Parkie On A Friday Night

There is a room party on Friday night at Parklands Campus. I know this because, well, it is kinda hard to ignore the blaring music from the subwoofers downstairs. The smell of cheap brew hangs around like despair in a prison cell. It is well past the godly hours of human interaction; and the only things that are supposed to be awake are dogs and prostitutes. But this is campus. There is no bedtime. Friday night is the night people unwind from the stress of the week’s course work. Finally the assignment that churned zombies out of students has been handed in. On a night like this, students catch up on the latest series over pizza from Engen. There is an offer- buy one get one free. After that you wash it all down with Blue Moon.

At that same time there is a Friday service on the other side of the compound. Parklands is a very small school. Law students are presumed not to have a life beyond the library. So out of the nine campuses, we were segregated into the smallest space available, and for as long as men have peed while standing, the admin has done nothing to expand or relocate.

Thus the hostels and the hall (learning theatres by day and church hall by night) are just next to each other. Separated only by a thin strip of tarmac. Walking around that place on a Friday night, one feels the forces of good and evil engaging in a tug of war. On one side is a heavenly saint with an incandescent halo; urging you to go for Friday fellowship, and on the other, Johnnie Walker and his ilk inviting you for a walk to an inebriated destiny in the halls.

Of course, the dilemma is not a problem to me.

I follow where the beats are. I know there is a birthday party, but I do not care whose. It is Friday, and I need something strong enough to make me forget the pending four assignments left, albeit momentarily; but not too strong to make me forget what the hell Pacta Sunt Servanda means. That’s Latin, and for law practioners, it is a third tongue. Some of us cram them for exam purposes only- to prove that we actually held a book before stepping into the exam room. Some, the arriviste who fall in love with their own reflections, cram them so that they can lob them around every time Arts students are around. They think they sound exotic. I think its mindless pettifoggery.

I find my way into the party room. I am not invited, but I am here anyway. There is no such thing as party crashing when it comes to bashes thrown in campuses. They’re just like the ladies on at Sirona, Kolobot Road- meant for the common heritage of all mankind. Alcohol is free, so everyone who is not in the church hall congregates here for a tipple or two. The music of course is strictly anything made in Jamaican or Nigeria- or anything by Kenyan artists that sounds Jamaican or Nigerian. For a moment there, even the skinnies from Nyapiedho will drop the ‘th’ and replace it with a ‘d’ when Major Lazer in his thick Caribbean voice pours his voice through the speakers.

I am seated next to the DJ because I look like a visitor in Jerusalem Kingston. I know not any of these people. So I watch the student do his thing on Virtual DJ. The lights are out, and in this small cubicle of two, are almost a dozen revelers. In this crowd is a couple in the corner; the lassie is in an LBD (Google that) that is not shy to leave all her skin from bare the foot of her ass all the way to the beginning of her heels. I cannot believe people actually dress up to go to campus shindigs- hell; I showed up in Bata slippers! Anyway, Romeo’s hand is running over the areas the dress failed to cover, but we all know his fingers’ intentions are as noble as Angelo’s when he invited Pokello into the bathtub (#BBATheChase). Sometime in the night these two will waltz into some room on second floor, and if the guy’s roommate is not a heavy sleeper, then he is better off in the church hall for the revival.

Just next to these love birds are lust clowns. Seriously, there is a thick line between seductive dancing and dry humping. Bend Over rubbed it off and now that too is a grey area. The former is teasing, but not overly explicit. It is naughty and conceives in the dancers’ minds an unchaste idea- something to look forward to. The latter however is non-penetrative sex. It involves the bird bending over, her face on the floor like a witch doctor paying her respects to the dead, and her bum quivering on the crotch of a dude trying so hard to hide the manifestation of his southward blood flow. It is soft porn, but the degree varies depending on who is bendovering who. It graduates to hardcore when it is Maura Malanga touching her toes.

The other entertaining duo in the room involves mass murder. A massacre- crimes against humanity. There is this jamaa sitting on a chair. Don’t kid yourself, it is a wooden chair. Made of purely wood and steel. No cushions.  This guy is the victim, and his assailant is the Devil’s incarnate that fancies itself a damsel. She is ten sizes heavier than the poor fellow that she decides to get on top of. Her rear end is apple shaped- Steve Jobs would be proud, but it is as big as Kanye’s ego. Explosive. She wears a multicolored blouse over black pair of jeans that look like she bought from the kids section; she kept on pulling it up because it would completely fit into Steve Job’s iASS. She parts her legs like those shoshos in Nyapiedho do when they want to take quick a leak by the roadside, and gets on top of the poor guy. And immediately she starts moving the bulk registered on her waistline, it is obvious that it would just be a matter of time before one of two things gives; her trouser or the fellow’s fertility.

“Watch out for dis!” Major Lazer is on replay.

I am sure all that the dude wanted was a dance, sexy erogenous dance characterized with Jamaican music. Come on, all of us in there went to a slice of that kind of cake. But what this guy got wasn’t what he’d signed up for. Miss Thing was inconsiderate in her performance, perhaps because in her head she was giving a sterling erotic performance; when all she was in fact doing, is pound the poor fellow’s nuts repeatedly on the wooden chair. Crushing them into smithereens; into sterility. And there is nothing than hurts more than bludgeoning a man’s nuts- even the mere threat of it, the mere comprehension of physical attack against them amounts to a law suit of epic proportions.

I can assure you with my three years worth of law school wisdom that the chic deserves her name in a brown envelope.

The rest of the crowd is infected with several of other eccentricities. There is the girl in the red skimpy dress that works so hard at showing her cleavage, which every other guy wants to shake well before use. She has not danced yet, and probably won’t because the guys in there are beneath her. She is from money, and her heels glitter in the dark as if they were polished with notes- Obama currency. She nurses her drink and occasionally tends to her money-cured nails. Once in a while she takes out her S3 to check if someone has replied to her tweet about how she is having mad fun at a friend’s birthday bash.

The guy next to the trust fund smug has been bumming there for a while watching people make a joke out of Sodom. He hasn’t moved a muscle. Just chilling and gathering dust- probably wondering what his mum would do if she ever caught him here. Perhaps feels to inferiors to talk to the scion next to him, and has two left feet. And in a party like this, if you are such a person then your fate is sealed- tonight it is just you and your left hand.

There is the other dude pressing against a girl leaning against the wall- probably asking her if she would like to take this party somewhere a little more quiet. She will nod in concession, and ask him; “your room or mine?”

As the rave spills over into the dead hours of Saturday morning, the DJ will move from Caribbean music to Nigerian to Kenyan and then finally House or Trance. Someone will break a window pane and send the whole school into a frenzy. The impetuous will scream- a bloody, wounded cry. But I will stagger out with jelly knees and a spinning head and make my way to my room. Some chic will find out that I stay alone in a single room and ask to crash at my place. She will be pretty, with a body that would make Helen of Troy want to spike her coffee with laxative. She will tell me that her name is Sheryl, or Shaniqua or Tania. You know, the kind of name that says ‘ I am not wearing knickers and I am homeless.’ She will be the kind that everyone wants to sleep with, but nobody wants to be with. I will look at her and wish that she had asked this sometime last year; and then lie that I am spoken for tonight. Even though my missus is fast asleep in another corner of the world oblivious to the generous offer placed on my table.

I will curse under my breath as she turns and walks away, because in the sight of her leaving, lies the reality of my choices.