I hate nightclubs… I really, really do! It baffles me to imagine how people consider ‘clubbing’ to be fun. With the numerous, potentially fatal risks which are associated with the coming of the night, it stands to reason that people would only venture outdoors when it is absolutely necessary. Okay, since you are acting dumb and pretending you don’t know what the risks are, I’ll spell them out for you; armed robbers, crooked cops, car- jackers, pick pockets, poor visibility, the list is nearly endless… I have some friends who promptly fall ill any Saturday morning they don’t ‘club-hop’ the previous night.
Prior to March 1st 2010, I had never been to a nightclub. I considered (and still do) them to be modern day, miniaturized versions of Sodom and Gomorrah. At this junction, I need to ask you to refrain from thinking of me as a Sunday school teacher. I just have my own ideas of what ‘fun’ is and clubs aren’t in the picture.
I’ll share something with you; I was dragged into going to a nightclub one night by my friends, S***, G***** and M*******. After dragging my feet and being offered an irresistible bribe of all the suya I could eat, I reluctantly agreed to go along. I suspect the main reason why they wanted me to go along was because of my car, but that’s a story for another day. Friday night came and we were set to go. In a two car convoy with six people in total, we headed for La Cachette, a popular nightclub in Ikeja GRA. We got there at 1am and after some unprofessional frisking by the bored-looking bouncers at the gate, we were in.
The first thing that came to my mind was that we were in the wrong place. I know nightclubs are breeding grounds for women of easy virtue but this place was literally flooded with them! It almost looked like a National prostitute convention was being held there! We picked our way through the mob of sweating, gyrating bodies and found a couch to recline in. Drinks soon arrived and my friends slowly began to unwind and get into the groove. Me, I’m almost a teetotaler. The strongest brand of liver-spoiler I can handle is Smirnoff Ice and my limit is three bottles. My dream of running for President has been dashed thanks to some pictures of me sprawled in a pool of my vomit after I passed that thin line between sobriety and inebriation. I have offered all my worldly possessions to the friend that has the pictures but no dice… Goodbye, Aso Rock! Have you noticed that when you are doing something that you don’t like very much, time usually ticks very slowly? By 3am, I felt I had spent all the passing years since puberty in that place. By this time, the prostitutes in the club had started going into overdrive mode. Their dancing became more frenzied and provoking, in their bid to snare ‘customers’. Apparently, this tactic worked on George as he told me I could pick any girl I wanted and he would foot the bill. I looked at him like he just hit himself in the nuts with a hammer. On second thought, I wondered what it would feel like talking to a ‘real, live prostitute’ so I told him to pick anyone he felt like for me and sure enough, a female soon plopped on the seat beside me.
While she played coy, I eyeballed her like a scientist would do with an AIDS infected blood sample. After clearing my throat like a billion times, I engaged her in conversation. Things were okay for approximately seven minutes until she told me the only way she was going to continue the conversation was if I took her home.
‘Why’? I spluttered. ‘Because I like to get to know the people I sleep with.’ She answered demurely. In my mind I asked myself what the hell I had gotten into. I really wanted to sleep and here was this female wasting my time. We must have looked like two market women haggling over the price of an item. Luckily for me, she gave me a way out and I grabbed it with both hands. ‘Don’t think I’m a prostitute o!’ She blurted out, while my eyebrows went into orbit, ‘I just came here to unwind and if you are nice to me, I’ll allow you take me home.’ I shot G***** and S*** a dirty look for getting me into this mess. They were some distance away taking an active interest in the proceedings while managing to look in every direction except ours. ‘I see’, says I, ‘so are you in school or do you work?’ ‘I’m a doctor’, she declares while I scoot to the far side of the couch lest lightning strike her for lying and gets me too. I asked her what her area of specialization was and she replied, pediatrics. This white lie turned me off and I sank into the couch, closed my eyes and started forcing myself to catch a nap. She got the message and left some minutes later. Doctor, my black arse!
There are two things I really, totally hate which can drive me to commit murder; disturbing me when I want to sleep and partaking in my meal uninvited. Don’t ask me why, that’s just the way I am, okay? I was in the club last Friday, (yes, again!) with S*** and G***** (I’ve got to get rid of those boys) and I had a pounding headache so I was trying to sleep it off. I was in a foul mood and was successfully dozing off when some rough hands shook me awake. ‘What? What??’ I yelled, cross-eyed with anger. ‘That girl wants to dance with you, she asked us to come and wake you up so you’ll dance with her.’ George yelled back, pointing at a good-looking, shapely female who was dancing with her boyfriend who was the exact opposite in looks. They were a scant 4 feet from where I was slumped in the couch and she was looking at me with a teasing smile while her fat, pot-bellied sugar daddy was trying his best to mean-mug me. I turned back to G***** and S*** and yelled at them very sweetly; ‘GET THE FUCK TO HELL AND LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE AND TELL HER TO FUCK THE FUCK OFF!’ And I turned over and went right back to sleep.
For me there are better ways to have fun without buying over-priced drinks in the club, or running the risk of catching air-borne STDs from the prostitutes in the club or getting robbed and possibly killed by men of the underworld. You want to know how?
photo credits: stuffblackpeopledontlike.blogspot.com