In recent times, our urban culture has seen our lifestyles depend on the cell phone phenomenon. Some may view this new technology as a progressive tool.
Others may view it as the little capitalistic demon that we are forced to abide by twenty-four hours a day.
Recently, someone commented in a group discussion at a local bar that they do not care about the rest of the world. This sentiment was held true by the majority of the group’s convictions.
The general feeling was based on an understanding that why should we care when the world does not care for Batswana and how they live? They were unaware of how our local choices are shaped by international contracts.
It is important for us to care about the rest of the world because we are increasingly living in a system of a multidirectional exchange of cultures.
We buy satellite time every time we place a cell phone call to our friends. Our definition of who we are and what we do is no longer unique to our borders.
For instance, if something goes wrong in the Middle East, our petrol prices simply change for the good or for the worse. Petrol prices depend on international events.
Therefore, what happens internationally indirectly causes a consequence right here in Gaborone, Botswana.
The days when courting between men and women depended on making chance meetings at the river are no longer applicable.
We now use international satellites to communicate with each other. It is much easier to link up and we meet much more easily now.
Depending on who is fooling whom, the cell phone is central to our lifestyles. Chick ‘bout Town supposes that the cell phone is one of the social tools that have a right hand in the facilitation of conscious promiscuity. Of course, no blame should be put on the international networks that we subscribe to.
Over the weekend, Chick ‘bout Town was invited to visit a scene by Lekhete, an old school friend she had exchanged cell phone numbers with the day before.
This chap friend of hers is a happy-go-lucky type of gentleman whose intentions of the invite had seemed naively innocent. Lekhete had called earlier in the day and asked Chick ‘bout Town to bring another female friend to the afternoon soiree.
In the mid afternoon Saturday spell, Chick ‘bout Town and her friend Masego park their four wheels outside a fortified house. The setting is an upper middle class neighbourhood in Gaborone.
The “I’m outside” call is placed, and soon the two are ushered to a generous backyard sporting a big swimming pool and a fully equipped outdoor entertainment area by a gentleman who seemed to bear the post of Mr. Butler.
As Chick ‘bout Town and Masego glided their way to the group of people sitting under a tree, conversation seemed to pause as everyone inspected the new arrivals. It immediately became clear that this would not be about meeting Lekhete’s friends or about catching up on lost time.
Chick ‘bout Town is exactly what she claims to be, she has been around town and done it all.
Therefore, it is no surprise that she can recognise the indistinctive look of glee on the gentlemen’s faces. More pickings of delectable meat had arrived.
The new arrivals sat down, alcoholic beverages of the highest quality were offered.
Why not? Chick ‘bout Town does not get to drink expensive red wine everyday, curiosity had already stricken the right chords and the probing of our local Gaborone consciousness began. One look at her friend Masego, and Chick ‘bout Town knew that the games had began.
Expensive cell phone power was evident everywhere on the table. An ongoing conversation was about how cheap cell phones have loud and obtrusive ring tones while the more expensive cell phones were meant to be discreet.
Another conversation on the other side of the table was about how good it was to have a casual sexual relationship with a friend who knows the other permanent steady girlfriend or boyfriend.
Multiple sexual partnerships are always a great topic to muse on. In a sick way, we want to know who has the virus and how they got it. Naturally, this became a hot topic.
The master converser had used this one to break the ice and advanced the soiree to a level that would loosen the loose and tighten the tight.
Being the woman that she is, Chick ‘bout Town has her ‘male advance’ deterrents. She sports a rubber band bound cell phone, baggy jeans, uncombed hair, bitten nails, torn handbag, and the ever present t-shirt with a nasty girl power message on it.
The last time Chick ‘bout Town was up to no good, she was at an elderly gentlemen’s get together pretending to be a le fourteen (teenager).
There she had challenged cultural discourse by blurting out that she would never have sex with anyone unless they performed oral sex on her first.
The fifty something year old group were rightfully disgusted and her plan worked. She had managed to divert their attention to the other smiling faces that were talking about how air time just has a way of vanishing.
Anyway, back at the fortified mansion, the continuous ringing of the cool looking cell phones and the deep throated laughs of “bring more girls” was evidence of more to come.
A serious get together was brewing. Chick ‘bout Town was in the middle of it and seriously sucking up all the information. Who’s fooling who? Are you fooling me? Or am I fooling you? ÔÇô Cool and The Gang.
The owner of the house was sitting strategically in the middle of the group drinking his imported Irish beer.
To his right, was a beautiful young girl with a superficial shy expression on her face, drinking a cider commonly referred to as V6. Her friend on the other hand was sitting on top of another gentleman’s thighs guzzling a V6 of her own and complaining of hunger.
No later than that, Mr. Butler flamed the braii up. The most delicious braii meat came later on. Mr. Butler had done a wonderful job of marinating the meat and cooking it to a juicy feast.
Funny enough, Mr. Butler was toting an imported beer of his own as he breezed in and out the group clearing the empties quietly.
In the pool was a hefty looking gentleman who made his presence known by shouting out a few feral comments.
According to the swimmer, Lekhete had done well by bringing his own fair share of girls instead of always hooking up with the other chaps’ girls. It turned out that Chick ‘bout Town’s fried Lekhete was not very good at whipping up the right kind of girl for these sorts of things.
After careful questioning, the beautiful ladies were barely twenty years old and were freshmen at a local higher learning institute.
They too were sporting expensive cell phones and would occasionally send short messages as fast as their nimble fingers could muster up. At some stage Masego and Chick ‘bout Town could only make conversation by asking each other questions like, “What’s up?” or “Are you okay?”
The gentlemen present where thirty-something year old young professionals. All sporting every bit of imaginable designer gear.
As more of the gentlemen’s acquaintances arrived with a bunch of girls in tow, the groups synergy seemed to pick up.
A frivolous frisky phallic force started circulating after a few drinks and the first couple strolled to the back of the house. Soon after, as crowd mentality may understand it, people started disappearing in twos to various places within the enormous house.
No one knows what goes on behind closed doors. ÔÇô Percy Sledge Saved by the bell; Chick ‘bout Town’s phone ring’s. There is a party somewhere else…
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