Who the hell is Chris? In all honesty, I have no idea. I'd never met the man before last night and if he knocked on my front door today, I still wouldn't recognize him. However, I did crash his 50th birthday party out in Athens last night. Well, for Nigerians, there is really no such thing as crashing. My beau and I were the guests of George and Chinonso (thank you!) who were the guests of someone else, hence we were cool to party. Uninvited guests are typical at most Nigerian functions. They have a very welcoming spirit.
Anyhow, we got there at about 12:15am and the party was in full swing. I love my American upbringing and culture (both positive and negative) but I'm delighted by what I'm learning of the Igbo culture. These people love to celebrate life. Somebody had a baby? Let's party. Someone graduated from high school? Let's party. Someone passed away? Let's party. Someone got married? Let's party? Someone is visiting from another country? Let's party. Someone got out of the hospital? Let's party. It's not just cake and a few well-wishers. It's an all-out affair complete with a formal and/or traditional dress code, open bar, DJ, dancing, much thanks to a higher power and a kola nut. Halls are rented. Formal invitations are professionally printed on premium paper. Hair appointments are made. Mercedes are gassed up. It's go time. Chris, bless his heart, was turning 50, hence all the Igbo and various other West Africans both near and far were alerted.
These types of events are not simply thrown together. At each table, there was an itinerary printed on festive paper and we were now experiencing the first round of DANCE, DANCE, DANCE which would be followed by a best dressed contest. I liken these events to an extended family reunion..... with class. No matter who you are or who you came with or why you're there, you can't just sit on the sidelines and not participate. The music moves you. Everyone greets you with a smile and open arms. You MUST eat. You MUST drink. Hell, even the busgirls took time out to dance in between clearing the tables. I recognized a popular Nigerian song about love and marriage and got up to dance with Sweet Lovin' Man. We may have been two of the youngest people dancing on the crowded floor. Folks were gettin it...and not in that "it hurts to move my limbs" way but rather in that "I will dance until the sun rises" way. That's alright!
The highlight of the evening was a Cameroonian dancer and I had to include two videos of this young lady. She was a perfect example of how size does not hinder sex appeal. You see Nigerians, much like men from New Orleans, love those big fine women. They will take a Jill Scott, Queen Latifah or Monique any day. I'm inclined to believe that my boyfriend's mother and sister are trying to fatten me up prior to nuptials. Larger or not, I couldn't hold a candle to that lady doing her thing. She moved better than any malnourished stripper on which I've ever laid eyes. I loved watching her perform because it pretty much went against everything that the status quo claims to represent beauty and sensuality. She was not a size 2. She was as brown as a berry. She had a mid-section that jiggled. Nevertheless, she was undeniably gorgeous and sexy. It was a given that she was going to get sprayed! Spraying is the original form of "making it rain." When a young lady is dancing well then the chiefs and/or men of stature will come and "spray" her with cash. You'll see it in the video.
The lowlight of the evening was the musical stylings of Kenny Nightingale, gospel saxophonist extraordinaire. Kenny could probably play very well on your average night. However, on this night, Kenny probably had one libation too many and had stepped into that realm. You know the realm I'm talking about. The one where you are pretty drunk and you believe that you are the most talented person in the entire universe and you are performing in front of a crowd of a million devoted fans who are also every bit as drunk as you are...although they really aren't...and you think everything you're doing is out of this world even though in reality it sounds kind of average or maybe even bad? Kenny leaned to and fro in the fashion of an ecstatic John Coltrane as he played some pretty elementary chords on his saxophone. I thought he was going to break himself in half leaning as far back as he did. I had no choice but to post an update on Facebook.
Anyhow, I had an awesome time and can't wait to crash the next Nigerian function.
When I opened my purse this morning, it smelled like a distillery. Evidence of happy times and nice surprises last night. This time last year, I was partying like a rock star in Las Vegas and perhaps that was to fill the void of not being able to be with family on Christmas. However, this year I had the opportunity to go home to the Bay Area (WEST SIDE!!!) and be with those who know me best, hang with my niece and nephews....and then party a little like a rock star.
It was a bit of a Class of '96 reunion as six of us agreed to meet at Hotsy Totsy in Albany. Despite the rain forming rivers along the sidewalk, the place was packed wall to wall. They weren't giving anything away in the material sense. But now that I think about it, there was much to receive in the cozy confines of that dive bar. Alas, it was a meeting place of the dread locked and albeit odd adults of the world who needed to be free of the blissfully juvenile capitalistic craze that is the American holiday season. Yes, there was a tree in the corner but there were no children, no fruitcake, and no long lines at the department store. Just a drink in everyone's hand and feeling of relief that the new year is almost upon us. Whenever in the Bay again, I will probably swing by this place. I think I've developed a romance for dive bars. They're like a perpetual collegiate living room with a full stock of liquor. There's no pretense, just high boys, shuffle boards, pool tables and lots of tattoos. I guess I'll always be a Bay Area weirdo at heart. 
We scooted on down the highway to New Parish in Oakland where a party was being hosted by The People. Now one of my friends had warned me that this place tended to attract hippies of the Santa Cruz persuasion who seem to delight in the natural fragrances of the unshaven and undeodorized arm pit. While funk of this nature is unpleasant, you can always count on such people to have a good time. I had mixed emotions but I felt better after using the bathroom. It was well-lit, fully stocked and operational and didn't smell like beer urine. To me, that was a good sign. We went upstairs to have a better view of the dance floor where I purchased a holiday punch with a dollop of rum which I believe is responsible for the headache I'm experiencing right now. In one corner, someone was selling Filipino/African/American earrings for five dollars. In another corner, two ladies were passing a joint back and forth while painting green circles on a canvas. 
From top to bottom, the place was packed with exotically dressed male and female women lovers. According to my friends, since I was the chick with the short afro then it was a given that I was going to be hit on by myriad lesbians. I decided to take that as a compliment and just dance. And dance I did. I loved what the DJ was spinning. It was a mash-up of instrumental African, salsa, jazz, hip-hop and funk. I wish I would have recorded some of it but I was so busy dancing to it with this guy in a jacket with elbow pads and then a guy from South Carolina. Regrettably, I missed the voguers and the b-boy dancers on the other side of the dance floor. Such is life. I think we cut a rug for about an hour and there really wasn't THAT much funk in the air. Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa and Happy New Year Northern Cali!
