Why I will NEVER Party With Southern Africans Again- Pt 2

“On a scale of 1 to feet, where is your conversation?”

When the after party takes you from Manhattan to Brooklyn, game over, you are not catching your bus home in 3 hours, heck, you might not even catch your bus until 3 days later!

After the Mzansi in NYC party, we spilled into the streets, and I realized the hardest thing to tell a Southern African is “The party is over”… Hearts were broken. I stood outside, not really sure what I was going to do for the next 3 hours before my bus ride back home.

I followed my nose to the most delicious smelling bacon known to man kind. Guys, I don’t think you understand how good that bacon smelled! Like we actually went into the deli and asked the man to give us $5 worth of bacon, plain bacon!  Still warped in the Bacon’s spell, I made the look back at your life, this is where you should have gone right decision and allowed my friend to usher me into a cab to the BK.

Next thing, I was in a strangers house, with more than 7 other strangers, and 3 familiar faces. A collection hat was passed around, malt purchased, and my hostage soon ensued. We laughed, danced, freestyled (Let’s be honest, I observed and was a semi-recipient to this)  and soon forgot we were strangers. As the evening/morning progressed people started dropping like flies, and I, thinking I was on Survivor for some monetary gain, stayed awake until 4pm.

Leaving at 7am soon turned to 10, turned to 1pm, turned to 10pm, by midnight, I was in the same house! Paralyzed by malt, fatigue, and the devilish allure of my new found compound. I even lied to myself and called a friend on the outside, and asked if she wanted to meet. Who was I kidding? I was in the same clothes as the night before trying to head out to the Village.

That night, we became too comfortable with each other, and our conversation reached a lowest of lows….. Feet… People, in 2012 we must respect conversation enough to not devote a whole period of thought  to our lower phalanges!

Day 2 in the house, we lied to ourselves again, and no one left. Actually that is not true. After nap rotations, talking, and getting to know people better, we left the house, but not each other. We went ALL the way to Queens for a chisa nama/BBQ – we were not serious about life. Neighbors were confused, like what kind of party begins on a Sunday night? At this stage we were wounded, I felt like the people I saw sitting at Sullivan’s, we had nothing left to prove,  yet we were forcing it.

We eventually got back home ( I even called this place home, it was serious) , and I against rotating who slept on the bed when, decided to take some part of my life back in my hands, and forced us to economize the bed. We got to a point were things I should not entertain became comic fodder i.e:

* I think at this stage I should mention I do not condone ANYTHING Malevin says, but the combination of stories, justifications, methods and Engrish in this clip, you laugh at your pain *

What can I do? Monday came along, and I decided to take life back into my own hands. I was leaving, Mary I’m leaving, I’m going, Thabu Mombeki is going to be President, I’m leaving!  They didn’t believe, but as I grabbed my bag,  with a change of shoes, ipod, ipod and phone charge, and make-up essentials. I left the compound. I went back to real life, where responsibilities exist. I felt like Woody in Toy Story 3, when he leaves the squad to be with Andy *don’t ask questions*

I eventually made it on that bus back to Boston, and reflected on the weekend before. Glad to have experienced it, smirked at all the foolery, side-eyed myself, laughed at our lack of sense, and was happy to have met the people I did. For everything else, there is no mastercard…my lips are sealed!


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