But those Nkozi people are really fake. I’d say *stupid if I didn’t intend to go back this Saturday. There’s absolutely no excuse for partying with people that one has declared stupid because, excuse me, You become exactly as dimwitted as you think they are when you pack your overnight bag the second time in as many weeks and run back to party with them.  I’m not itching to be put on the spot by my ego, so we’ll stick with fake.

For months on end, they got on roof tops and screamed, wailed, beat gongs, even yoddled about “The biggest masquerade party ever to go down ever ever” and then the day came and they couldn’t even be bothered to dress right. What were they trying to do? Make all people from Kampala seem like absolutely square and embarrassingly over eager children? I mean, we get that you’re too cool for the constraints of fashion, too awesome to stick with the theme, but a line has to be drawn someplace. Doesn’t it?

You. You reading this. Doesn’t the word masquerade put you in mind of an alluring little nymph straddling the bar between sexy and utterly ridiculous? Or is it just me and my misguided imagination?  I saw only about six girls who bothered to acquire fancy getups for the party. Four of them are here:

One of them even wore what looked like a flower girl’s dress.

And the other one was me. Thus the tirade.

However, whatever bitterness that was born of their lack of masquerade dress-sense (jeans? Jeans? Outrage!)  was quickly and efficiently mellowed by the delightfully cheap liquor and Dj Kim’s bombastic ability to rip perfectly ordinary music from his ka computer and hurl it at the dancefloor. Dance-grass. Dance area. That music had rippling muscles. Or maybe the booze had muscles. Or maybe that is just how Masaka does, mehn.

Because this is supposed to be some sort of account of the things that went down at that party and not a rant as a direct result of the author’s five minutes of grave embarrassment on finding that her brave choice of haute couture had been wasted, here goes:

• Everybody was feeling ultra generous that day. Prudishness was left at the entrance. There was even one chick wearing bums. Yep. Just bums. Ok, she had on a little black blouse and bums. I admired that girl because she had guts (and focus).

• People climbed trees. There is a certain tree, smack in the middle of the “Gardens”, where the party was being held. It is a very climbable tree. It was thus climbed by a whole lot of people. Why? who knows?

• There were a couple of kleptomaniac djinns in attendance (because how else can one explain the loss of a pair of very large earrings and an even larger hair ribbon? (By leaping and dancing like one’s legs have been injected with demon-steroids, that’s how)) Apparently Nkozi people are too kewl to steal, so yea. Djinns.

• Never before in the history of partying (records of which can, it turns out, be actually found by those who know where to look) has there been so much bending over. There were approximately ten girls being bent over per minute, all night. At some point this one girl’s feminazi got the better of her and she started bending guys over. Watching her was fun.  (A little bit of context. Bending over in this case refers to that dance where a girl stands in front of a boy, bends deeply at the waist and wriggles vigorously. Dynamically. Robustly.  It is by far the most ridiculous thing to come out of Jamaica since Elephant man, but people are absolutely in love with it. )

• Other stuff happened, but for some reason, they were all blurred. That’s right. They all happened blurrily. There was nothing wrong with Miss Kyrte’s eyes. Stuff just became malicious and started being out of focus, so she also stopped trying to keep track.