Bachelor’s Eve parties are for sinners – Dami Ajayi

So it was a Holy Thursday or Maundy Thursday or Covenant Thursday or Sheer Thursday—depending on your text or affiliation, but one thing was clear about what this day was, it was the day  commemorating the last supper. If you haven’t read the Holy Bible, it is somewhere before Judas’ kiss.

By the sheer convenience of coincidence or luck, it was also the ‘last supper’ for my friend who was saying ‘so long’ to bachelorhood.

His wedding was slated for the Easter Weekend which is glorious since the resurrection enthusiasm, spirit, mood, energy would lead up to the aisle. Against recent practices, the bachelor’s eve party had not been organized a week before his wedding. Don’t blame it on sloppy friends just yet.

9pm. The venue was set. A rented apartment somewhere at the Atlantic Ocean’s mouth called Lekki. The booze was chilling inside a refrigerator in this same apartment. A sack of ice cubes sat idly by the kitchen sink. A DJ was selecting his playlist on his laptop while enjoying a stick of cigarette. The intentional smoke that had gone giddy from licking the butts of well-marinated turkey wings was making its way into the stratosphere.

Outside, the night seemed impregnable. There was a soft wind moist with the promise of rain.

Inside, men in office clothes lazed about nursing red cups, the habitat of concocted alcohol.

The ladies were inside rooms, serving a late siesta having travelled from far—Ibadan, Ikotun, and Ilorin— to grace the bachelor’s eve party.

Historically, Bachelor’s eve parties are ritualistic and routine. It takes the form of a fraternal gathering of well-meaning friends of the groom who host him to a series of well-curated debaucheries. This is supposed to commemorate the end of his philandering and irresponsible days. Going forward, the groom is to become an upstanding, tithe-paying, card-carrying member of the society—but tonight, let all hell break loose.

The groom sauntered in at about 10 p.m, a cheerful grin ingrained on his chubby face.

Men and women were idling in small groups with drinks in hand. There were having private conversations and smoking cigarettes. The women were more inclined to sit.

The table was weighed down with bottles and bottles of liquor, red cups and chasers.

The DJ’s set overlooked the table on one side of the room and he was jamming the best of Afrobeats.

The languor of the party was sustained until the groom-to-be became irritated. His charge was for guests to mingle but before guests could obey an exotic dancer made her entree. They had set up a solid chair for her which would be launched by the groom.

The lady appeared as if from a James Hadley Chase cover. High-heel pumps. Garter Belt. An insouciance smirk to complement her perky breasts. Soon enough, the groom’s face was buried in her chest, irritation melting.

Crisp currency notes floated down on him like confetti.

The party had switched gears. The ladies now energized began to prance and dance as the DJ slammed hit after hit in a riotous order. He could move straight from a 2003 American hit song to Teckno’s latest number and back.

Men were grabbing more than dancing. Lazy dancing was activated by leaning on the walls. Moans were buried under the strain of loud music. Every so often, a silhouetted pair would head for the room to return in a few minutes beautified by a bliss that can only be described as post-orgasmic.

Cigarette smoke became air. Loud music filled the ears. Liquor wet the throat. Soon enough, the barbecue from the grill arrived in grand style as the DJ continued to pour out hit after hit after hit.

The groom would disappear and then return with his cheerful chubby (if not cherubic) grin.

But while we experienced the rapturous joy of selected debaucheries, a heavy downpour had begun and its resultant flooding was wreaking havoc on parked cars.

My car still coughs now and again but what a small price to pay for such pleasure, I say.

What say you?