Chronicles of the Great Beyond: Kitenge Pants

I will go as far as to say every narcissist's cliche: I generally prefer my own company to that of about 80% of the people I come across. I figured I should open with that line before you fraudulently begin to like me. However, once in a while I venture into the Great Beyond. In Kampala my Great Beyond is a dark, haunted looking bar called Iguana. The lights either do not work or have been intentionally switched off. There never seem to be enough bar stools and you will usually see people perched precariously on the ledge on the rooftop. You do not want to get me started on the floor boards!

The appearance is nothing to write home about. This is one of those places that you see during the day and shudder. This really is ideal because you can't let yourself be caught out till dawn. Once treacherous sunlight shows you the real state of your surroundings, you will never be back. At this point, it begs the question: why would I, a self confessed narcissistic introvert, go to a place like this? It is definitely not the service, seeing as we usually have to beg the waiters to take our order. Glasses are an unheard of luxury as well.

Well, I go to Iguana for the people. No, not my band of comrades and drinking buddies (of which I have none). I go for the random people, the outright weirdos who flock there by the dozens. I am that girl sitting at the corner, having a private laugh at it all. I've seen some fun things, but last night topped it.

It took me a while to realise that a big number of white women revelers love men in dreadlocks. The longer and more rugged, the better. If you can add in a few crude piercings and a jacket made out of animal hide, even better! Last night, however, there was a great deficit of the usual rastamen. My heart was growing weary and I was about to call it a night until a clean shaven guy in the most ridiculous kitenge get up strutted in. For a second I was distracted by yet another short and chubby man skipping by, but fortunately I did not miss my Kitenge clad man's entrance. He swaggered to the centre of the dance floor and pulled out a killer dance move. No, really, he did something with his waist that possibly left it dislocated.

Once I was sitting at Iguana, minding my merry business and listening to a live band when a group of acrobatic dancers jumped in, twisting and turning and belching out flames. Last night was not one of those nights. My kitenge clad ninja was but a mere mortal. However, he held me in a trance. It is no wonder that moments later, a group of white women flocked around him. I grabbed my phone and shared the great news... and I am sharing it here yet again: Kitenge pants are the ultimate aphrodisiac. All ye men, heed this great news.

Watch and learn


I have received several messages of gratitude from men from all over the world. I do not mean to presume, but I would not be shocked if the awarded me a Nobel Prize in Human Activity. These, boys and girls, are the perks of being a wall flower.

Oh, Happy 2016.

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3 comments:

ketihapa said...

Hahaha I am not wearing any kitenge pants any time soon. Besides, I dont need any white women... I have you

Fab said...

I don't know how much more intrigued you would be, Ivy, if you came across a guy not only wearing a kitenge outfit, but kitenge shoes.

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