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Are You the Prom Queen?

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Whoah! We're going to Ibiza
Whoah! Back to the island
Whoah! We're gonna have a party

 
The night that was. I couldn’t get enough of it. Vengaboys were killing the Saturday’s yoke for me with their We’re Going To Ibiza tune in my playlist.
The sweltering heat was nuanced by the rigor of the ever growing crowd. A fine Saturday evening at a club, albeit reluctantly, I blazoned my eyes across the Nairobi Streets as the mellow sun dinked into the horizon.

I need not to stay for long. I had harbored this constant reminder for a while now.
Slowly, the patrons and the revelers ticked and flocked in. The upholstery which looked like it would host a cocktail party was jammed to the brim. At the balcony, the smoke of cigars wafted intermittently. The puffs would constantly choke my breath but nevertheless, nobody cared- not a sur.
Cars honked. Phosphorescent lights shone from all directions. Nairobians, hurried their trails to their various mitaas. It was your ordinary picturesque. It was my first night out in such a famous outing but my composure was that gigantic gale that swept across the room and convinced revelers that I was a party hopper. 

I sat silently, at the balcony, sipping my drink at the comfort of my own thirst. Sometimes you have to let off steam and break the jinx that is life. I may have had a little too much of drinks- it was evident from the visits I paid to the gents. Often, an attendant would come and refill all that was left of my cup and I would sigh with relief.

It had been a difficult week. Valentines was long gone and if my mind serves me right, I remember being spouseless; a norm I have come to engrave in my frame of life. Chelsea was on a losing streak- I bet Gor Mahia or the mighty Chingwe could beat the points outta it. Sportpesa was doing its thing. Worse still, some lions had decided to embark on a meet-the-people tour of the city although my mtaa was light years away from their grip. In short, I was increasingly becoming a novice in all my trades and this sounded real bad to the ears.

It was after a couple of hours that I turned my attention to the stereo and the music it was churning out. Old school reggae had always titivated me and I was tempted to join the dancing party of the rastafarians. 

Then the jockey was irked. From the sluggish songs to those with moderate intensity, everyone but myself seemed to enjoy this turn of events.  Soon, the dance floor was contoured in circles of weird dances and explicit moves.  After all, we are at the heart of a throbbing metropolis.
Then I saw the prom queen. Like me, she may have a little too much of drinks. I could tell by the way everything seemed to excite her. Yet she didn’t stagger or gave that ho-look.  She didn’t swerve about the fetty glasses on her way to the dance floor. She moved her exquisite frame in such a graceful nonchalance you’d make a killing for.

The DJ jostled the mix tapes and rejuvenated the crowds again. You have to be ingenious in your trade to make it in life. The prom queen set to work. She stretched her legs and hips in quick succession like those calypso dancers in telenovellas. AT the outset, she would do some funny curls back and forth as the crowd cheered. As the intensity of the songs increased, she increased her tempo too. She had no bone to supplant her moves- I thought so. She just took control of the dance floor like she owned it from the go. The revelers that tried to emulate her kinky moves soon gave up and watched from the sidelines.

Occasionally, I would steal a furtive glance or two. But only a glance. As the night wore off, I thought I could have to get myself home. By now, the prom queen had grown tired and the revelers had long been smitten. She passed by smiling past her adoring fans. In my drunk stupor, I wanted to meet her and probably get a memorabilia that would enunciate my first night out. She hurried past the stairs and before I could get my act together, I heard a car pull out.  

I dragged my rugged frame across the streets imagining how I missed out on the prom queen.

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