THE PLAIN DWELLERS OF THE SERENGETI

PLAIN DWELLERS OF THE SERENGETI

The Grometi River runs dry for most of the year; a few hungry crocs patrol the beaches for unsuspecting prey but the truth is that naïve carrion comes a few times a year. The scenes on the plains of Africa have been played out over many years and have ingrained in the cast members familiar roles. The hunter hunts, the prey evades capture for as long as they can and the loop goes round. The predators were restless as the herds gathered the courage to cross the river; this was it, now or never. There was another place that reminds me of this scene but the lines were less clear cut. The lines delineating predator and prey were fluid and flexible. The Lions on the plains were endangered; their timeless tradition of conquest was under threat. The threat was the world around them; a world that they weren’t prepared for.

As I stood there in the midst of the drama unfolding before me I had a choice to make. Was I predator or prey? It was that simple; if I was predator then I would have to hunt and if I was prey then I would have to graze. There was no doubting my entourage; they were predators all the way. As “touch me, tease me” by Case came on the PA, it seemed the decision was obvious. The Pink Coconut was a legendary club in its time, the time was the mid-late nineties and the time was now. Despite its slightly effeminate name ‘the pink coconut’ was in club parlance ‘all-man’ and by that I probably mean not gay. This was a time when hip-hop was never seen and never heard; Black people had problems entering clubs. My first experience of clubbing was eye-opening; the chances are that if you weren’t living in London then most black people had a problem even getting in a club. There was a strict quota system; sometimes the bouncers were honest with you “there’s already too many Black Guys in there.” Too many meant anything in excess of 3. Then the endless wandering like Jews in the desert until it was kebab time.

Hip-hop was the sound of the 90’s; forget what you hear now, then it was rightfully described by the venerable Chuck D as ‘the peoples CNN’. But that was a long time ago but what is time if not space. In Rwandese we have the same word for time and space; they are easily interchangeable. Time is distance divided by speed, the speed of sound transports me to that time and that space. “TTTTTTTTT dun TTTTTTTTT dun TTTTTTTTT!” the high hat crept in. that high hat was the signature prelude to the aforementioned “Touch me, Tease me” by Case. In a beat that was reminiscent of Slick Ricks ‘the show’; it was perfect because it was a mid-tempo tune. Mid-tempo meant that it slow enough to dance with a girl and fast enough for those without girls not to be embarrassed. The song featured a kick-ass intro rap by Foxy Brown that simply tore the roof off the house.

Before I went to University I saw Hip-hop all around me but I never heard it in clubs; it was ruefully dismissed as ‘swing’ which bore no resemblance to 40’s Jazz. My first excursions to clubs were coloured by the usual fare of white boy lager cheese; ‘Brand new combine harvester’ el al, the highlight of the evening would be a nine minute interval of pure heaven. This was when the DJ played three Black songs back to back. It was usually “return of the Mack” by Mark Morrison, “Vibe” by R. Kelly and the peerless Bobby Brown with “Two can play that game”. This little interval nearly made being Black worth it; you were usually mobbed by a phalanx of White girls, each of them drunk and grinding on you like her ass was a mill and you were the corn. The popular song was ‘Bump n Grind” by R. Kelly; a song that coerced the perverted leach out of you. He implored you with the now timeless words “I don’t see nothing wrong, with a little bump and grind”. This was a sentiment that chimed with me after a few beers but I digress.

Fast forward to 1997; the time of year escapes me and it doesn’t really matter because in side it was timeless. Derby was an assault on the senses; a sleepy industrial giant dozing into the modern world of the information super-highway but never ceased to intrigue. When I first drove to Derby in September 1996 I was struck by the people not so much the place. I was looking for directions for the Mickleover Campus and the man I asked was only too happy to help and even jumped in my car as I drove to the site. It was then that I realised I was dealing with a different and better breed of people than I had dealt with before. It was great to see a place where people greeted you on the street; Black People all nodded to each other when you saw each other as if in deference and mutual respect.

‘Touch me’ was in its second verse and the chance was slipping away; I turned to the lions I was hunting with and was struck by their certainty. They seemed to have all their hunting techniques honed to a tee and they knew each others tactics; one hand washes the other. Some went for the ‘double glazing salesman’ technique; this stated that if you asked 100 girls then at least one would say yes. This was used by my friend Rob who instinctively grabbed and harangued girls as a matter of course however when they said yes he was somewhat unprepared. He once went to this Muslim girl who had had a somewhat sheltered upbringing “Hey Baby! Wanna fuck?” This was met with shock and anger but wasn’t meant in jest; most girls laughed it off or thought of it as a rhetorical question. Another technique was buying drinks which out of the question for a student who envied the wealth of homeless people. The best way was to be charming but that was half the problem, the biggest obstacle was to get their attention in the first place. This was where audacity saved the brave; some of my friends would merely pat the bum of the girl in question, then a tense standoff would ensue. She would cut you with eyes that questioned your right to take such a liberty and the offender would either feign innocence or doggedly stick to his guns. In this game of chicken the first to blink was the offender; if she backed down then it was assumed she was interested and if she reacted angrily then she was “fronting”.

I wandered how they did it. I remember once after a heavy night of watching rejection after rejection; I finally asked my friend Yinka.

“How do you do that?”
“What?”
“Do That, I mean a girl to diss you and you just bounce back?”
“She wasn’t dissin me. She’s just fronting. She’s a major ho.”
“Dude, if a girl said that to me, I’d kill myself. What’s your secret?”
“You’re a player-hater man. You got a PHD. Player-hatin degree.”

He wasn’t amused by my prodding, he took it was an insult but I meant it seriously and as someone with low self esteem I could have used the advice. The solution was a suit of armour; an armour of denial that was impervious to criticism. The number one enemy of the Black man in the 90’s was the “player-hater”. This scourge was destroying the hopes and dreams of the Black man or at least was he thought was his dreams. This player-hater was a strict dichotomy that was fluid as slick oil, sometimes you were a player, sometimes a hater depending on the given circumstance. Sometimes that player-hating degree looked like a good course to be on and I would ace it hands down. I once pointed out that my friend was stinking of pungent body-odour in the club, people kept choking as they passed and I added that this was drastically reducing our chances of ever getting laid.

“Dude, sorry blood. But you got BO man.”
“What? Why you looking at me?”
“Dude it ain’t nothing against you, we all forget to roll on after the shower every now and again”
“I knew it. I fuckin knew it.”
“What?”
“I always knew you were a player-hater man. Why you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you.”
“Yeah I always knew you were a bitch-nigger. Is it my style?”

And that was the end of the conversation; I had a choice to make. To be a player or a hater there was no in between. The Pink coconut was divided in two; there was the white room and the black room. The white room played cheesy disco for lager-swilling idiots whose moronic behaviour defied belief. The Black room was shrouded in mystery; there clouds of cannabis smoke beckoned only the most intrepid white boys. This was a twilight zone where normal laws didn’t apply; there were rows of clubbers rolling joints on the work tops, one burly bouncer accidentally spilled the contents a of studious smokers joint and had to apologise profusely. It was a giant bong where you could get high just standing there but the word melting pot was never so apt.

This was a place where sheltered White girls could go to experience a taste of Black culture and all the vitality, freedom and abandon it entailed. It was a simple fact that no White girl would step foot in there unless she had a predilection to Black men. This would raise other issues, who is the predator or prey? Then would resume the game of cat and mouse where the roles are reversed halfway through the act. There are many ways to skin a cat and here were a few.

GRINDING – this involved dancing on the dance floor until a lady approached your vicinity; in a packed dance-floor you can happen upon this by chance or design. A wingman also has the right to grind the friend of the girl you are grinding with. Grinding is extremely risqué but there are rules.

1 Always let her have control, don’t overstep the mark. No sudden grabs of ass or boobies as this can curtail your fun.
2 Do it to her rhythm, later as you get confident then you can dictate the pace.
3 Make her feel gorgeous
4 If she wants to go then let her, don’t pester her and she’ll look for you later
5 Never get a boner. You are in close proximity to sexual organs so control yourself nothing scares them off more than a boner, however if you are ‘getting off’ with her later then it is seen a rude not to have a boner.

THE TROLL BRIDGE – This involved the men positioning themselves strategically in a narrow pathway where access was required, this gave you excellent hunting grounds. However these spots were few and in high demand and you often had to fight for them.

THE IMPROMTU SEGWAY – This involved making up a contrived situation to speak to the ladies, “are you Tasha’s mate?” was a good one because a lot of girls were called Tasha. This also worked with Emma, Nikki, Debbie, Sharon and indeed all the other common names at the time.

BAD BOY – This involved standing around looking hard, giving the evil eye to all around you and generally creating an air of mystery. This was easier said than done; it required a type of method acting that De Niro would envy. You had to freak out whenever someone trod on your foot because this was your chance to be seen; during the ruckus women would be making mental notes of the guy who is extra-hard. I would always fail in this tactic because I would always end up dancing. The first rule of Bad-boys is that you don’t dance however I would bob my head and soon without noticing I would be in a full on jiggy routine. Even when you look like you are hard, you have to back it up, and unfortunately my posh Oxfordshire accent let me down on several occasions as I didn’t have the patois lingo that the girls required.

DOUBLE TEAM – Also known as the wingman, this involved two men approaching two ladies, without a plan and just hoping that it will turn out fine. Unfortunately most of the time that should be given to planning is spent arguing over who gets the ugly one. That’s the way it is; pretty girls always pair up with an ugly girl, it is a law of nature. Maybe it balances the equation; maybe the pretty one needs self-esteem, maybe the ugly one lives vicariously through the pretty one. It goes like this.

“Dude them two gals is checking us.”
“Which ones?”
“Them two over there, next to the slot machines. Don’t look.”
“Which ones, the one in red and her mate?”
“I said don’t look. Fuck sake!”
“Yeah, them was checkin from time.”
“Ok Dude, you get the one on the left, I’ll the one on the right.”
“She’s buggers. Why can’t I have the other one?”
“Coz I saw her first. Get in and don’t let me down.”
“When have I let you down?”
“Last week, and the week before.”

KISSIN ARSE – This was the preferred way of a lot of cowards such as myself. It usually took the credo of ‘you catch more bees with honey’. This involved sending a rose to prospective girl or buying her a drink but this was dictated by the circumstances and the girl. You generally got to know them and talk without pressure; from the outside it looks like you are saying “your place or mine?” but between you and her you are talking about the weather or chocolate or films. At the end of the night you walk her home but your friends would never believe you if you said you didn’t sleep with her.

“Dude, I saw you last night. Good Fuck?”
“Nah, she was just a friend.”
“Dude, you are fucking smooth, don’t give me that shit.”
“Nah Dude, seriously we just went home for a chat.”
“Fockries! I saw how hot she was, you’re tripping. How did you keep your hands off her?”
“Nah we just chatted.”
“Fuckin hell! You telling me that you were just holding her hand and cuddling?”
“It was complicated, she got a man that she’s still hung up over and she was a nice girl.”
“Fuckin hell? Are you fuckin stupid or what? So what if she got a man?”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand, you’re a fag!”
“No it was coz she had her period”

And I was forgiven; claiming a girl was on her period was an easy way to escape scorn for ‘failing to close the deal’. Black men were just ‘fucking machines’ nothing else; it was our calling. In this world we were dehumanised and sexualised in equal measure. The whole ‘black man – big dick’ theory was bought hook, line and sinker by the masses especially ourselves. That was the reason ‘the pink coconut was full every weekend. Black men had no opportunities in life, no prospects for the here after neither; so in sex they had redemption, they had identity. To watch a Black man in a club is as graceful as watching lions on the Serengeti; there are so instinctively in tune with their environment. Every nuance; every blade of grass, every undulation in the terrain is all fed into its brain and informs its actions. Watching them was like watching pure-bred hunters with an innate understanding for their prey.

“Hey Baeby luv, wa ya sae? U luk nice ya know? Me wanna lick up them sweetness.”

There is no way I could say that without a hint of irony but they managed to get past the initial absurdity of the situation to do it seriously. ‘Touch me’ was into its third verse and I still didn’t have the guts to step forward, as I leaned back I accidentally trod on the foot of one of the Black lionesses behind me.

“Ya Bambarassclat! Watch where ya go ya cross-eyed, boss-eyed rassclat.” She said with venom that defied belief.

I was somewhat shaken but the bad-boy next to me reassured me.

“Fuck them fat black mampi bitch! Next time tell em’ ya gon’ break her other foot.”

She overheard this and was soon shouting away, it was then that I realised that I was in the midst of an oedipal battle that had raged since slavery. Black men and Black women from the Caribbean have a very tenuous alliance that breaks from time to time. They are stuck together on the other side of the world; away from their natural environment in the third stage of their exodus from Africa and were stuck between the forces of assimilation and self-determination. The white girls paraded up and down like retinue of debutants with yo-yo string. The Black girls wretched at the sight of these interlopers; while the men wiped the saliva off their lips, and waited. The White girls copied the fashion of the Black girls who took this sincere form of flattery to be an affront, the men waited. The Black girls like sour grape wine got more bitter as time went on. All the Bad-boys were leaving them and their world was falling apart. As an African I had as much chance of getting to know them as pork chop getting eaten on Ramadan.

‘Touch me’ was now over and I decided to call it a night as I hated the desperation involved. The fat ugly girls were now top of the menu due mostly to time constraints. It was wrongly assumed that these fat chicks had low self-esteem and would therefore give it up quicker. Sadly this wasn’t always true as many of my friends found out, many of those fat ugly chicks thought they were gorgeous and the pretty girls thought they were fat and ugly. The wingman conversation is different at 1.45 AM

“Dude them two gals is checking us.”
“Which ones?”
“Them two over there, next to the slot machines. Don’t look.”
“Which ones, the one in red and her mate?”
“I said don’t look. Fuck sake!”
“Yeah, them was checkin from time.”
“Ok Dude, you get the one on the left, I’ll the one on the right.”
“She’s pretty. Why can’t I have the other one? I want the fat ugly one”
“Coz I saw her first. Get in and don’t let me down.”
“When have I let you down?”
“Last week, and the week before.”

The stampede was at its height; the lions were poised, the gazelle were ready. The brave sometimes have to walk away and fight another but the lions have to fight today or face death. Normally a fight broke out around 1.45 hence my withdrawal. LL Cool J came over the system as DJ Digit spun all the latest tunes, his sidekick who we called ‘nice and wet’ awaited his cue. We called him that because he would wait for LL Cool J in his track “lounging” otherwise known a “doin’ it” and when the line “How a big boy like it baby? NICE AND WET!!!!” He had a mysterious flat cap that he never took off, a girl I knew once bedded him but he never took off his hat leaving his secret intact. Fun times