Baby Got Backache

I made my debut into high-profile Kampala society last night, and for the most part, I wish I’d stayed at the hotel and rinsed out some drawers.

Last night, Akiiki, his lovely wife Diana, and I slipped past the “velvet rope” at Ange Noir, the hottest club in Kampala. That’s mostly because the air-conditioning sucks, but still, it’s THE spot for the "juicy babes" and the "styled-up gents" in Kampala, to borrow the local parlance. I’ve been hearing about Ange Noir, and following the carnal exploits of all the major Kampala entertainers, politicians and businessmen who hook up there, for the past 7 months. This one newspaper, The Red Pepper, makes a regular point of ratting on folks caught creepin’ at Ange Noir with somebody else’s mate. They also have regular photo spreads of the club’s young female clientele who are so tarted up, your mouth puckers just looking at them.

I mean, I THOUGHT I had already seen the ultimate in hoochification after living in DC for 12 years, and having spent enough time in Atlanta to be absolutely dumbfounded by the wide range of shades you can dye horsehair, and the myriad ways you can plaster, plait, braid, swirl and curl it, to boot. Seriously, some of my ghetto fabulous sistuhs in Chocolate City and the A-T-L are so outrageous, you don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or gouge your own eyes out with a lobster fork after you see them all gussied up in their club gear.

In the US, the obesity epidemic only compounds the hoochification horror. You know good and durned well some of these women must have to rub Crisco on their hips to squeeze into the tight, stretchy, ill-fitting, scandalously revealing costumes they prance around in. After a certain point, it should be deemed a crime against nature and physics to try and pack 40 pounds of cellulite into 4 square inches of silver lame. And that’s just ONE boob.

Let me be equal opportunity about this….in America, hoochies come in black, white, Latina, Asian, you name it. It ain’t just about the sistuhs. It IS just about the big, honkin’ ASS. But I’ve noticed something during my time in Uganda. Most women here aren’t really obese, but my girls in the E-A (East Africa) have some of the most perfectly round, full butts you’ve ever seen anywhere. And when they get hoochified up in here, it is indeed a triumph of hydraulics and chutzpah.

Now I TOTALLY understand why British women started wearing bustles during the Victorian era. I bet their husbands must have returned home from long, hard months of colonizing the Dark Continent, taken one look at their pale, wan, wraithlike wives, and immediately started planning their next journey back to the bountiful land of Bubblicious Brown Bums.

Maybe I’ve just been away from the club scene too long, but last night was totally ridonkulous. I saw one young woman in a pair of white booty shorts that would make Caligula blush. Her friend had the word “Angel” spelled out in rhinestones across the half-inch of denim covering her rear. How ironic; sporting a skirt like that, girlfriend is headed straight to Hell, and if she don’t know, she better ASK somebody.

As for me, I decided my debut required a more mature set of hoochification rituals. Now don’t worry; I haven’t decided to take on an immoral sideline of my own. But all of a sudden, I feel so alive, and glad of it. My contract is almost finished, and I’m in Kampala where there’s air-conditioning, at least. It’s as though I’ve risen Phoenix-like from the constraints of grief and Ebola and administrative nightmares, and last night, I guess I just wanted to feel like I was SHIZZ-nit!!!

So I went out and bought this rather tasteful, slenderizing, sleeveless black top trimmed in silver sequins (tastefully, people, tastefully!). I paired it with the basic black jeans I had to buy a few months ago, because I’ve lost so much weight. (Yeah, yeah, I know, don’t you hate it when skinny bitches bemoan their problems putting on weight?) But the coup de grace was a pair of 3-inch, patent leather, Givenchy stiletto sandals, mostly black, with some square bluish rhinestones running down the center strap and….get this….the stiletto was made of shiny silver metal, with rhinestones encircling the top of the heel.

I haven’t worn heels that high since the Ice Age. In fact, come to think of it, I’ve NEVER worn heels that high before in my life. These days, when it comes to shoes, I always go flat, funky and fun. But if I DO choose a heel, it’s usually not much more than 2 inches. And it DAMN well ain’t a stiletto.

Amazingly, I was able to totter around fairly comfortably in those sandals. After 7 months of feeling and looking like a sweaty, mosquito-bitten eunuch, I didn’t blink buying those shoes, because, dammit, I was on a mission to teach the hoochies of Kampala that classy is the "new" sexy…. subtle, bare shoulders, red toenails, sexy heels with jeans….in other words, you don’t have to go all gynecological when dressing for a night out.

Throw in a hint of eyeliner and mascara, a swirl of blush, some Chanel lip gloss, and I have to say, I looked good. REAL GOOD. (Although Akiiki spoiled the mood by pronouncing me “ghetto fabulous.” Remind me to hire a new Technical Director.) I even managed to strut around that 3-storied club like I wear 3-inch stiletto heels every day of my life.

But like the Soulful Cinderella I am, at the stroke of midnight my corns started popping. The thin patent leather strap cut through my little toe like a hot knife through butter. It got stuffy in the building, and I had a couple of hot flashes. I snuck away from Akiiki and Diana a few times to sit at the bar on another floor, just to see if some guy would buy me a drink. The cheap bastards held onto their shillings like they were going out of circulation tomorrow at noon.

Most of the men at Ange Noir were in their 20’s and 30’s. And as Akiiki and Diana warned me, most are also broke as a joke, and looking for some employed young professional woman to latch onto. OR they were looking for a desperate, sex-starved “Sugar Mummy,” a 40 or 50 something older woman with lots of money to lavish on their studly young selves.

While there’s still a shoe left to be bought on this planet, no broke-ass 20-something hustler will ever wrench a shilling from these fingers.

After about 90 minutes, I was ready to flee Ange Noir. Something tells me I won’t be going back. It was the last bit of proof I need to confirm that the club scene is "passe pour moi." When you spend most of your time in a nightclub counting the seconds till you can gulp down a Naproxen to ease the carpal tunnel pain in your wrist, your ass needs to be home in bed wearing a loose cotton gown and a silk scarf tied around your ‘do.

That's the exact moment when you must graciously concede that at your age, if you “shake what ya mama gave ya,” it would probably drop to the dance floor and shatter into a million pieces.