15 MINUTES IN THE COCK-PEAT

To celebrate their ten months of inactivity, the fine folk at Pabwalo.net (yes we are now a network) decided to patronize the opening of this here new joint in Lilongwe which we shall refer to here (for all intents and purposes) as Coke-Peat.

To give you a simple geo-location of the place; it is situated about 30 yards away from Club Discorium, which is the same distance Big Daddy Bae and entourage covered to get away from the pretentious infernal that is Cockpit…oops I meant to say Coke-peat.

Dear reader,

In order for you to better understand the situation,I employ you to put yourself in my Ntcheu shoes:

So you and your just recently single friend decide to go hard around L-city all in the hope of bringing home a couple of ladies sluttier than his ex to appease the poor boy’s broken heart. Then you receive tips from well-wishers that there shall be a slut buffet to grace the opening of the much awaited Lilongwe’s answer to Club Fifteen… Cock peat.

So after a quick dump, brushing of teeth and an unwarranted abuse of said friend’s perfume stash (not necessarily in that order); you are finally on your way .. vrooooooooooooooom!!!!!

You get to the place, and it’s so packed that you have to park the car on the terraces just outside the compound. But you and your squad endure the two minute walk to get to the entrance, on the way you encounter a few confused Indian Malawians in their polo shirts(the type that always have that one buff Indian dude and because of that the whole curry squad think they are as dangerous as ISIS or something), you also pass by a few overdressed black males and their underdressed escorts for the night(you can actually spot their underwear or lack of), also just getting out of their shared Pajero are a band of Youth corps volunteer looking white people, complete with their chitenje pants and sandals….oh What contrasts!

But the dress code said ‘strictly smart casual’…but it all don’t matter to rastaman because your permanent dress code for anything (church, weddings, sister’s graduation, work, fuck dates, the lake) is always a sports shirt (preferably a rugby jersey), Khaki pants and tennis shoes…the real definition of smart casual.

You get past the gates (quickly ignoring some Mchinji guy you know who just got turned back for showing up in shorts….but the chitenje pants whiteys gets quickly ushered in…koma).

You quickly head upstairs after parting away with two thousands of your Malawian Kwachas …on an unrelated note, a quick romp behind Uncle B nightclub in Ntcheu will only cost you MK1500 and your dignity.

At the landing and lining the corridor into the ‘club’ you meet an assortment of overdressed Lilongwe fuck boys (the type whose names evolved and settled to just two rhyming initials) pretending to be busy attending to important phone calls while in fact they out there hunting for ‘Merchants’ .

You finally make your way past the entrance and you are suddenly bombarded by the dance floor, yes the dance floor is just 3 feet away from the entrance door…no wonder you find nobody dancing, apart from that troupe of Blantyre girls who made the trip for just that moment and so graciously updated us on the progress of their journey via twitter and Insta…anthu aku Blantyer kodi, akuti ‘’Insta’’…SMH

But seriously guys, no matter how extravagant the dance floor is, it all bottoms down to one thing when it comes to club dancefloors: location location fucking location!

You and the crew decide to ignore the expired Blantyre whores right there on that circular dance floor and split up, aliyense ayendere yake kaye.
You quickly make your way past the barrage of ‘how are you my guy’ and ‘ what up my G’ greetings coming in from people’s cousins who suddenly think kuti that shared moment when he joined in on your KWV Brandy(10 years) uninvited ku Nyanja kuja made y’all homiez…………nyopake

There is really not much happening; a couple of coloured ‘oens’ outside the balcony scaving, the usual rowdy crowd at the bar fighting tooth n nail for a drink (muuzane ku bala ko on alcohol labeling, not everything expensive and bottled is a whisky)
But largely the whole affair is just people standing around trying to catch each other’s looks kupangira pa mawa( you saw me riiiiiight?!!)

Apart from a few brave souls now mustering courage to go join those rusty vajayjays at the fancy circular glass floor dance floor( mwaona? nane ndinalikotu lol)
You and the squad finally end up on one table, quietly sipping your drinks and pretending to enjoy some bad deejaying as a stream of girls you once fucked pass you with their new Fiancées in tow…pretending kuti you are invisible…all just because you never called to check on her after utampanga dispatch .

Then it all comes weighing on you like a sudden asthma attack, and wolla! You start craving a shawarma and some real fun, nearest place you can grab both? DISCORIUM

THE END!!….but seriously Coke-peat, improve your deejaying and where the fuck are your VIP wings, don’t tell me some unlucky souls had to pay more just to get seen in those ridiculous booths. Y’all probably took too much of SA’s News cafe bars’ designs…they are a pub, you are supposed to be a club, don’t get it twisted.

KWA ONSE MUMATI PABWALO INATHA CHIFUKWA CHOKUTI WE RAN OUT OF MATERIAL PANYA PANU…
AMENE MUMATI WE STOPPED BECAUSE WE RAN OUT OF MONEY, YOU WERE RIGHT KOMA PANYA PANUBE
NAFE NDI ANTHU, TILI NDIZOFOWOKA ZATHU

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