Early this year, Grandpa Richard’s brain was threatening to explode if he didn’t share it with my slightly less intellectually gifted comrades and the entire nation at large. Being a good grandson that I always endeavour to be, I offered to offload his jeremiads against young people in a newspaper week in week out.
You will surely agree that the asininity we have uncovered over the months has been phenomenally obnoxious. Now, close your eyes for a moment and imagine an apocalyptic scenario whereby all this asininity is compressed into one single night—that’s what a comrades’ end of year party actually looks like.
Driven by an inane fear of missing out, every comrade feels that they have to end the year in the most prurient style ever. Pubs jolt to life and brewers grin from ear to ear as liquor for house parties is bought in crates. Drowning the troubles of 2014, they’ll tell you. Church is no longer the preferred location to end a year.
Other than the ubiquitous booze, I strongly suspect illegal stuff is ingested too. Comrades are keen in making memories this night, you know. Thus, they readily wash down ecstasy pills with several gulps of boiled marijuana, all in the name of making that night special. They then commence the new year filled with drug-induced braggadocio, feeling higher than the Times Tower.
And don’t get me started on how they pump up the volume in their house parties, raising the dead in all graves located within a 2-kilometre radius. They’ll flail around humping into each other like someone just set their bottoms on fire, and they’ll have the audacity to call it dancing. I have previously opined in this same platform that what my comrades engage in is actually pornography, not choreography.
And instead of keeping their shenanigans to themselves, everyone will insist on engaging the entire world by posting photos from their soirees on Instagram and bragging about it on Twitter. Then as soon as the clock strikes midnight, the timeline will get swarmed by those ‘I haven’t taken a shower since last year’ stale jokes.
Those in the hamlet will crawl to their homesteads singing circumcision songs past 9pm, when Grandpa Richard is already in his pyjamas and well past the time when most legitimate drunkards have already thrown up on the village rug and gone home. They will terrorise village girls and harass seniours who’ve been keeping vigil at the church. Well, threat or no threat, this year Grandpa is saying ‘No!’
Though Grandpa Richard often wonders what comrades celebrate about, I will cut them some slack today. After all, the year only ends once, right? Feel like twerking all night till you lose bone cartilage? That’s actually none of my business.
I will, however, urge you to avoid competing with our parliamentarians and actually uphold peace. Kerfuffle and brawls are best avoided.
Happy New Year, comrades. Just remember to keep the brouhaha down past 9pm, it’s Grandpa Richard’s bedtime.

Lukorito Jones

When I'm not busy chasing around stories for my quasi-journalism career, you'll find me dabbling in fiction and perfecting my deer-dancing and goat-screaming skills.

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