He said we go for drinks. Just one, and then we shall be on our way. I took him to meet my mum over late lunch. In his grand scheme of things, a good meal like that needs to be washed down with a little alcohol. That is how we found ourselves at Mist Lounge. For the rest of you Tomorrow People like me, who do not celebrate their birthdays in pomp and colour, when Mukundi asks you out for just a drink, please be advised that Mukundi is from Central. To him, beer is like smokies; one is never enough.
Out of ten, I would give Mist Lounge an eight. Look, I would have described the whole place for you but I have had five beer bottles and several shots of tequila, so my memory is so blurry, I can’t even envision the place on hindsight.
The one thing I liked about the place last night was that I was Karaoke Night. You should listen to some people sing. When some take the mic, you imagine that Kajwang’ would have done a better job. Some croakers killed those songs. Like literally. For example the lady who insisted on singing Beneath Your Beautiful- she practically sent that song to hell. I felt like walking over to her to ask what could be so bad about her day job, but Mukundi wouldn’t let me.
But Mist Lounge is not like Mojos, where you walk in and find girls holding on to chairs, swinging their hair frantically, and shaking their bums with even more enthusiasm. In Mojos on Friday night, there is this weird phenomenon especially when Jamaican music is bursting from the speakers. You will never know just how many people are in that club, or even see their faces, until you drop something. That is because half of the people are standing (men) and the other hand is constantly stooped over at ninety degrees, dancing at very uncomfortable positions. When you bend over to pick something, that is when you see their faces, and that is when you see a familiar face and go like
“Heeeeeey Mwende! Hata wewe pia uko hapa?”
“Sasa goon? What are you doing down here?” and then she will get up to see who you are bending over for.
Mist Lounge is a different kettle of fish, poles apart from these other ratchet clubs. They have pretty waitresses peddling tots, and when they smile at you I swear you will hear your wallet singing symphonies that your head never even learned the rhythm to.
And Mukundi kept them coming.
I have a confession. I am not much of a drinker. I do not go binging most of the time, and when I do, it never goes past the second bottle. And Mukundi knows this, which is why I even fell for that ‘one for the road’ twaddle.
I knew I had reached the apogee of my inebriation when thoughts of taking the mic and performing Nataka Kulewa by Diamond, started flirting the alcohol in my system. Again, this boy Mukundi wouldn’t let me.
We stumble our way out of the Mist Lounge, knees complaining about the weight of my body, and my head spinning on reverse like a DJ’s turntable. Mukundi of course is sober. When you are from Embu, a bottle of beer and a glass of orange juice have almost the same effect on you. Wrapping my hand over his shoulder, he guides my way to Odeon. Past the street kids in this cut throat begging competition; past their mothers hawking toys, handkershiefs, CD holders and Smartlife decoders; past the conmen vending Sumsang S7 and pickpockets scouting unsuspecting preys; past matatu buses revving and honking the intoxication out of me. All the way into Latema Road- where I remember asking for matatus going to Malindi.
By the time we got to Parklands campus, we were opera singers. Our phones were our mics, the highway our stage, and the still night our silent audience. Diamond would be proud.
It was all fun until Mukundi thinks it wise to walk me around school. See the thing is, when you are jakom in a campus, you are expected to align yourself with certain codes of ethics. You are revered. Last night, Mukundi made sure that those codes of ethics found their way out. Took me to the pooltable where I think I must have run away with a few balls. Hobbled my way to Mwende’s room where Mukundi asked for drinking water and I refused. I only wanted a cold Tusker.
That is as far as my mind can think back. The rest of the details are a blurry fog and dark. I have woken up shirtless, with an emetic taste in my mouth. I burp a lot, and my head hurts. I am pressed but I cannot help myself, because my room is locked from outside (by Mukundi I think).
I had a dream last night. It’s more of a nightmare really. I remember Wamathai telling me that I lost the BAKE Awards competition. The heartbreak must have woken me up. Let’s be clear about something here. I do not know Wamathai- never met him before, just seen him once at a Barcadi Party. But he haunted my dreams last night. For a fleeting moment, I felt what Dicaprio feels every time he hears the word ‘Oscars’. He broke my heart.
So, even before I sat down to finish this post, I have voted for myself over and over until I felt a little guilty. But I did not stop because of the compunction I felt. But because my bladder is so freaking pressed and my phone is off, and I can’t get my charger.
I swear if I do not get out of this room now, I am going to piss on myself.
Enyewe pombe si supu.
P.S; any typos or grammatical errors here are a testament my inebriation; and have been left there purposefully for your own enjoyment and delight. Oh, and to the guy from Greece, thanks for the birthday wishes, but I do not sell coffee- still can’t help you.
P.P.S: RIP Daddy.
P.P.P.S: Make sure you vote for magunga.com for BEST NEW BLOG here http://www.blogawards.co.ke/vote/ . That is the best birthday gift one could offer me today.