spend like five minutes to write a song and then cloud them with beats. This chap turned those silly dance songs on their heads that night and gave them meaning. I watched him play- stroking the strings of that violin with unparalleled mastery, and as he did, there this delighted grin that was persistently glued on his face.
His eyes were closed most of the time- like his soul had been stolen for the while he was on stage. Like he was telling us that he could do this in his sleep. That was not just a brilliant performance; it was the performance of the entire night. I couldn’t resist gaping at his sterling presentation and feel ashamed of myself for doubting his prowess. That was a lyrical genius. His rendition of those jams kicked ass; in fact, his was a performance with an ass. It felt like a musical bacchanalia. Not only did he send the crowd into a frenzy; he also gave the middle class yuppies a reason to chuck their tabs, galaxy and iPads- most of which just wanted to show off.
Immediately he left the podium, I followed him. Introduced myself as a scribe and helped him into the backstage. It is not every day you meet a bloke in Kenya called Scott. Such a curt memorable name- starts and ends almost immediately. Hmmh, Scott. I met one, the violinist. He told me that he is self-trained. Another jaw dropper. He said he was struggling to penetrate the market, and he performs with several bands, but mostly with the Eclav Band. He was too cool and relaxed for someone who just received a bountiful of adoration from fans. He wasn’t smug. Neither did he suddenly grow too big for his breeches. No, he was bigger than that. All the hail he had received on stage did not get into his head. He talked humbly as he put his violin away. He has been playing for five years, he said, and finally the tunnel isn’t so dark after all.
I wished him well, and then let him go to the eagerly awaiting fans, beaming with open arms, and painful pats on the back.
Joey Muthengi, host of the evening came up stage for the official product release that entailed a short skit of sorts to demonstrate the Axe Effect. Three guys were called upstage and then sprayed with different Axe fragrances and then an army of awaiting girls ran upstage- touching, rubbing, caressing, and throwing themselves at the unexpecting dudes. I remember one of the girls yanking out one of the dudes’ belt and for a moment there, I thought she would drop his pants, rip his shirt open and then ravish him there and then. She didn’t, but left the guy struggling to hide the beginning of his own hard-on as he came off the stage (no pun).
Then came Avril and her dance crew- Blaqblingers. She too was in black. From her performance, what peeled my conscience was the way she did that song Missing You. She has it choreographed with ballet moves, and boy didn’t that guy toss and turn her around as she sang. Their chemistry was so strong, I felt jealous. I met her too well after her show. After all the yuppies had posed for photos with her like she is a trophy. Believe it or not, she gave me her number, email address, Facebook & Twitter handles. In fact, she wrote it down herself and told me to get in touch. Finally my Dark Temptation paid off. KaBOOOM!
The night fed off the fast tempo set by Scott and Avril.
There were sexy shadow dancers gyrating to DJ Protégé’s exhilarating mixes, tipsy roisterers humping each other in the name of dancing, and free bitings (chicken pieces, fish fingers, samosas, meat balls and mshikaki) going round for everyone thanks to Unilever.
As the evening progressed into the early hours of the morning, the free cocktails and drinks started showing their teeth. Thank God there were no cat fights or drunken retching like they do at Molly’s just across the road. Energy drained revelers with wobbly feet and light heads left in couples. Red dresses and black muscle shirts left together to continue with what they had started at Aqua Blue Lounge.
I knew it was time for us to leave when my buddy Paul started asking;
‘Goon, why is it that men have pimples on their chest?’
‘Really? And how did you know that?’
‘There is some guy who’s shown me his, and look I have some too.’ He begins to unbutton. ‘C’mon, lets see your chest too.’
‘Not happening pal, let’s get you out of here.’
It was 2 am when we staggered out to look for a cab. On the way out we were given free Axe hampers for showing up. We met a few celebrities (a comedian and a boys band) trying to get their way in, but couldn’t make it through because it was an exclusive gig. It’s amazing the depth of emptiness in some of these celebs. Their sense of entitlement is far more startling than Paul’s request to check if I have pimples on my chest. Ati just because you appear on TV!? *scoff*
One thing was for sure though: You haven’t been to a party until you have been to an Axe party.