I had an okay Friday, six months ago. One with a stern face and a stiff back. This piece was shelved in my library until this morning when I read ‘The Quietus’ about the sorry state of pop marketing and I agree. They took away my Joshua Bennet and my long legged Ginuwine and replaced them with Chris Brown. Come on! Someone short-changed me.

Anyway, it’s time to blow the dust off this piece. It’s time to delicately put my hands on it and re-play the song from where we left off. To dance one dance, chest to chest, beat to beat, until the last full stop. I might even get acclimatized to the habit of finishing the pieces I start. And no, this piece is not even about music.

You know how they say as ‘proud as a peacock’? Do you think ‘they’ had met a pure bred jaduong’ from the lake side?  And I mean bred, not those that prefer fish fingers with a touch of vinegar to ugali na fis. I mean those whose accents gives them away long before they claim to be a scholarly of Yale or some other big league university from overseas. Those whose spruced up styles border 90k per outfit even though ahero’s GDP is pathetic (well, like everywhere else).  Those that pick you up in a Volkswagen toureg because the Audi is in the garage for maintenance.  Clearly, ‘they’ had not met these jaduongs.

Most young ladies comme moi , like to go out a few times every year and dance the few extra pounds off the bum. Well, mostly just the belly area. I am wondering why everybody’s update on twitter is TGIF. Yes, six months ago, TGIF was dark in my abyss of the unknown. I turn on the TV and two guys in afros, geek spects and those awful tight trousers that irk me start to party rock. The maturity cookie crumbles, oh so fast. I put on socks (socks slide on the floor) and engage in the shuffling, loudly belching out the song, ‘party rockers in the house tonight, everybody just have a good time…’ I am inexorable after this.

I call up one of my guys, a dreadlocked chap who drives too damn fast and is always clubbing. He had long made Tuesday his Friday even before Thursday went stealing the limelight. He arrives at my place in 10 minutes and in another 14, we are sitting in a club in westlands. Westlands nightlife has profited from its notoriety. Girls (I did not say ladies) here dress for the party.  You know, short dresses, 5 inch stilettos, only to get there and dance barefoot. Good thing is, I don’t think there are any mothers unions here. They couldn’t fit under those minute dresses. Then there is the shrieking ‘Oh ma gosh it’s you!’ How come they don’t believe it you every time? Do you know how unnerving those shrieks are when our country is under attack from the alshabaab?

We sat at a table on the balcony and Ginuwine’s song was playing. Memories of a four year old me forcing my dad to watch me as I copied ginuwine’s grinding as I sang ‘riding my pony’ came flooding in. No wonder he preferred Bob Marley.  There wasn’t any riding of ponies on a Bob Marley track. Before long, music switches to the new house music, crowd goes ballistic. I am a little saddened by Ginuwine’s sudden departure and the crowd vilipending his style. But am here to play, and stare at long legged men so like Tupac, I keep my head up and go with it.

A while later some guys comes by, smile politely and one asks my friend if he and his friends can share the table.  We exchange niceties. I smell Bondo as soon as he says,’ pleasa is all mine’. He buys two rounds as thanks for letting them sit with us and informs us that he just flew into the country a day before. My pal pretends to show me something behind me and whispers,’ jaduong here jut flew in from Uganda’.  My friend, this one, whispers like a hornbill! Thank heavens for the louder music. Green light by John Legend and Andre is on so I stand up to dance. My jacket and clutch are on my seat and my pal who has now joined in the dancing points out at the jaduong. Well, he danced like he was ‘differently-abled’. His hands were all over the place and he kept shouting, ‘nigger what!’ There is no ‘Nigger’ in that song.  Sometimes he would wave at some guys who sat close by. Before long, the clown knocked over the table my seat included and all the glasses piled, broke and drinks spilled on my jacket.

The look I give him could solder metal. I am breathing fire. All I see is my sad jacket slain on the floor, crying out to me. It’s crying for justice, justice I vow to deliver. I could smile and brush it off. But I don’t. Maybe it’s my hormones. Maybe it’s my sad jacket. I start to rap words that I can’t remember today but I sound menacing. (Coldplay’s- A rush of blood to the head could work as a theme song for this scene). To tell you the truth, I didn’t know what I wanted. I believe it’s Confucius who said to see what is right and not do it, is a want of courage. If you see your jacket looking at you with such sad eyes, you know to put your hands on your hips and go to war.

Jaduong dives into his pockets, and fishes out notes from, oh my, how do I say this? Uganda. My pal right then, almost drowns in laughter. But I must laugh later. He goes over to the friends he was waving at earlier. I am spelling more doom than alshabaab then and although those UG notes keep threatening to mess my seriousness, I stay put

The guy returns with a friend in tow who with a very heavy American accent, apologizes for his pal’s mess. He asks how much the jacket cost and I say I got it for $200 dollars on ebay without even blinking. My friend laughs hard at this and I am wondering why he thinks my jacket is cheap. Our American accented friend removes his wallet and hands me two $100 notes. I pick my ‘hard earned’ money, clutch and now ‘ruined’ jacket. Then in my best Eva Mendes badass walk version, I strut away from that place and from my friend who is still picking his jaw from the ground is disbelief. Halfway out, I remember I don’t own a car and $200 is not getting me one so I ran back, to look for my friend.

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