A toast to all the alter egos that have come alive and keep coming alive when I’m under the influence.
Here’s to the girl who gets drunk on wine and gets the inexplicable urge to swim naked in River Seine singing ‘ liberté! egalité! PSG! ‘ at the top of her lungs. The girl who’s completely convinced that even a sip of red undoubtedly redirects all the blood to her lower body. It’s the only explanation for the lightheadedness and the cuntinuous throbbing, really.
Mazel tov to her weak ass Shaku barely visible in the strategically dark corners of the dancefloor. Even after she’s had one too many Captain Morgan shots and she can barely stand on one leg, let alone dance. (The gwara-gwara still drippin’ in sauce, though! ) Still, she’ll insist that she can indeed stand on one leg and proceed to prove it to you. Thank you for pretending to buy it. Or at least allowing your harsh truth to be silenced as she simultaneously lets out an ‘AYYYYEE’ as Burna Boy starts playing.
Not forgetting when ‘Nyabinghi’ comes out; swirling her dreads and shouting how ‘only rasta can liberate the people o’eeer hills and valleys too’. Naturally, she’s the tribe queen of losing innumerable hairbands, headwraps and earrings in the process. She might even try to elucidate that losing all those material things is her way of contributing to the fight against Babylon. I suggest you a) run or b) try to distract her by singing a Damian Marley song. Preferably ‘Living it Up’.
And with this one, she’s probably muddling up the Yang that you were flowing with up until here. But there’s always a Yin. There always will be. She comes at the end of the night, mostly when she’s home and everyone’s away. And she cries till she can’t breathe. She gets overwhelmed and thinks she’s a mess. But she always fights away those thoughts, and a Salut to her for always fighting.
You know that Atticus piece that goes like ‘ I feel like girls who drink whiskey have good stories ‘, well, freshman-year Victoria can tell you if you’re looking for them, 10/10 -would recommend. For something I can’t get past my throat nowadays, she sure took whole barrels of it during that dark, dark year. Whiskey brought her Ethiopian plugs with strains that make you think Venus is crashing into Earth. Whiskey made lawns evolve into concerts packed for your very own, Dj Kag. Whiskey made her a gymnast. Whiskey. Without a doubt, whiskey is as incredible as it is inedible.
This ensemble of toasts would be utterly null and void if she didn’t write a short ode to The Spirit of the Nation. Elixir of life – clear and citric. Not too phenolic. Not too estery. With undertones of euphoria and not realizing it’s 6 hours past her curfew. It’s left her dancing like the label homie, Mzaramo, with her arms above her head and her head in the clouds. It has her singing and jumping and laughing. Ah. Konyagi. Kinywaji safi.
To many more adventures with palm wine, tequila, muratina and every other brew that touches her lips.