Posted: October 28, 2010 in Me and My Crayziee World

I have come to the conclusive deduction that corporates are the biggest jackpotters in the world today. Only that unlike politicians, their fast money schemes are well guised under the veil of corporate social responsibility activities, product launches and a host of other cleverly constructed projects and events. Nevertheless, I have never shied away from attending such functions if only to get my share of the free booze, women and goodies on offer. Recently, I had the privileged pleasure of attending one such event courtesy of a newly launched establishment and the events that unfolded were a script-like tale of what goes down in such functions.

The location was at a new five star hotel in upmarket Nairobi. The beauty of it is that it’s only on such occasions that they let my type into such establishments. Of course on such occasions, the formal dress code helps but under ordinary circumstances, the furthest they would let me in would be the lobby where the butler would promptly inform me that they have a ‘No Hawking’ policy. It would make so much sense if they held those shindigs in more appropriate locations like the estate local or some pub in downtown.

So there I am, looking so out of place among a bunch of pompous corporate bigots. I should mention at this point that they had official colours which everyone was supposed to wear and it seemed to me like every chick in attendance used this as an excuse to wear the most outrageous outfit in their wardrobe. If it raised one too many eyebrows, they could always defend themselves with “it’s the only purple dress I have.”

While we waited for the event to take off, some Jackie-Chan looking Chef came over with some thingies that we were supposed to eat. I didn’t even touch them. They looked and (from what I was told) tasted like pig poop. They served this with some funny looking cocktails that looked a lot like dog urine. They called them ‘Mohitos’. I should have sensed there was something scary about the drinks from the name and the way they looked but not wanting to appear backward or uncultured, I just swallowed as they came. And they tasted like piss too. But then alcohol isn’t supposed to be sweet. That’s why I think whoever came up with Black Ice hadn’t the least clue about making beer. My grandfather in the village brews better beer in his bedroom than that pathetic excuse of a drink!

Eight Mohitos later, I felt like I was standing on my head. At which point the MC announced that the event was about to begin and invited the guest artiste to perform. That bugger probably walked away with a five figure paycheck for cracking my skull open because what I heard during his performance sounded like a war of musical instruments was taking place right at the centre of my head. I’m not sure whether he was that bad or it was the Mohitos punishing me for having the nerve to underestimate their merit.

At least the next performance was a bit soothing. I’m a fan of Neo-Soul and locally, Afro-fusion comes as close as it can get. There is just something pleasantly melancholic about such kind of music that makes my body and soul orgasm in blissful ecstasy. The only thing I hate about the music is the artistes. For some reason they like to accord themselves an imaginary air of importance and sophistication that makes me want to spit on their bloated egos. To this class also belong this new breed of poets who act like they are God-sent emissaries to make the world a better place through verse and rhyme. But that is a story for another day.

Next came the speeches. I hate listening to speeches. Not so much for the listening but for the fact that in reality, whatever the speakers are saying is usually just a Public Relations attempt to make them look good. They will be smiling and saying how much they appreciate you being there when at the back of their minds they are wishing you would just buy their damn product or donate some money so they can get back to plotting how they will screw that Secretary before the night ends. So I will skip that part because this blog is not a P.R firm.

After the formalities came the partying. Which was why I was there in the first place. The MC announced that they had an open bar. What he meant to say was that I had died and gone to heaven. Just to make sure I wasn’t getting a raw deal, I ordered six bottles of the most expensive beer I could think of. That waitress must have thought I was joking or something because she just smiled, left and came back with one bottle. I was about to cause a scene when she whispered to my ear that they were only allowed to serve one customer one bottle at a time then handed me a napkin with her number on it. I know! I didn’t see that coming either! She must have assumed I was rich or something but (un)fortunately, I don’t do waitresses so I passed it on to my pal who later hooked up with her…in his car.

The DJ was playing some banging jams and I figured I should join the growing crowd at the makeshift dance floor. That was my first mistake. The second was giving in to the loud cheers beckoning me to dance in the middle of the pack. My appointed partner was a curvaceous little thing who gyrated like her ancestors were descendants of non-vertebrae reptiles. Trust me, until a lady has grinded on your groin until you get a full hard-on in public you will never understand what I went through.

Tentatively, the attendees started to make their exits and I couldn’t help but notice that while many of them had come alone, they left in heterosexual pairs that suggested they were going to have a lengthy analysis of what this new establishment had to offer…in the privacy of one of their bedrooms. Meanwhile, yours truly was trying to figure out how I would get my drunken ass to my bed without puking my guts all over Nairobi.

All is well that ends well. Cheers!

  1. Nyanchwani says:

    One of this fine days, u gonna drink your liver out and smoke your lungs dry.have the fun…great food, good sex and much rum…life is a bed of roses for some

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