It is with moist, trembling hands that I type this article. And no, my private browsing is not enabled. On the contrary actually, it is my actions in public that have brought me to this state. You see, yours truly has just received an invitation to a house party and I'm quite excited to be going. Yes, did I hear someone say "shiny jeans and pointy shoes"? No? Good. I don't have those anyway.
I'm a little nervous too. The problem is that I'm not always on my best behavior at such and have a tendency of sucking at parties almost like an ex of mine but that's a story for another blog. I remember the first time I ruined a party. I was 9 and only just realizing I was thinner than the average boy my age and no girls liked me. My older brother had signed a major deal with the neighborhood rich kid by enlisting him as his best friend and it was this same rich kid who invited myself and siblings in tow to his birthday party. After all the "wow is that a computer?"; "is that DSTV?" and "is that what a father looks like?"-s we had fancy food that clung to the palate as if anxious to interact with the rather average meals stewing morosely at the bottom of our stomachs.
Much to our dismay we were not allowed to play the birthday boy's Sony PlayStation 1 (apparently a High Priest needed to have been present to break the seal with the blood of a thousand light-skinned niggas, nyaope incense and a lick from Miley Cyrus), instead we were banished to the manicured lawn to play "fun" games with a slightly overweight host who at that point was as excited as a mupostori's new washing-maid. So we just stood there, all seven of us, breathing the same air as he was, thumbs sticking out the top of our re-dyed jean pockets, being cool.
Five minutes later I watched in amazement as his parents tried to coax him out of the wardrobe he had locked himself in as he wept because I had called him "fat" after he had called me "skinny." And as he emerged, sobbing and pointing his privileged finger in my direction I was puzzled as his mother stared me down as if she was conjuring up some gigantic dreadlocked headmistress demon in her mind to smite me off the earth with. With wide-eyes I listened as the permanent-looking man they called "daddy" phoned my mother and told her to come pick the whole litter of us up still clad in our maroon school jerseys that smelt of last night's paraffin stove fumes and burnt kapenta. As we walked home that evening, with our Toughees glimmering like semen on a polished concrete floor, I slowly realized I had been the scumbag of the party and probably shouldn't have flaunted my poverty in the rich kid's face as tactlessly as I had.
And so tonight, as I iron my imitation Elikem shirt and prepare to remind anyone who listens that I, and I alone know ALL the lyrics to Khona, I am battling with a choice I should have made back then before I pressed Tinashe's intercom: What character should I go as?
The thing is parties are not rocket science, regardless of how hard you try to be unique you'll always fit right into a stereotype that was long anticipated before the first Guarana 6-pack was ordered. And tonight I'm in need of a game plan so badly 'cause the last time I scored, a "microwave" was something that involved a small comb; pubic hair and a handful of S-Curl.
Here are my options so far:
Offering strangers Choice condoms
That 2am call to anyone who might have blocked him on Whatsapp
Bringing up that Tin-Tin sextape to anyone with ears and an SD card
Will end up
Sleeping on the kitchen floor, in a pool of pee, that smells strangely like that missing bottle of green Zappa
Having a cab driver as his plus-one
Asks the DJ to turn on his bluetooth
Playing with the family dog and eventually changing its name to Spartacus
Will end up
Miserable and married to the middle-aged maid who mothered his mini-him after he missed the turn to the main house at 4am
The Smooth Criminal
Wearing a thin summer shirt and it's not even Sanii outside
Dance moves that will have you wondering where the rest of the bridal team is
All Stars that clearly stopped conversing years ago
Will end up
With a yellowbone and a stolen Galaxy S3. (One of which will prevent him from entering heaven while the other is a cellphone)
Dancing alingo where it is not necessary
Mentioning Monash at least once per Savannah bottle
Will end up:
Hitchhiking at 6am with a broken watch, your little brother's number and the Labello he picked up in the bathroom
On second thoughts, I think I'll pass on this party.