Bad bachelor: Party with the girl from 2008

I’ve woken up this noon with the most god-awful hangover. Because I had the funniest night — not funny ‘ha ha,’ but ‘funny’ like strange.

But let me re-introduce myself first. I’m Art Amacho, an advertising guy in his early 30s, still single, sometimes mingles, no kids — not even ‘wale wa njee’ because I am always very careful.

But I wasn’t always careful. Take the case of Euphemia — everyone called her ‘Femi’ in college — back in 2008. Because she had a rented flat in Kahawa Sukari even though she was only 18 (father, not sponsor) and lots of gin, she had invited a bunch of us campus boys and girls over on the night of November 4, 2008, to ‘watch Barack Obama become the first black President of the USA ...’

This party started at 3pm that Tuesday, and by the time BO was declared ‘o’rezzo,’ in the wee hours of Wednesday morning, most were out like a light on the sofa-set and carpet of that Sukari flat. Except for Femi and I, but I was very high. Femi brought out and popped an actual bottle of champagne. We toasted, then she led me to the only bedroom in the house, then (fill in the blanks).

The thing with drunken intercourse is the details are always missing. But I clearly remember waking up at dawn, throwing up all over Femi’s tiny bathroom (gin+champagne = NO!), finding dry water taps, so sneaking out of the house (over passed out bodies) to avoid the shame of ‘Who puked all over the bathroom?’

It was easy to avoid Femi. She was a Fresher, I was a Third Year different campus, same Uni. Femi was pretty in a busty, rounded way. But the memory of that last night kept away any thought of consolidating my ‘conquest.’

Late 2013, we became ‘friends’ on Facebook — the type who ‘like’ each other’s comments, not the type who inbox each other. I unfriended her, secretly, in mid-2017 when her ‘anti Baba’ sentiments became too much!

So imagine my shock when she WhatsApps me earlier this week, with a poster inviting me to her 30th birthday at her crib in Milimani. I WAP her back, saying ‘OK’ (although with zero intention of going), asking ‘how did you get my digits?’

‘NIS & Interpol,’ Femi jokes. ‘See you soon, XOXO, emoji kiss.’

Jana, I’m chilling for salary to hit my account, I call Sandra the company chief accountant, she says Boss was out at golf tournament, will sign cheques Sato morning, so expect salary early next week. Broke!

And that is how I found myself in Milimani. Other than her twin, Eugenia (everyone called her ‘Gina’), who’s identical to Femi, except Gina wears glasses and is chubbier, everyone else at the party seems to be strangers to each other. There’s lots of whiskey and wine, and nothing else.

‘When do we cut the birthday cake?’ I asked Gina at midnight, more out of real hunger than curiosity, ‘as I’d thought we’d be fed, not just watered.’

Gina adjusted her glasses, and gave me a strange look. ‘Birthday party? This is a singles’ bash, Mr Amacho!’

I swear I’m not lying when I say my next memory is waking up (my body clock is set at 6am), naked, cuddling Gina – and feeling like throwing up (whiskey + wine = NO!).

I stumble to the sitting room, and there is Femi looking cool and amused, glass of red wine in hand, watching the impeachment trial of Donald Trump on her wall-to-wall TV.

‘I got a baby last year, Art,’ she informs me, ‘and now Gina wants one. You’re in HOT soup, because this is her ovulation period — she is very fertile. She saw your pic on a common Old Campus group.’

So that’s how she got my number, from those WhatsApp groups I’m in where I never say a thing, but ‘left’ not.

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