I’ve been moping around for a bit, trying to live the sedentary lifestyle mature people are famous for. I gave the excuse that I needed to crawl into a hole and regenerate the parts missing when my heart crash-landed some months ago. I had a foolproof routine. Work-Gym-Home, on other days it was Work-Cinema-Yahuza’s suya which is an absolute delight and makes all the Lagos suya I chopped so happily, taste like rice scraped from the bottom of the pot- and then home. I was fine till my friend announced I was a time-bomb waiting to explode. Now anyone who has been following the news lately or who has seen it first-hand in Abuja realises that bombs are no longer just 5-letter words that go BOOM on your TV screen. In the past weeks, I have had to call family twice to check if they were okay and then there were speculations about the bombing at the police headquarters being a suicide bombing. Nigerians are NOT suicide bombers, period! We may be a lot of things but fools we are not. 70 virgins? When we get to heaven, we’ll bargain for 5. Money for our families? What’s the guarantee you won’t screw us over after we are 6 feet under? Abeg! That was no suicide bombing…here’s how I see it. Mr X’s job was simple. Drive the car into the police headquarters, park it somewhere not too close to people and then run for dear life while the timer counted down to the explosion. Now what went wrong, you ask? First of all, there was traffic, which is becoming a fairly common occurrence in Abuja. Abuja please, please don’t become Lagos! Secondly the guard at the gate wasted time asking him “Anything for your boys”, when the timer had started counting and he had to fish in his pocket for some change. Thirdly, there was a man in front of him with total disregard for traffic laws, who refused to just park but blocked the road to the car park while hailing his bros at the police headquarters. And our dear Mr X, who was already breaking in a sweat, finally found somewhere to park, only to realise the door of the car didn’t open from inside. His superiors weren’t about to waste a perfectly good car when he could drive a decent-from-the-outside cabu-cabu to its early grave. By the time he realised the door had to be opened from outside and finally fished for the winder since the automatic windows chose that moment to prove the car electrician was high on kasapreko the day he fixed the car, time had run out for bros…”May the soul of the officer he took with him, rest in perfect peace!” Nigerians let’s make love not war. Okay not too much love, we can barely feed the babies popping up everywhere. So back to my friend calling me an event waiting to happen…I didn’t think I was strung out, infact I thought I was doing quite great. Yes it’d been ages since I danced to Fimile by Kas in front of the mirror and been even longer since I sweated to the beat of Kabba Kabba but I’d hummed Port Harcourt boy all day, a couple of days before so what was all this talk. He convinced me that I needed to live a little and let out some steam so armed with my close friend F (miss you babe), we decided to hit the town.
Our waka like I like to call it, started at Ketchup an open bar restaurant in Wuse 2. Anyone who knows the capital city, knows that there are more joints in Wuse 2 than anywhere else in Abuja. I am led to believe that’s where the first set of Ibo boys from Aba came to set up camp! The DJ was doing it right with blasts from the past. Anyone who knows me well, knows that music from way back is like adrenaline in my veins. We went from ‘Return of the Mac’ to ‘Ladies Night’ to ‘Make it rain’ and when he started with the Nigerian hits that got us all groovy way back in secondary school, he had me by the balls! (oops I need to grow a pair!), We moved to Soho, our entourage growing to a party of 6 and my first impression of Soho was that it was a white man club. There weren’t enough Nigerians in sight and the music made me think of a quiet evening at Piccolomondo. #dead! We stayed a few minutes and headed for Play. Play was hot. The DJ was on point and I danced like there was no tomorrow. It got a bit weird when I got asked to dance by two of the girls who’d been sitting beside me in the VIP section. Now since they obviously weren’t hos and my date had this big goofy grin on his face probably dreaming up a menage a trois, I put the worrisome debates on their sexuality behind me and danced heartily till my shoes called for a timeout. It was a great night and the fact that I had a job interview the next morning at a private hospital made it one to remember. I barely made it to the hospital, makeup concealing my lack of sleep, my mind willfully conjuring medical scenarios and tryna switch from fun mode to save-a-soul mode. Once I saw the other doctors in their over-sized suits, poring through last-minute medical handbooks, I sighed…I should’ve just stayed at home cos the other candidates also looked bereft of sleep but obviously for a reason entirely different from mine. So I kissed my locum job goodbye. Thank God for 9-5’s!
And there began a new chapter. I was determined to explore the fun side of town. Tired of being a tourist, I decided some exposure was needed and I had so much fun. Wonderland was exhilarating, the dancers at Blakes had asses that were loosely sewn to the rest of their body as their gyration took on a life of its own. I met so many people and had so much fun that I had to catch my breath before I exploded from exhaustion! I took a keke marwa for the first time, #more emancipation, got over my fear of dogs thanks to Jack, Nicky, Buddy and Austin’s shaggy ole dog and had my share of taking proposals to the National Assembly. Anyone who lives in Abuja knows that if you haven’t hustled for a contract of some sort then you’ve been left behind and my job as a health advisor on research and projects had me going places and meeting people who I’d hitherto watched on TV, now hoping they’d be willing to share their piece of the national cake! My red skirt almost got me into trouble at the National Assembly but in my defence, the skirt wasn’t short, my legs were just long and the heels weren’t helping. Yes I’d put my moping around days behind me and was fast falling in love with the town.
There must be something in the air around here because for some reason, 90% of the men who chat me up everyday are between the ages of 22 and 25 and is it me or does that scream cougar?!! I don’t wanna be arrested lads and I don’t care if my spirit is young or if my pastor has me confessing; ‘My youth is renewed like the eagle’s’. Whatever it is, I no do! Haba! I know I’m tryna get my groove back but I ain’t Stella and if I hear age is nothing but a number one more time, I shall plank on a transformer! ;-).
And just before I say goodnight, what is this new planking trend? I have heard all sorts, everybody is claiming it. There are those who say planking is good for the abdominal muscles #teamhealthjunkies and those who plank because it’s the new fad on twitter #teamfollowfollow and those who are anti-planking #teamplankersarewankers and those who think planking is the secret language of the devil #teamplankingtohell and finally those who are eagerly waiting for planking to become a new term for sex…according to my friend Jay, “Two planks,nailed and nailing together. Hard Wood connecting em as they lying together/hammering/screwing as they tighten together…bond so strong can withstand any weather!…let it rain!” #futuristicplanking. Shout out to my friend Jay Vox! 😉 It’s a wonder how sex begins all and ends all. We humans, creative as we are really do have a one-track mind.
As I get ready for bed. I ask you to consider where your mind’s been lately…the mind is really the devil’s workshop, tell him his rent is due and kick him out! And if you haven’t voted please go to http://www.nigerianblogawards.com/vote.php to vote for Memoirs of a woman with Chutzpah! Love you guys…you make blogging worthwhile. Have a great night peeps…xoxoxo 😉