Living for Disco

Chez Ntemba. I’ve heard so many bad things about it. It’s where you should only go in a big crowd. The music is good, but it’s where you will be hassled, where people fight. It’s overcrowded. It’s where Juanita went the night she lost her head.

We arrive at 2am, desperate to dance, a mixture of wine, margaritas and beer and making us feverish and excited. Within ten seconds of leaving the car I feel alien fingers shamelessly exploring my coat pocket. I look round in amazement at the blatant thief, who shrugs as if to say ‘worth a try, mate’ and moves away.

It is dark inside, the beat insistent. On our way to the bar we attract brief, uninterested stares. We are the only three white faces in the room – a blonde, a brunette and a redhead, psyched up and needing to party. The music is pulling me to the dance floor, but I look up. Arranged around the balcony are the watching men, perched, looking for prey.

A tap on my shoulder.

“Do you have any cigarettes?” Slurring, swaying, in my face.

“No”

“The one you are smoking would be nice”. His face too close, his eyes red. I back off and he takes it from my fingers.

“Fucking talk to me like a normal person, bitch”, he spits as he walks away. I raise my eyebrows.

“Arsehole.” He can’t hear me, my words lost in the crowd.

The music is perfect. Hip-hop, Madonna, bollywood, Namibian pop, the tunes that have made their way into my brain over the last ten months seeping out through my feet and my hips, lips forming familiar words I don’t understand. Local songs come on and everyone goes crazy, waving arms, spilling beer, jumping, grinding, everyone having the time of their lives. Time slips by with each song, each one better than the last.

We leave at 5am, exhausted, drunk and happy, confetti email addresses spilling from pockets, scattering unbroken hearts across the pre-dawn city.