If you really want to party with me

(A terrifying tale of pure evil)

Last week, on the radio, the song ‘Put your hands where my eyes can see’ by Busta Rhymes came on. It has a familiar base line that runs on for a while before he comes on and starts rapping.
Bu-bu-bu-bum-bum, and he talks over it. “Flip mode”
Bu-bu-bu-bum-bum, “Busa-Bus”
Bu-bu-bu-bum-bum, “Nine Seven”
Bu-bu-bu-bum-bum-

I’m listening, mouthing the words, and then, hey, wait a minute, did he just say 9-7? Like 1997? That was 15 years ago! There are children who were born after this song came out that have had their own children. Essentially, Busta’s grandchildren.

I never get into songs when they come out, I’m always behind the curve hearing a song several years after it has been out. Then I get into it, and play the same song over and over for weeks, until it becomes the soundtrack of my life for that period.
So every song that I know is connected to a memory of the period it was played.

*FLASHBACK*

I worked in a small company just outside New York, and there was another Nigerian girl there. One day, we decide to go clubbing after work to blow off some steam. You know, that whole “We Nigerians, we gotta stick together” thing?

I pick her up from home and she’s taking her time. She says she doesn’t want to get to the club until 11, which is about two hours past my bedtime. But I go along with it, because I am gullible, and because I figure if we can spend an hour or two, leave the club a little after midnight, I could be in bed by 2 am and still get to work early the next day, right?
Wrong.

We drive to Manhattan, find the club and settle in. Midnight comes and goes, I moonwalk to where she’s dancing and tell her it’s time to leave. She goes, “It’s okay, it’s okay, let’s wait a little longer. I’m just getting started.”

An hour later, she’s dancing wildly and the bouncer comes over and says, “Ma’am, you have to calm down, you’re bumping into people.”
After he leaves, in my whiny reasonable voice, I say, “Maybe we should leave now.”
She replies, “NO! He’s just being a jerk.”

By 3, she says, “What’s the big deal, we’ve already waited this long. Let’s just stay until they close at 4.”
This somehow makes perfect sense to me.
You know that European rogue equities trader who lost billions because every time he lost, he would risk even more to attempt to recoup his losses? That was me. “3 am? Why not 4?” “Okay.”

At 4:15 am, the lights in the club come on, everyone is rubbing their eyes like they just woke up from a trance and the bouncers start herding everyone out.

As we walk back to the car, she’s sulking, like I dragged her out before she had her fun. I’m thinking, what is she sulking for, we have to be back at work in 3 hours.
She’s rolling her head at me, giving me attitude, “If you wanted to GO, why didn’t you just GO?”

We get in the car and things escalate.
Now she’s yelling. “Drop me off here!” “Let me out right now!”
I refuse, it is still dark out, I’m not leaving her. I’m sure she can find her way home, but I’m hoping she’ll blow off some steam and calm down.
Nope.

She’s screaming.
LET!
She is throwing a tantrum.
ME!
Slamming her bag on the dashboard.
OUT!
She’s scratching at the door and trying to open it as I’m driving.

I’m speaking to her in a firm tone that is slowly rising in volume. “Don’t open that door. I say, DO. NOT. OPEN. THAT. DOOR!”

As I slow down to take the next left turn, she opens the door, and it swings wide with the turn.
I ease my foot off the accelerator, free it from under the dashboard, and-
*POOF*
I boot her out of the open door

She rolls out of the car, still holding her purse, her arms flailing as she tumbles into the darkness. I get an image in my head of an astronaut being sucked out of a spaceship into a black hole.

I complete the turn, swerving with my left hand, the door flaps back, and I reach out and close it with my right.

I drive home, drink two cups of coffee and get into the shower. I get dressed for work and take one more cup.

By the time I get to the office, I am jittery. The receptionist asks me if I’m okay.
“HUH?”
“Are you alright?”
“YES, YES, GET OFF MY BACK!”

The whole day, I am frazzled. I start to get paranoid. I’m peeking out of the window, waiting for police sirens to encircle the building. My phone rings and I jump.

I’m browsing the local news sites during my lunch break to see if there is any mention of a girl thrown from a car lying in the hospital on life support badly injured, maybe dead.

Are the cops looking for me? Should I hit the ATM and take out as much cash as possible in case I have to leave town in a hurry?

But
She doesn’t come to work that day.
She doesn’t come to work for two full weeks.

When she finally returns, all she says is, “I’ve been on vacation.”
That’s it. Nothing else. And we are cool.

The whole thing is a mystery to me.

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14 thoughts on “If you really want to party with me

    • Yeah, totally. I too was surprised that Busta Rhymes has been around for 15 years.
      Oh, you mean the other stuff?

      *clears throat, leans forward and speaks into microphone*
      I can neither confirm nor deny the authenticity of the posts on this blog.

      But, if you’re reading this, NYC girl, I’m sorry.

      (Now, Jemima, you see why we can’t auction off the diary?)

  1. LMAO, are you serious? You really put boot to @$$ and kicked her into the street?!? LMFAO. This is too funny, horrible but funny. I probably would’ve left her dancing at the club. Thats why i don’t like riding with people, when i wanna leave, i wanna leave and when i wanna stay i wanna stay. SMH at ur bedtime being 9pm though.

    Dang, its really been 15 years since Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Can See?!? Well i don’t feel too bad, I was only in elementary school at that time lol.

  2. Plsssssssssssssssss two long articles biweekly! Thank u very much. You are very much appreciated. Hugs & Kisses…muah muah muah…Dancing azonto…

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