Celebrating East African Writing!
On a night like this you want to pretend there’s no mistakes. No regrets. No heartbreaks. No latent pain. It’s Friday, and it’s end- month. You order a drink. Tusker Moto. No vodka, just beer. Vodka is for those days when you want to drown in your sorrows. Real men drink beer. Leta Tusker Moto.
On a night like this you want to ogle at the femmes. Short skirts. Side glances. Naughty smiles. Cheeky winks. They always smile back. Nothing too serious. One comes over to the bar. Orders three bottles of Snapp. Your tab. Lipstick on your shirt collar. Nothing too serious. Just some teasing. You have a girlfriend. And you love her very much.
On a night like this you want to make fun of your friend. The one who’s been friend zoned by all the girls he’s met. You call him GPSM.Great Personality, Small Manhood. GPSM, rhymes with Gypsum, is that even a word? You’re not making sense. Three Tuskers and you’re drunk? You’re losing touch.
On a night like this you want to steal the beer of the guy sitting next to you. It seems he’s had one too many. But you remember the guy code. Thou shalt not steal your neighbor’s beer. It is taboo. No need to pick up curses from night clubs. You’ve got too many problems already.
On a night like this you want to dance like there’s no tomorrow. Two left feet. Who cares, all men have two left feet. You dance away to Mustapha’s Lenga stress. The DJ’s on fire. Hands in the air. Swift jerking. Girls twerking. Violent shaking. Bodies sweating. Life’s an Eminem song. Lose yourself.
On a night like this you want to party till the morning. But you’re getting tired. It’s 2 am and you’re tired. You’re losing your game. Or maybe it’s age, catching up with you. You leave the club. Your friend, the friend zone guy, decides he’ll stick around a little longer. You stagger to your red BMW M3 at the parking lot. Sweet ride.
On a night like this you drive unsteadily from Lavish lounge. You already know which roads to dodge; Alco blow’s a sleaze. You’ve got to avoid the cops at all costs. You don’t want to think about your girlfriend. She’s probably tried calling you like a million times. Your phone is off. You’ll tell her you were asleep. You’re a lark tonight. Without a care in the world. Life’s awesome. Alcohol was sent from heaven.
A wrong turn. You’re in the wrong lane. Oncoming traffic. You hit the brakes. Damn, that’s not the brakes. You’re moving faster. Panic. Hooting from the oncoming car. You’re confused. You don’t know what to do. Brakes screeching. A scream. Too late. A bang. Head-on. The windscreen shatters into smithereens. A shard of glass slices into your neck. Probably the jugular vein. You’re a doctor. Or at least you were. Blood oozing. Bones cracking. Blurry scenes. Like the dance floor. Oh, but the pain! You’re hopeless, losing consciousness. Distant shouts. Dimming lights. Your girlfriend’s soothing voice. You were going to propose to her this Sunday.
A tear on your left eye. Unbearable pain. Then numbness. Fading away. Time goes still. Nothingness. At least you died in your red BMW. On a night like this.