The House warming that was

Its being a while since I’ve being to a house warming party, perhaps due to the guilt, or lack of thereof, for not holding one myself. I have lived in three houses so far and I have never, not even for the purposes of illusion, held a house warming party. Do not confuse my failure with intent to act in miser-hood, or with the heart of a friendless bloke. No, my failure originates from circumstantial inability followed by forgetful habit. But i promise you, dear reader, that the next time life occasions another move, I will hold the biggest party this side of the sahara has ever witnessed. So big will be this party that poets will burn with inspiration to immortalize the occurrence with eternal words and fire the product with metaphorical b lazes in creative kilns. But this is not about my lack of a house warming party, probably the reason why my house feels like a literal igloo, but of a  friend’s house warming party I attended on Saturday.

The venue was Imara Daima which proved advantageous due to its close proximity to my estate. The host had graciously told me to bet here before 7pm but i decided to wait until my other friends were safely tucked within the confines of this untested, untasted and unvisited abode before I tentatively made my way to the same aforementioned haven. 7 pm found me gingerly locking my crib after a day of hard work and stealthily head to the stage. Five minutes later saw me ten shilling poor after an unwilling donation to the conductor and struggling inside a shaky unroadworthy and completely ugly excuse of a PSV hitherto understood to mean pessimistic and Sarcastic looking vehicle, hehe hey its my blog. Alight at Kobil and follow the tarmac road to Imara, simple instructions but the person forgot to say how dusty the misrepresented road actually is. Its a miracle worthy of biblical scripturelization that i my lungs are in good working order after the dusty onslaught which ensured through the rest of that perilous journey to the rendezvous point. But i made it safely and was welcomed with a tight hug, a bowl of delicious pilau with other suspicious and foreign looking concoctions on the side (which I wisely decided to ignore) and a fat glass pregnant with vodka, sprite and ice cubes.

The night progressed well and more revelers sauntered into the room in their full grace as if they were nobility summoned to the court by the famed lover of beautiful people, Queen Elizabeth 1 also known as the Virgin Queen (Long story). But the host was worthy of fame, for her beauty made all other pale in comparison to her beauty and elegance. Clad in a short figure hugging dress which was tasteful and bordered on the elegant side rather than tart. A dress which bespoke of a a deep appreciation of fashion and a clear awareness of her assets; what to flaunt and what to hide. Little make up which highlighted her delicate facial features, her sensuous lips with just a touch of lipstick, her eyes which captivated both the invited and the accursed gate crushers.  Hair made to reflect both class and the barbaric wildness of a jungle lass. A cleavage so subtly revealed its like peaking at highly classified documents whose crime would be death from treason, not against a state, but natural law and the chosen guardian; if any actually is worthy of such privilege.

The mood was beautiful, the setting calling for happiness and forgetting one’s worries; of only for the fleeting glee of a single night of unrestricted happiness. The whole scenario called for looseness, for wildness, for spontaneity, creativity and dropping of all pretense at civility. So we partyd without the awkwardness of strangers at a shindig, for the moment eroded such a possibility, and turned strangers into the best of friends. As alcohol flowed intertwined with music and rhythm, conversations rang through the noise of the amplified boom box sprinkled with crumbs of delicious laughter. Beautiful behinds swayed, big and small, accentuated by hips clad by flattering attire to the dynamism of vivacious music. Bodies clung to each other in appreciation of God’s creations and motivated by beats woven by creativity and sweetened by the intoxication of blessed alcohol. he hours stole past us with the speed of as if carried on top of the very beats which sustained our moods and fuelled the passions of lust, desire and for some of us, friendship.

When the smell of weed drifted to my nostrils, a smell not like the one I was accustomed to in yester years when my brother religiously partook of the illegal pleasures of this metaphorical pot. Driven by curiosity and bound by the spell of the moment, I levitated to the balcony in a style characteristic of a scene in a Tom and jerry  movie. A scene where Jerry would be dragged by the smell of sweet smelling pie, robbed of free will and heading right to the peril of a Cat guarded house. There i was handed some weed inserted on a bamboo filter and shown how to participate in this ageless practice of mind distortion. So i took several puffs and the more I had, the more I wanted. Can tell you why really, at that moment, I didn’t feel anything different.  I hoped it would make me fall down in unrestricted laughter, but yet, all I felt is disappointed. I thought i would strip down naked and go round the room waving the “thing” but again, nothing. A nothingness borne of disappointed expectations, so disillusioned, I went back to the party to seek reenergization which would hopefully yank me back from the miasma of disillusionment and disappointed which the weed had submerged me in. To tell you the truth, I don’t remember how the rest of the night went, or where most of the people went. I remember complaining to my friend about some things, I was all of a sudden pissed beyond control, for no apparent reason. Must be the weed, they warned that might happen, but a whole packet of sweetened mandazi with juice calmed me down. i should keep away from that stuff, well, until the next place I come across some American bred Kenyans bearing weed smoked from bamboo filters, hehe.

The next day was okay, bumming in the house doing nothing much but arguing on which movie is worth watching.Needless to say no movie was good enough to captivate the whole crowd despite by apt protestation when somebody ejected Cowboys and Aliens. The afternoon saw the crew settle on a game instead, spin the bottle to be precise. A game basically borne on a need to test the extent of human bravado and the capacity for honor. Hard questions were asked and crazy dares were made, a crazy game this truly is. a game not best played with your significant half in attendance some of the patrons soon learnt. For me the tricky part was being asked to chose one among three ladies, all of them with boyfriends around, and proceed to have a three minute passionate kiss. I’m sure none of you, dear reader, want to hear how that played out, what’s with all eyes clearly focused on the event and the lady asked when the bottle next settled on how whether she enjoyed the kiss. All in all, it was a great party and we are thankful to Betty, out host.