Last week's post ended on an evocative cliffhanger reminiscent of a 90s telenovela if I do say so myself. Several people sneaked up on me—like the fire from a shisha pot in a bar—to ask me who Mike was and if he was searching for a life companion. I'll share other dimensions to that story soon—bringing girls back to "my home," Uber drivers who were suddenly interested in making sure I got home safe—but for now, here's some reprieve: Mike, a happily-married real-estate developer (sorry, ladies, gents, and non-gender conforming hopefuls), was a good friend of my boss who offered to get me accommodation while I lived in New Albany, Ohio. I'll stop there, lest this becomes Mike's Tinder profile.
This past week, I reunited with my third love—the dancefloor—to commemorate a good friend's birthday. A good night out always leaves me feeling happy, sad, and tired: Happy to have lived in the moment. Sad to have left the moment and tired, for having lived in the moment too long.
Ugandan nights-out escalate quickly. One moment you're frustrated with the DJ and planning to sneak out—everyone knows saying goodbye is a rookie move if you intend to have breakfast at a reasonable time—and the next moment, you're six tequila shots in and professing your love to your friends amid tears and tell-alls.
On this particular night, besides confirming that my knees have an expiry date I will contest forever, I had several conversations, screamed back and forth over the beat thumping and under the club's neon lights. Lips to ear. Look of confusion. Lips to ear. Repeat.
Why do we insist on having deep conversations in nightclubs? Right before the beat drop of Burna Boy's Last Last is not the time to share your thoughts on the British monarchy, Shem. Read the bloody room!
I barely remember the details of the conversations. But I remembered one thing we agreed on: For all our anxieties about aging, the windward side of 30 offers self-assuredness and self-awareness. At this age, you can turn down shots and cut the night short when the "we are heading to Illusion (a popular nightclub in Uganda)" allegations are confirmed. The friendships are solid and saying NO doesn't run you the risk of being ostracised. And if it does, the clarity can be refreshing.
I am grateful for my friends who know me well. They know that if I haven't left my house by a specific time for random plot, I am probably not coming. They know I don't drink as much as I used to, and they now look at my omnipresent bottle of water with less consternation.
If you're reading this and still feel pressured into social situations that make you uncomfortable, consider this your permission to cut the cord, regardless of age.
Most of your real friends don't care if you drink or not. They want to see you and share experiences with you. They may take some convincing first, but your first NO will set the tone for the next.
This radical honesty applies to all areas of your life. It applies to spending money you don't have. It applies to remaining silent about sus situations.
You'll thank yourself—and spare your liver—for standing up for yourself early.
Have a blessed week, and practice saying NO when it's appropriate.
If you like what you read, please subscribe so I can fund my sneaker addiction. However, if your answer is justifiably NO, I am proud of you.
Always refreshing reading from you. Few people realise that saying No at the right time in this attention—frenzied world we live in today is a super power in and of itself.
”Your real friends want to spend time with you and dont really care what you are drinking..,” this should be published as a separate blog post.