Last weekend, I decided to change routine from the same old bars and night club sort of happening to a bring-your-bottle party setting. It was a drink up organised by one of my booze pals at his place in Ntinda.
I was in my full party element. The girls kept on arriving on boda bodas, probably funded by their parents, after being lied to that it was “a girls’ night out”. There was only one motto; get high and black out, you only live once! I bought a bottle of Red Label from a supermarket at Shs69,000 (the same bottle in a club costs roughly Shs150,000. (Can you imagine!). Back to the two-bedroomed house. I kept my bottle in my hand. Heck! I felt a superstar. Girls are easily wooed with such drinks, so I was sure of getting hitched that night.
As soon as the deejay started spinning latest jams, the alcohol too started flowing in freely. I had let go of my bottle. It was in a mixture of other guests’ “normal” bottles like Whitemist Chief, Bond 7, Smirnoff and the like. The deejay kept rocking the atmosphere with cool jams, charming the party mood up. Immediately the white cup got empty, I headed for a refill, getting my hands on whatever drink I could get.
There was a specific lot of humans, the party feat gluttons. These chaps had arrived before anyone else and had no clue what was going on. They were all about the food and drinks, and before the real party kicked off at 11pm, they were vomiting all over and blacking out in the loos.
As I sipped more drinks, my blurry eyes could see couples disappear into dark corners.
All I remember after is resting my head on the arm of the sofa. I wasn’t feeling my legs. All I could hear were drunken snores. As the sun arose, we were all waking up in the wrong arms. When I try to revisit my memory while listening to Mowzey Radio’s Neera song, I still cannot tell what exactly happened.