House Party

Would they come we wondered. The house vacuumed, the lawn mowed, beds made and even a special selection music playlist loaded on to the computer upon the music system. For three young men, only the prospect of girls arriving and being put under the influence of alcohol could cause such effect.

Would they come. Out here in East Dulwich, or is it Peckham Rye? We could not say “Peckham Rye” though. Or rather, we could not say “Peckham”. That part of the name scares many London people off. It being the place synonymous with shootings and poor black people. That is why we say East Dulwich. In truth we are as close to East Dulwich as we are to Peckham, Lewisham or Camberwell Green. The last two however, are also associated with poor black communities or recent teenage shootings.

We contemplated the guests being scared off by the Peckham Rye High street, where the overland train from London Bridge runs to. The colorful street has an explosion of vegetables on side walk stalls featuring plantains, yams, tubers, cassava and all manner of west African foods. Not to be missed is the profusion of African lady hair salons, with endless hair plaiting, men’s barbers shops shaping Afros, cells phone apparel stores, butchers with their carcases hanging on hooks and an African restaurant with plastic chairs and linoleum for table cloths detailing a short list of Nigerian dishes. Throngs of people march in either direction of the street or cross the street dodging buses 343, 12, P12, 63, 363, 37, 197 and shiny coupes driven by young brothers blasting the latest Timberlake hit single out his sub woofer.

Or maybe they would not come because to get here, most people need to take at least an underground train, an overland train and then a bus. People get attached to their underground lines and the bus routes. For some accustomed to taking the Jubilee line everyday, for instance, to make use of a Metropolitan line, leaves a bad taste and all the trepidation of having to travel some place foreign and unfamiliar. But indeed it is unfamiliar to most, it is South East London.

But who are these people who are unfamiliar to South East London. Well, we are for a start. Eric, Laurence, Craig and I. We scoured London, and its rent property websites, hunting for a balance of location and rent for 4 bedrooms. Of course our first reaction was “Peckham?!” But when we saw the place our preconceptions about black crime in south east London melted and we were charmed by the park next to, the oak trees and neat backyard.

In came the black South Africans, three girls, one with her Greek boyfriend. Later followed the Eritrean, who was one of the few to come with his own car, though got a little lost on the way. A little after that came the one they call Plumb, who goes back to Eric and Craig’s partying Cape Town days. This made for a cosy crowd, sat on the wood deck outside in the sunshine, eating most of the chips and nuts before even half the other guests have arrived. The house had ‘house party’ written all over it. We said “yeah it is peckham but think of all the house parties”. And we did not stop thinking. We went further than that, we moved in with in a week and then began inviting people to a party.

We did wonder about all the noise we expected to make. For this reason Laurence and I went to the Jamaican family next door to apologise in advance. The man of the house, who looked no older than us, through his heavy Caribbean accent gave us a polite and baffled thanks. With in 20 minutes of that the Jamaicans put on their music so loud we thought it was coming out of our house. They also had a braai of their own going which smoked out our back yard before we had even committed match to charcoal. It mean listening to their hip-hop and ragga combination.

Speaking over the dinn from the Jamaicans, conversation got going, but slowly at first. Idle chatter, a little dry on the banter with a few too many odd silences, if you can call it that with the noise from next door. But the phones were busy. Eric, Laurence and I getting texts of people lost or double checking the train stop or bus number. Apologies from people who never expected to come anyway.

And then the people began to walk in. Sheri, my Canadian friend who’s family is from Malaysia and are Chinese in origin and who has spent 3 years in Cape Town. She brought her vegie burghers with her. We don’t pity her obscure and narrow preference on food. Indeed she is making good progress, having worked her way up from vegan. One day, she will be chewing on raw chicken bones like the rest of us. Though her entrenched concepts of green peace and love might be hard to over come at first.

I met Ntheye at the bus stop round the corner. He was a surprise. I hadn’t heard from him in a year since Cape Town and longer since before then. He phoned me up over the week, when I did not even know that he was in London and he said “I hear your having a party this weekend, where you at?” A real keeper he is. For parties anyway. You can be sure he will mop up any girls deemed to not be getting enough attention. When I turned in to bed at 5am completely drunk I was shocked to find him snug in my bed-the big black man that he is! I had secretly been hoping it would be a pretty girl in her underwear and so the contrast was quite alarming.

Ntheye got off the bus in the company of Candice. It just shows how the boy does not waste time. On the bus trip, he had already figured out that she too was going to the party, from the printed email she was reading, and proceeded to get to know her before he had even gotten the party. Candice wore a purple top, with large wood bead necklace and let her relatively short colored hair curl away around her pretty face. She was arguably the dame of the party. Boys queued up to talk to her, and I was in line more than once. And once a boy got into conversation with her, they did not let go easy. I was one of those too. Candice had declared her departure at 10pm, though she was still at the house after 1pm. Boys had persuaded her to stay a little longer enough times. She loved the attention. Eric made a late entrance into the Candice market. It took him a good Jameson after 9pm, after all the beer, before he muscled in. He kept a short leash on her and did some impressive Salsa dancing with her.

It is not a good idea in my opinion, to let give a lot of attention to the pretty girl, by queuing up to chat. It is not an efficient strategy on the whole. This way market players spend all their energy competing among each other over one girl, while letting a lot of other less glamorous specimens go by, even though they could be a lot more responsive to the boys “sweet nothings” whispered into their ears. This way, the pretty one softens up too, after feeling a little left out. But boys will be boys, and true to form, there was no overall strategy.

However, there was Anna. A friend who studied with Laurence in London, the precocious Russian at age 22 is an economist for the power house investment bank Goldman Sachs and daughter to some very big suits in Russia. Erics eyes lit up on hearing this and he declared to Laurence and I the next day that he would marry her. His interest was sparked already however, when meeting another guest at the bus stop, he noticed her straddle passed reading directions off a printed email. Her cute face and long “bum tickling hair” and the very fact that she is an “eastern blocker” as Eric puts it, made her irrisistable for Eric. Anna though, was more successful at getting away by 10pm. More evidence that the boys need more team work.

Other characters were Nerice, another connection through Laurence and another colored from Durban, Candice and Eric being the first two. Nerice studies International Law at Kings and worked with Laurence at the UN. Patrick arrived eventually, with two other boys, John and some guy I only got to know as “the German” (or was his name Scott?). All three of them studying economics or politics in London. John wore what Eric called pajamas and he trapped whole crowds of people in the kitchen with his diatribes on American politics. I caught Nerice in this web, unable to move for the importance of the speach. She moutedh and gesticulated to me in a conspicuous manner “get me out of here”, where upon I yanked her out the kitchen. John was hands down the most geeky person all night and generally quite funny. Eric thought he was suffocating when he laughed though.

Veron Grant, a friend of mine from work showed up with her “partner”, as she calls him, a tall quiet gentle man who is ever eager to smile. Veron makes up for him for being loud, a little haughty and always up for a laugh. Indeed you can hear her laugh from any corner of the office all week. A second generation Jamaican whose real money comes from property brought with her three Czech teenagers, who rent from her on their exchange program here in London. True to Veron form she told them “that boys is the only drink your going to have all night so you best drink it slowly!” with her commanding London accent. Of course they drank lots more and had the last of Eric’s cigarettes.

Other boys came in late, and without girls as usual. Also without booze I seem to recall, which probably explains the empty fridge the next day. After 11pm came Duncan, the only thoroughly British person at the house party and actually from London. The muscular freckled red head is pleasant, mildly funny for much effort and seems to be recovering well from being a christian in years gone by. Marlon arrived even later, wit his better (and it is all agreed – pretty) half Maryola. I suspect her generous cleavage is what gets boys so envious of Marlon, the thin colored Zambian that he is. Ali and Karl sauntered in after 10pm, with Karls causin Laverne, the tough talking, gold toothed and tatooed little fire brand. This rejuvenated the mood after some heavy chick departures. Ali’s colored accent is hilarious and I have come to know that after I had passed out he did his famous belly rub dance to an old Zambian hit song called “Chankelewa”. Ali is like a very muscly Humpty Dumpty in build, and so an swift moves from him mixed with rhythm are bound to be tummy-ache funny.

Some braaing did take place. I spiced up a couple of chicks and other contributions did go over the charcoal out on the grass, that Eric and I worked so hard to cut and give a bad hair cut. Egg salad was put together by Eric and Nerice, the two Durbanites that they are. Coupled with Anna’s plumb tart and Filmons roast chicken we did have some grease to mess our fingers with. Most of the food was gone by about 8pm though. I think some guests never even knew there was a braai. Sheri did well to spill red wine on the carpet, and that was not the only stain on the carpet.

When darkness came we moved inside, closed the doors and put up our on music for a change, at a ridiculous volume. To my shame I danced lots and with no one in particular, though not for a lack of effort. Eric continued with his grip on Candice’s attention while other chatted to the few girls left at the late hour. There were Taxi’s and numerous escorts to the bus stop. I faded at about 3am on the couch. I was told after that Eric put spit in my ear. Karl’s bunch slept over but were gone by the time woke up later on the Sunday. Marlon, who can never hold his liqueur, upset Maryola for being so incapacitated and had to be carried out the house into a cab by one of the larger boys.

Sunday morning came. The house was dirty. The fridge was empty and the yard was a mess.