This and that with Maluphosa:- There's a party!!

Alcohol brings the best in some men and the worst in most women, especially at parties. I have seen a lot of men become wiser and many women behave like paid clowns after taking ingudu or two. The latest party that I attended after many years of abstinence proved this to be correct. It was way back in 2001 when I had last attended a party. Of course, the  parties I have attended all my life are few and wide apart. I'm sure it is the fake and ephemeral excitement that has annoyed me in those moments of madness and regrettable waste.                                                                                                                                                                  
Ok, let me look back at the still vivid aspects of the 2001 party that were brought to the fore by the latest prodigal use of wealth. There was a friend of mine we nicknamed Dr Feel-good because "I feel good" was his favourite phrase. The first thing he wanted to see at a party was the amount of beer available; his favourite was Lion Lager, which he called isilwanyana. The more the beer, the more he 'felt good'. He never cared about cakes or all those sweet nothings in flashy packaging and silver plates, or abantwana for that matter.                                                                                                                                                                                                       
He'd then roughly estimate the number of izilwanyana he'd have at different drinking speeds, until he was sure for every beer each of his fellow-drinkers took, he'd have taken at least three. He would remove his tie, undo his shirt buttons, and loosen his belt and amateki. Feeling good, he'd guzzle voraciously, fill up his 'German-tanker', as he referred to his tummy, go to the bathroom, induce vomiting to create space for more drink and come back to continue drinking as if nothing happened. 
This was his trade-mark. And when he got drunk it was not a gradual process but so sudden it stunned him too. But he would never stop. He'd sing his own song; 'Sohamba ngo seveni'. At dawn he'd still be drinking like he had just started! When it was finally time to go home ngo seveni, he'd practically crawl to his car, fumble with the lock and door, and drag himself in behind the wheel. He would zoom home dangerously but fail to open the door once there. He usually argued that one must stay drunk to avoid hang-over.                                                                        
I never used to ask him how his weekend was when we met for classes on Mondays. I just observed his mood. If he was all sleepy, sweaty and thirsty, the weekend was quite explosive, bez'khipha. If he was cheerful and attentive in class, the weekend was a big embarrassing yawn, bekubhowa over. But such weekends were as rare as the Koran amongst Christians.                                                                                                           
Then there was the gate crusher who recited the same joke over and over till morning, and he would laugh the loudest. I didn't see anything funny with some incontinent boy who was beaten by the elders for having messing the benches. Nor could I find any reason some gate-crusher would tell a drab and nauseating fairy tale over and over again.        
He snatched those many moments when conversation seemed to dry up, to shout, "Umfana, watshekel'mabench; mabench abadala. Badala bamshaya, ngenduku!" He'd say the last word with vigour and emphasis. And he would laugh and laugh, like someone who wants to stop but cannot. I felt quite embarrassed on his behalf.                                                                                                                                                                           
Then there was the stone drunk guy who could hardly keep his eyes open and his head steady. Surprisingly, ujeki lo was the first one to laugh at real jokes and the last one to shut his mouth. He never said a word himself, but was so ready to laugh that he also laughed uncomfortably loud when someone asked him for a smoke. The laugh was squeaky and pulled, like the rattle of a nail being pulled out of some wet log. His eyes were closed all the time. Each time he opened them it was to inspect cursorily the fast dwindling contents of his ingudu. 
He would order another before the one at hand was completely empty. I angered Dr Feel-good when I asked him if, by any standards, this man's drinking would be considered world class or just pedestrian. The man's head would start in short haphazard nods and sign of with a long powerful doze that almost dragged his droopy body to the floor. He'd burst out laughing at nothing in particular, and doze off again.                                                                                                                                                       
The host was a bawdy and uncouth gangster whose vulgarity at everything even as innocent as women's lips was shocking. He whispered to anyone who cared to listen; 'If you want to see how big a woman's igwayi is, just check her lips! The bigger the lips,' he'd say touching his own blistered lips, 'the bigger the lips,' he'd end, pointing to his zip. Every song being played he re-wrote in his dirty mind and sing aloud with his obscene mouth. 
He also had a favourite joke; Umahosha miraculously got married. Unfortunately the husband died. As luck would have it, she re-married, and as misfortune would have it, the 'new' husband passed away too. At the funeral, the mfundisi says, "Now they are together." After the proceedings, one s'dakwa asks, "Bab'umfundisi, when you said they were together, were you referring to the first or second husband?" "No," replied bab'umfundisi, "I meant the legs!"                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    
Then there was a couple which was entwined and stuck to each other's stinking bodies like Siamese twins. Babe kuvoicemail, and most of the time their lips were glued together and siphoning God-knows what from each other's halitosis-spewing mouths. They would sneak out at regular intervals, still entwined like mating serpents, and shuffle back in after a while, all sweaty dusty and scruffy. 
The male would be brushing his trousers at the knees and the female would be combing off shreds of dirt from isiphundu sakhe and jeans with her long manicured fingers! Then they would slump at their dim corner and continue sucking away at each other's red messy clumsy lips.  They never cared much for anyone or anything else, not even the beer.                                                                                                                                                                                                                               
The d-j cut a fiendish figure. He was very loud and clumsy in his bright colours; red trousers with a bell bottom; a yellow shirt; a green tie; purple, high heeled shoes and an orange cap. His white jacket hung crumpled on a hanger behind him. He had his favourite song too, Sitekete by one Leonard Mjakada. He would sing the song, like he did every other song, halfway before actually playing it. He would dive onto the dance-floor and dance like a horse about to win a race. It forced the rest of the guys present to lose interest in the music and concentrate on other things which made their night worthwhile.                                                                                                                                               
Fortunately, the latest party had no music and therefore no d-j with a funny voice and not so funny speeches and ugly clothes. There were no first time lovers who sucked each other's salivary glands dry. But there were ladies who had had one too much. They kept giggling and caressing our thighs and backs. Only we did not reciprocate. The guys I sat with were quite wise, I can say. They were on fire, like the D-j on the Savanna advert. 
They spoke about the '16 days of activism against women and children abuse'. Some were arguing that there should be 16 days to observe for men too. Others were saying it should be 365 days. How did theses people come up with 16 anyway? Yet others were arguing that it's all a gimmick that shall surely backfire one day. Ingcosi now zidelela worse because of all this political attention. Worse still the worst abuse is perpetrated by the law-makers and imbodla lengamla, and we never get to hear about it until they decide to get a divorce. I really couldn't take sides. The soft workers (amavila) wanted a holiday so they could commemorate these days with beer and braai!                                                                                                                                                                  
Finally, there was the stripper. Wow! What a spectacle! She obviously had had one too many. She had a skin-tight on and a t-shirt which hung just above her pierced belly button and barely covered idairy. First, she placed her hands on her head and swung her hips energetically. One jeki who resembled a poor imitation of Jonathan Moyo accepted the challenge with both hands; he held her hips tight, and hit her behind repeatedly with his zip area. Dancing is a vertical expression of a horizontal desire, I remembered my teacher say. Next she bent forward and placed her hands on the table, deliberately pushing her behind far back, with feet wide apart. Her dance-colleague had a field day!           
Suddenly, she snapped out of his arms, started a methodical climb onto the table; arms first, then the torso, sliding and slithering onto the table, the body low down, like a predator ready to spring onto some alert prey; the one knee next until was comfortably crouched on the table. She stood up slowly, gyrating from side to side, her head bent neatly backwards, and her arms flexed with carefree abandon. The crowd started to chant and cheer loudly, with eyes almost popping out. 
They shoved and pushed as they tried to secure vintage positions. She amazed all of us. She pulled out the tiny blouse and swung it triumphantly above her head, smiling generously, her eyes bright with mischievous concentration. The rubbery pointed breasts vibrated to the rhythm of the "Mnike! Mnike!"  from the floor. Feeling buoyant, she went for the tight-fit; ever more so tantalizingly slowly that even the cheering stopped in anticipation. 
She abruptly pulled it back in place. 'Aaaah!' went the crowd in dejection. She picked up her t-shirt, made as if to put it back on, then abruptly tossed it to the small crowd. Men and boys scrambled frantically for the piece of sweaty cloth. There were muffled sounds of the wet rug tearing into pieces like a guinea-foul amongst a pack of jackals.                                                                              
While the male species struggled for the worthless trophy, she quickly pulled down the tight fit, revealing just a red v-shaped patch on her pubic area, held to the waist by some matching string √¢‚Ǩ‚Äú and nothing else on her buttocks. There were shocked and admiring wows aahs and oohs. This was when I went out, vowing that I'd never attend a party as long as I lived.                                                                                                       As we headed to the car, Dr Feel-good commented that long ago men had to 'open' panties in order to find buttocks. With the advent of the G-string, men 'open' buttocks to find panties!