Dancing girl, expats, advertising agent and two ladies

Have you ever walked into a club and the first thing you see is a lady standing next to the DJ? She is gyrating her body and running her fingers through her hair – which is afro-kinky by the way. She looks like she is taking some imaginary t-shirt off and her eyes closed.

She is really feeling the up-beat tempo of David Guetta blasting out of the bose speakers. I assume the speakers are bose because this is an up-market club. One frequented by expats who want to get down and dirty but don’t really want to get down and dirty. She is fist pumping and shaking her head furiously – if you uproot her here and plant her at an evangelism crusade she would fit right in save for the short skirt and over revealing tank top.  The air around her stenches of expensive tobacco, Marlboro maybe, and between her slender fingers is a lit stick. Every once in a while she blows up a thin stream of smoke up in the air pausing her dance then resuming right back where she left off. You like her for some reason and as you walk past brush up against her hair which smells of lilies and tobacco. You promise to say hello before she leaves, convince yourself that you need to be inebriated and make a mental note to look for her once the froth is one with your blood.

You walk out into the balcony, or patio or whatever fancy name you hear the expats call it. You find an inconspicuous place to rest your behinds. You glide into the curved semi-circled seat enough to fit four but you’re alone. You take out your phone, unlock it and slide the task bar down tapping on the WiFi icon. It automatically connects and the low dings start hitting your phone in a steady stream enjoying the availability of seamless internet. You acknowledge the fact that your mobile subscriber though with impeccable service has crappy rates and wish you had a better option. You get a few messages from the same damsel. She wants to know how your day was, you ignore it because you kow she won’t stop there. She thinks she is in the race to winning your heart or something like that and you blame that show she keeps watching. You remember the last time you watched a soap was when, a detergent ad played during a half time commercial break. You raise your head and notice the well groomed host standing before you smiling ready to take your order. A grimace flashes across your face, you wanted one of the hostesses to take your order. However you still give him the order. You ask for the same thing you’ve always had and hope they did not review their prices upwards. You wonder why there’s an energy regulation commission and not a booze one. That’s a million dollar idea you tell yourself and wish you had a notebook to pen it down.

Around you are the expats with tables laden with drinks. They vary from single malt whiskeys, premium brews and cocktail glasses. Young African lasses buzz around them and one throws an eye at you. You look away, not too fast to seem shy and not too slow to seem inviting. You know what she wants but you cannot afford to have her pint at your expense you’d rather enjoy the company of the lonely table. Your brew arrives and the host is smiling as he brings it. He points out a useless fact on a new cocktail like how it has five different shots of hard liquor. You know better than to ask how much it is because here you don’t ask. He goes away but not too far he eyes you from the corner of his eyes in case you need something else. You’ve never tipped him, actually you’ve never tipped in your whole life. You believe that they get paid to do what they do but you admire his resilience. Maybe you will tip him, just maybe. You realize the music faded and you notice the girl left. You swear you’ll get her next time and sip on your brimming glass getting a fine beerstache. To your left is a middle age man with thick rectangular framed spectacles, a striped light blue shirt with the sleeves folded up to his elbow, and purple tie. The tie is undone and the top shirt button is open. He has gorilla hands with which he wraps around his bottle, a green tiny bottle with a red star and some city’s name inscribed across. He puts down the bottle and the table shakes. You imagine what he does for a living and he looks like he is in advertising. Yes definitely advertising, his bald head and the way he eyes the bottle before taking a sip are tell tale signs. Every so often he will stare at his watch, one with thick brown leather straps and a golden face. He must be waiting for someone a lady perhaps otherwise he would have upped and left.

Your glass is almost half full and two ladies walk in both dressed in black. One has a short black skirt and her derriere threatens to burst out – she is thick. She wears a pink blouse with a low hanging collar and a thin gold chain rests right above her bosom. Her hair is short and worn in frilly curls, her skin is dark but glows she walks with an elegant gait and the sound of her heels can be heard over the playing music. You do not notice her friend you’re too fixated on the marvel that just entered. Her handbag dangles from her elbow. It is creamy white and has some pattern you cannot seem to decipher you think maybe it is a Hermes. She walks into the balcony past the inebriated expats and now dancing girls and comes straight to your table. She asks if you are expecting anyone and if they could join you. You do not object and let them sit at your table. She smells of expensive perfume and leather seat cleaner – must be her car you decide. You don’t pay them any attention as they carry on with their discussion but you occasionally smile and nod your head when you’re asked to weigh in on trivia matters like if high heels should have a silencer to stop awkward moments when you walk into a meeting late. You watch as the host comes back and gets their orders he asks if you would like anything else and this shifts attention to you. You decline and ask for your bill. She looks at you with eyes that seem to ask where you’d be going that early. You want to tell her they infringed on your personal space but you don’t you just smile at the host. Her friend taps your shoulder to get your attention from your phone. You notice her for the first time but it is nothing to write home about so you don’t. She is equally as poised. You exchange pleasantries and a few laughs. You crack a joke here and there breaking the ice and you trade contacts. The host comes with the bill you take out a crisp note and get up to leave. You don’t want the change today you let him have it. You bid your new friend goodbye and her friend. You notice the guy in a blue shirt still waiting. You walk past the expats and the girl that eyed you. She too gives you the ‘look’ and goes on dancing. You walk back into the bar to walk out into the cold throwing your hands into your pockets for some warmth. You nod and acknowledge the bouncer as you leave. He asks why you left early and you wonder what to tell him because that’s the time you usually leave. Maybe he’s told to say that maybe it makes feel the older crowd feel younger.  I don’t know how but maybe. You go home and sleep waiting to repeat it all again. The urban life can be so menial.
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