A Chinese lady glanced at my VIP card for 0.001 seconds and then pointed me towards the red carpet. I was tempted to give her a lecture about Uganda. What made her so sure that I hadn’t just scrawled 100,000 shillings onto the ka card using a black marker? Mmh? YEP. That’s how much you had to pay if you wanted to smell Wainaina’s sweat.
Yea. I just made that up. But it’s sound.
The décor was simple but effective. Lots of thuggable kangas draped over stuff. It gave the place a pretty Lion King feel that made you expect Rafiki to jump out of the stage and crack open a passion fruit or something.
At dinner time, I noted a sad thing. Everybody ahead of me in the queue was serving with mob fear. They were being overly decent manya one piece of fish, half a chicken wing, one ka irish, such. I taught them a lesson in the appreciation of good food by filling my plate to such capacity that I needed somebody to bring my fruit salad over to my table.
I thought VIP would suck, because, you know, most people who can afford to throw 100 bob away like fwaa before payday are old and stuffy and disgustingly rich. Right? Wrong! After a few songs by Wainaina, the place exploded in gyrations. People jumped. They twisted. They rolled. They kicked. A Senegalese drummer in the audience entertained us with flying dreadlocks, a really flexible back and shaking bums.
The show was so good that for minutes at a time, the air would fill with bras and roses and phone numbers, all being flung at Wainaina (or his really cute drummer).
That last sentence is a lie.
It was interactive with people being invited on stage to dance all that. It was ridiculous. It was fun. It was goofy and I won a Love +Protest CD =D. Wainaina really knows how to make people dig him, kubanga he sang Dunia ina Mambo for me, and that is my absolute favorite song in the history of music. Really I almost died/ cried/ shat myself. He also sang happy birthday to two girls in the audience and taught us some really weird moves.
After that show, I totally understand how perfectly reasonable women turn into groupies and launch themselves at celebrities.
Maybe we should kill all celebs to preserve the morals of the African girl child.
No. really. I’m serious.