We decided to go out for a night out. It was undeniably a great idea especially since it had been long since we (my husband I) brushed off the already aged cobwebs. We work so hard; barely in our mid-twenties and are already investing in a home…Oh, wait. Someone once wrote that a home is not an investment. Well for us it is. It is the one place that soothes our sore behinds. We may not get any returns from spending our money on a warm coloured paint, or crafted wall hangings, but the feeling it fabricates from within; the relief of finally being home; the constant reminder that life is not just about work, work and more work, is always satiable.
It was an impromptu decision. We didn’t plan it. We never plan for night outs. They always somehow turn into something else whenever we planned way ahead of time; like a purchase of more hanging pegs for instance. We tagged my sister along, paid a friend who doesn’t drink to drop and pick us up and off we set. It’s always wise to have a designated driver whenever you go out to drink. If the driver is a friend, make sure he never drinks or at least doesn’t drink on this particular outing…that’s if you can beat the temptation!
9am at Click. We had initially intended to go to the Legendary club; a joint that always took me back to my treasured high school days when music was hard to access and hence worshipped whenever it leaked off to us. It had been close to a year since we last cobweb-freed ourselves and the shock of closed doors didn’t land so gently on us. Luckily, another joint, The Click was upstairs in the same building and we didn’t stop to think.
The music was engaging. We started dancing right from the moment we heard the speakers tremble with the beat. It was loud and exciting. I felt younger and less serious, and I immediately threw off the stress blanket had been tugging on since the year began.
I’m not the kind of person who waits to get high to start dancing. Good music gets me high. In about six minutes, my cardigan was down and my glass of sweet red wine barely touched. I was already swaying my hands in the air while vigorously shaking my waist and hips, in tune with a piece from Shakira. The deejay must have been high on something, we all presumed. He never let us rest; what with one electrifying music to another.
We had shots… This is how we and our click of friends do shots;-
- A dance floor is important though not completely necessary.
- No matter the number that we are, we all get a share of the drink
- We raise our shots and toast to something…anything.
- We drink up all content at the same time and react as expected…it usually always burns.
- We all race for the dance floor before the content lands in our bellies and dance crazy till we sweat and all alcohol is done.
Initially, the dance floor was interestingly taken over by two pot bellied men who hungrily eyed my sister and I. One insisted on dancing between us. It was irritating to watch him count mugithi steps to an R&B tune. It didn’t ruin our night though. We ignored him and boogied on.
At about 3AM, I felt I couldn’t go on anymore. My feet really hurt and my hair, full of sweat was all over my head and face. I struggled with sleep on the other the hand. My sister was down; head on the table and watching some couple with one eye. The man in question had his hands squeezing his overly drunk companion’s bum. she never made any effort to control him, and we all prayed she was merely a call girl. It made her look weak and easily used…unless her drink had been spiked! We called our driver for the night. The Homeboys deejay was not holding back. He puffed out clouds of smoke from a cigarette he held with one hand, seemingly lost in the music himself. His other hand spun the plates on the system.
He got mean, the deejay. He decided to play techno. All the pain in my legs was suddenly gone and I jumped up again. I danced, jumped, swung my head, and threw my hands all over. Techno music doesn’t have many fans. They say it makes one look fanatical and wild. That’s what I did. I danced like a mad woman, throwing my hair all over. When my little girl grows up, I pray she never reads this part of the post ever…may she be blinded to it…
I only stopped when reggae took over. That I don’t do. It was finally time to go back home. Outside, as we waited for our friend Kharees, some drunken idiots bypassed us staring at us in an unsparingly lustful manner. One of them was brave. ‘Come with us,’ he said, struggling between watching his toxoc levels to trying to look cool. ‘I won’t lie and say I love you. I promise’ He let out a sheepish smile before his drunk friend dragged him of towards a waiting cab. He reminded me of one Jack Sparrow in The Pirates f the Carebean. Irritating as it was, I thanked God, alcohol makes one let go and get all honest. I thanked God that my sister and I are both married and can have fun without trying to impress anyone.
We slept at 4:30 and were up by 8am. The wine had done its part. I felt dehydrated and drained. My shoulder and neck hurt from all the spinning and dancing and I have typed this since morning. Banging a paragraph per hour and fighting Pesh’s little fingers off the keypad.
So now you know the party side of me. Despite being a hardworking colleague and mom, I too believe I shaking off stress and rejuvenating my energy levels.
This Easter, let go of the stiffness, responsibly of course and let’s not forget to thank God for wisdom. We always need it to stay safe and not do things we regret later. HAPPY EASTER, friends!