Of middle class and Concours d’elegance

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On Sunday I went to the famous concuors d’elegance that is usually held annually at Ngong Racecourse, where Nairobi’s finest middle class, just like any pomp event, come to flaunt their hard earned money, toned bodies (thighs and breasts) and accents. While the women come to see where the rest of Nairobi women have reached on the ladder of perceived success, men also come to know who has the latest moti in town.

The kind of dressing exhibited in such events that attract mostly middle class is over expressive, especially for the ladies. More than once, such events turn into strip events. Women wear the shortest of skirts or booty shorts, shortest crop tops and multiple layers of makeup to give a look of a slay queen.

Without sounding like I have something against women, generally, I also happened to be in the midst of all this confused class of event goers. In my alligator boots (few of us who have the audacity to don such), jeans short, a light T-shirt and dark goggles, I penetrated into the crowd to have my share of the event- I also paid 1000 bob for it damn it! I should enjoy it by whatever means. In this Nairobi especially at this hard economic times, money doesn’t come easily.

With me, Cza, his Missus, Bob and Missus (Bob is Cza’s childhood bloke) and later, Gogy taller. We had this old school BMW which we call warthog, blue in colour. I have never seen such a lovely car like this. It is old school but sentenced so badly to comfort. It resembles Peugeot 504 if you’re struggling with getting a picture. Nice and comfortable seats, very spacious interior and classic touch in the interior finishes it off. Its ass wags at the back in a way that makes you lose appetite for other cars.

We parked it in the field with this galore of cars. Folks kept peeping at it. They did look at it. No seriously, they intentionally passed there to admire it. Some asked why it was not taking part in the d’elegance. Guess they didn’t have an idea what it means to qualify for such a fete.

The collection of both the bikes and cars was excellent, as always. But I couldn’t help to notice the struggle of the middle class to impress. Never understood why it should be a show of impressions when all you need is to sit your ass down and watch vintage cars, admire how well maintained they are, ask for a ride, and take a picture of the ones that impress you and all that.

Here is where I knew that it was a struggle to impress- feigned accents that somehow betrayed our women because at some point the tongue will position you where you belong. Kungo’a (shrub). Then they were always taking a selfie of every single thing around them, I guess to boast to their friends about. We cannot start off this thing without IG babes whose main agenda at the entrance was to update everyone that they were somewhere famous.

It is not my problem, or it shouldn’t be my problem. But honestly, I was disturbed by this young lass whose phone went off before she can get into the better part of the event. She kept whining, trying severally to power on her gadget which of course mused in dead silence. She cursed a lot as if without the pictures her life would stall.

As usual, the event was full of wannabes. Wannabe cameramen, wannabe socialites, wannabe wealthy, wannabe everything. And slay queens.

I go to events for three particular reasons: networking, enjoyment, and ass. The journalist in me comes later, unless it is an assignment by my editor. Networking helps grow my brand. With it, I can be able to get things done faster as you know who can sort you out.

Enjoyment is for me to go sit somewhere and simmer my thoughts in that moment- look at every inch of every beast that parades before me. Later, I go to where they are parked and get my fingers and eyes employed. I run my fingers through every body of a car and feel its nakedness in full length. This helps me to know a few things such as the materials and the shapes. Engines and rims usually blow my mind off. I spend time examining the engines and minutes staring at the rims, and finally the exhaust. To get the feel of the interior, I run my fingers on the fabric of the seats. If allowed, I sit on the driver’s seat and start the engine, I step on the gas pedal and listen. I love engines that produce a heavy original and balanced sound.

That is me enjoying my event. A photo or two with my favorite will do. Now that I opted to get my pictures out of social media, I don’t need them anymore.

Then there is this desire to always grab an ass. Not just a small ass but a big ass that makes even the devil get scared. There is nothing as bewitching as a big ass. Even with an unattractive face, a huge ass can confuse a man. My love for such an ass is undeniable.

I’ll find a way to grab one. And I did because when you stay in the game for too long you get to learn the tricks.

I was not interested much in the cars at some point. The middle-class impression charges were too pronounced to do something constructive such as having a seat quietly and enjoying the moment. They were shouting too much. Truthfully, I am not the kind of guy who loves noise and commotion. Silence works fine.

This moved me from the stands where I was seated. Gogy was dying for a smoke so he asked me to help him find a place where he can have a puff. Smoking is the last thing I want to do on earth. I don’t hate smokers, I just dislike the habit. It makes people behave weirdly. Cravings are the worst. I escorted him to somewhere at the end of the field. But his lighter refused to work. The craving almost sent him dead. He tried severally but to no avail. Though it later agreed to let him enjoy a puff. He returned to normal.

There was this lady with a miniskirt. Very short indeed. I can’t forget her because of what the wind did to her. I was just minding my sharas when the wind swept her mini skirt and us who didn’t care much about who she was got to know her as the lady who never wore an undergarment to d’elegance. I mean I was just there, right next to the vehicle as her friend took a photo. The bush was there smiling at me. The picture hasn’t left me yet. It was macabre.  She should have shaved at least.

It must have haunted her. Good thing is that it was not the busiest part of the event. Otherwise, our social media would have had her humiliated for days, prompting her to hide behind locked doors till the mish mash ends.

One thing you’ll discover with d’elegance is that it is run mostly by whites. So the transition of activities is smooth. Call it white supremacy. Their organization skills are fleek. Everything runs systematically with almost nil errors.

To finish off with, I need to make a footnote.

This middle-class bourgeois is choking Nairobians. We don’t have to flaunt amongst each other. Attending such an event is not a lifetime achievement per se. if it is, satan must be playing cheeky games with you.

The world doesn’t need to know what you do. It really doesn’t. Though it cares enough to see you going places. Just tell it softly, but don’t force it down its throat so that the rest of the people in it run out of air to breathe with. Let them make a decision whether they want to ingest your shenanigans or not.

It makes sense when you enjoy the event more than when you want happiness from the world by wanting social media to humble at the feet of your photos. You become agitated when you discover no one gives a damn. That’s not life. Experience it for your own self, the world will know at some point when you lead a blissful life. Your face and smile will always sell you to the world. Always.

No one is really competing with you. In such an event, no one knows you. They might not even care to know you- who are you anyway? Dress well, not because of others but because you feel extremely comfortable in it, let your genuine self rule the world, why the pretense? Open your eyes to moments and enjoy every little bit of each moment. Switch off your phone and have a natural touch with the real world, make friends, laugh, feel things, crush on people, go wild, be happy.

No one knows when their time comes. So don’t run life as if you understand when your expiry date clocks in.

Below is a touch of the cars that graced the event. Being not a bike guy, I didn’t manage to get a capture of one. I’m a Be My Wife material (BMW). That is iPhone 6S+ at work. If you need one just inbox me. Let’s rock it.

Cheers!

Mzangila Snr.

Where shall we go, we who wander in this wasteland in search of better selves?

 

 

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About Mzangila

Mentor, media consultant, photographer, editor, poet, writer, and counselor.

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