BEND DOWN PAUSE

I am sitting at the corner table. A safe distance away from the insanity workshop, the dance floor.

With the help of the dim lighting and the strobes, I can see the Dj wiping sweat off his humongous forehead. Man this guy has a forehead for days. It could be the MCSK headquarters for all I know. The fake red Beats by Dre headphones dangling around his neck remind me of those slave trade videos I watched in my history classes. But he is good with the wheels of steel. If the crowd on the already overcrowded dance floor is anything to go by, the deejay deserves a standing ovation. Or a pat on his fore head. Sorry, I mean back.

From the corner of my eye, I spot the mean looking guys at the smoking zone eyeing a skimpily dressed girl just in front of them. Their eyes are glued to her waist. Or below. I am not sure, but the hunger in their eyes is almost tangible. Stay thirsty my friends.

“Mambo boss, nikuadisie kinywaji?” (Hi man, another drink?) Asks the waitress as she taps me on the shoulder. Rumour has it that she is the reason half of the men in this club are so loyal to the place.

“Oh! Unakunywa soda? Nikuletee mkate?” (Oh! You’re taking soda? Should I bring you bread?”  She asks, pointing at the bottle on my table with her lips, even before I can answer her. Then she laughs. Evil laughter.

“Hii inanilemea. Naweza pata maziwa?”(This one is too hard on me. Can I get milk?) I ask meekly, with my eyes carelessly fixed on the her bosom

“Ha-ha… silly!” she retorts before walking off to the next table! Lord Jesus! Her hind quarters… She better have an inhaler. It’s obvious she is Assmatic! I am officially a member of this club.

Anyway I turn my attention to other things lest I wake up next to a waitress tomorrow morning. “Chips fungain” is real.

By now the dance floor is, weirdly, less crowded and I can see what’s happening. There’s this couple really working it out. The lass has her butt moving up and down the guy’s crotch provocatively. As if they are making kids doggy style -that’s how dogs mate, right? – A friend of mine told me whatever they are doing is called kusuguana. Well, this must be one dirty couple. That’s the only sensible explanation to all this kusuguana.

Then there’s the tipsy lady who’s gyrating her hips like her life depends on it. If it were not for God’s great skills during creation, this one would go home without hips. Or even a waist. Two guys are cleverly closing in on her. They must be dirty too and in dire need of kusuguliwa. This looks pretty entertaining so I ease back on my sit and watch the drama unfold.

As if on cue, the DJ wheels up Wizkid’s “Bombay” and the effect can be seen and felt almost immediately. Ladies jump off their seats screaming as they rush to the dance floor.

By now, the guys’ ETA is about two seconds. And they eventually get to their desired location. As a sign of brotherhood, they decide to share the lass. So she is sandwiched between the two and amazingly (or rather annoyingly), she does not mind.

If she was white this could be a human Oreo. But that’s none of my business.

I find myself craning my neck to keep up with the trio, but the traffic to the dance floor is flowing in thick and fast. Okay, fuck it! I lose sight of them, courtesy of these drank idiots. I wonder who taught these people how to drink. It’s too early to be this wasted.

Then the Dj does that “scratching and pulling up” thing they do and another song blares from the well balanced speakers.

Wait, where are all the ladies? I can only see men slightly bending backwards.

Oh! They are all bending. Hands on the floor, ass on male crotches. “…Bend down, bend down, pause…” the music plays.

Now I get it. These women are obedient. Let the show continue!