A night out with a lesbian…

Last Saturday was not a typical drinking extravaganza with a bunch of guys. Unlike other Saturdays where my friends and I drink, belch, mumble, and tell interesting fairy tales of real women, fake girls, certificates of doom alongside other very relevant topics, last Saturday was a night of humiliation, mystery, and wonders in denial.

The night of dismay and wry started with Arsenal’s loss to Tottenham in a barely antagonistic match. I mean, Tottenham nearly played alone – Arsenal defended. Manchester fans became momentum fans of the North London’s finest to celebrate, following the continued lack of opportunities to celebrate. Do I say?

The slaughter by Tottenham made us belligerent. The raucous Man U fans made us vehement. And because we were tipsy, the whole feeling of losing a game on a Saturday night was terrible. It was acerbic! Unable to tolerate, we decided to change location. Mose was too drunk to know why we were going to town- but he was certain of a lone thing. The single thing that made all of us tag along him. Mose was definite there were some girls in town, waiting for us.

We sung our favorite re-location song as the car torn its way to town. ‘Metropolis here we come’. ‘Municipality here we come’…. You are supposed to replace the word town with a more complex synonym. It is a song. Once I said, ‘Conurbation here we come’… and Mose said, ‘Civil here comes Mose’… I recommend you drink with

Mose. I however caution the use that song to just with anyone, it only works with drunken free-spirited people. Not with the guys who cannot even cackle at a joke in a inn because they are too worried about the Monday’s presentation.

The streets were as usual jam-packed with girls with heels they can barely walk on. Men with promises they cannot keep chock blocked the dark corners. University students could also be seen in the dark-corner spirit shops as they ‘charged’ prior to proceeding to the clubs. Once in the clubs, the comrades danced with smoky women. Women married to men with six figure salaries, loaded accounts, 2.5-liter cars and no time for wives. We know you rich niggas. University students remain loyal… Alive only to serve you.

In anticipation of finding Mose’s mistress and probably her four or five hot girlfriends, we bought ourselves tickets to Rumourz Club. And indeed Mose is a man of his words for the girls were there. Brighter than the moon four babes stood. The 3d light made their half bleached skin glow- reflecting a symbol of beauty, the epitome of man’s desire and of course the heart throb of evil mind.
In their micro dresses, the mortals shone. We might have lost the match against Tottenham but not all was lost. I quickly chose the girl in cream top and  made it known by the team. “Choose from the rest but Ambrose ako na huyu dame ako na cream… Eeeh Mwenye ako na Braids” that ‘memorandum’ passed around the table twice, ensuring everyone got it right. Not the girl in a cream spotted top and dyed hair. No! the girl in a cream top and braids.

We sat on the round couch. The girls who had made us travel more than fourteen miles now sat quietly in front of us… I wondered,… do you women know how far we have come? They didn’t seem to have an idea, so I let the thought pass.

I reached my wallet and produced my Visa. I will teach you that trick. Always have some coins in your bank, always have a valid visa. Visa is a symbol of modernity. The might of sophistication. People who use Visas to pay for their miscellaneous are ‘rich’ by definition. Visa speaks a lot. It doesn’t matter whether you are rich or not, just get a damn Visa- it will make you get confused as rich. Visa in my hands, I signaled the waiter and patiently waited- As I waited, I engaged.

“Hey I am Ambrose,” I found myself telling her. Her friends had joined the dance floorboards leaving the both of us on the couch. Mose, Welli, Kanduthu and Diez were already in the dance boards, but dancing alone.
“Pleasure meeting you Ambrose”
“I bet you guys won’t mind a drink, what are your friends taking?” I asked the girl in a cream top…Visa in my hand. Ready to buy, I waited for the waiter. After all, I didn’t travel fourteen kilometers to not buy. It is funny how men choose to spend money on a random girl in a cream top. Anyway, I was ready to spend.
She gave out a little forced sarcastic laughter; paused and gave me a sympathetic look; she actually held her jaw as if telling me… “You are mistaken” or… “Buy youself a real drink before offering to buy” I was taking White Cap… For that reason, I am changing to Guinness.

Her laughter reminded me of a Nigerian Cinema where the Oga’s wife is a witch, and her mother in-law Nyachwiri is a super human dwelling between two worlds.

“My girls are fine” She picked her quarter full glass and barely sipped on the liquor. She was struggling not to finish that imbibe. That much I could tell.
“You sure” I insisted.
“Yes we are fine” her stare was hard but I knew the girls weren’t okay. They could use a drink.
“What about a dance then?”
“I don’t dance,… especially with dudes”
“Uh, okay… I will just dance with one of your friends then…”
I carefully put my drink on the table, stood as the crow flies and made a shrug… ‘Can I pass please?’
“And pliz Ambrose, don’t dance with my girls”… Culture shock!
“Excuse me, why not?” I was anxious.
She just stared. Lifted her glass and pretended to drink from it.
“What do you mean? They are grown-ups, they have IDs, right?” I insisted. Nothing was making sense.
“Dance with her” she pointed her shaking hand to a girl who was dancing with her sugar daddy- or so I guess. With her ass facing us, the girl was holding the old man’s shoulders and moved to the rhythm. Telling from their height, the girl’s breasts were resting on the old man’s tummy and they both immensely enjoyed. A gaze on their table, the girl was drinking Amarula, and my old man was parading Tuskers.
“You nuts, the old man is dancing with his girl, let them be”
“Do you approve of it? He is old enough to be her father” She was serious
“Does it matter what is right or wrong? The old man has invested for tonight, I can’t ruin it because I think it is wrong,” I was sure my statement made sense. Rest did I know it was my last sensible for the night.
“I am a lesbian!” she broke it on me like hot coal. “And them, (she pointed at the girls I thought are ours) they are lesbians too. My girls!” she pointed at her chest so hard, she must have bruised.
“You are Wh…?” I didn’t finish the sentence but she got it anyway.
“You said you don’t care what is right or wrong. This is not a morals class …cute boy! Just stay away”
I felt threatened. Despite the tall, strong, and brave me, she manage to make me consider staying away from ‘her girls’. For long I have know I am cute, but the way she called me a ‘cute boy’ made me really wonder whether cute is good or a symbol of weakness.
Elegantly she stood, walked to the stage, stood behind one of ‘her girls’ ready to shake it. In rhythm, a show of perfection only attained through many night of orgy dances, the two girls ground with the beats.
The black girl in a red dress moved slowly, lost in passion and emotions of the music and the rhythmic warmth touches of her lover- the girl in a cream top. Standing nose breath away, the two horny lesbians wandered in thought. The little touches of their hands were magnified escapades of love in their minds. At some point, I thought they would lose it and release the cries of pleasure and groans of satisfaction. But not these two, they were experienced in this… They knew when to feel and when not to…

Everyone watched the lovebirds dance to the tunes. Men even bought them drinks as a way of appreciating the show- what a beautiful set of girls, so chaste they don’t even dance with men. No man knew that he was spending his hard-earned money on a combine. Buying a ‘boyfriend’ a drink because he grinds her girl so well.

The dances continued until late hours when men run broke and the girls got drunk. As I sat there with the lesbians I wondered how to tell my buddies not to hope so much. I wanted to tell Mose to let go of the Queen Elizabeths… Wanted to tell Diez and Welli not to care saving those numbers.

But as i sat there and watched I promised one thing, I said this, “before this night is over, I will tell these girls they are lesbians. And lesbian is not African… And the word is as disgusting as pronounced…” I then waited… and I drank more shots.
At 4:30 in the am, we needed to go home. Immediately before they got into the cab I belched and called them lesbians. I pointed at them, belched again, and attempted to call them lesbians, again!. And since one of them claimed to be a lecturer at the Aviation college. I let them go.

I remain loyal to my readers.

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