*Kosilala, may we go club na*
The call that sent me down an inquisitive lane.
A yearning to uncover the mysteries of the night.
A journey to withness firsthand, the most sought-after pleasures of a Friday night.
Like a school boy getting ready for his first trip to school, 
I excitedly put on my T shirt and a pair of palm slippers.
All the while envisioning what the night may bring.
A bumping dance with a hot model?
Beeni sir.
A taste of the world famous black Belaire bottle owned by Rick Ross,
And perhaps a lucky shot at getting a number to follow up or take home.
While I ruminated on these thoughts,
The Holy spirit came.
Gently reminding me of my pledge to the cross.
Bringing to memory my tearful confession at the foot of the cross.
And bringing to bare the full scripture in Peter that admonished believers to watch and pray.
Like a ear impaired dog who did not hear the masters whistle, my mind sealed up.
For i chose to firmly affix my thoughts on Wizkid's *Daddy Yo* playing on my phone.
*Change that palms to any shoe o*
These words my bros said. All the while offering me his shoes to hasten my movement.
Within seconds, I was ready.
A slim guy donning a Red T-shirt and blue jeans.
A reprobate mind putting on black shoes.
To the club we drove.
A very busy hub whose numbers never seemed to die down.
A very lively hotspot, whose 'turn-up' never seemed to tune down.
At its entrance, three bouncers stopped our march.
Big burly human beasts whose appearance scared the living daylights out of me.
Round roughly hands that patted us down and ushered us into the place of action.
With beautiful ornaments, its stairways were designed.
Bearing semblance with the belief that the paths to Hades is beautifully adorned.
From the doors,
My cornea saw what could not be unseen.
My retinas beheld the wonders of poorly sewed outfits.
A parade of Sodomry and Gomorraic madness.
A contest challenging every lady to flaunt the most skin.
A pageantry celebrating the beauty of the female kind in its adamic state.
A show of lewdness that put the plethora of Kardashian craziness into the back seat.
At every corner, they sat.
Nodding while seeping Moet bottles
Making seductive gestures while drinking from their Belaire bottle.
Aye ooo.
My mind kept repeating.
Eyes darting from side to side in a bid of scooping every deranged iota of physical information.
For the heart that says rejects God's words, ushers in a thirst for debauchery.
A man came to us.
Ushering us with the best of smiles to an isolated rolling table.
As our gang bore semblance to a fresh set of ballers who had come to shut down the whole club.
The price list came and my eyes of understanding opened up a bit.
Bottle of Ciroc- 35k
Bottle of Moet- 50k.
A bankers salary to be finished at a sitting.
A child's school fees to drunk within thirty minutes.
Numbness engulfed me then.
All appetite vanished at that moment.
Who could blame me?
Apparently I had only 500 naira in my pockets at that point.
Apparently I would not get any ladies number because they all had a bottle of something at their tables.
Apparently all plans of enjoying this outing now looked bleak.
At that point, a siren sound came up.
*Yeekpa* I wanted to shout.
For I thought the angels were blowing the trumpets to announce the second coming of Jesus.
Another sound followed immediately.
An eerie gong sound that bore semblance to Undertakers entry sound in WWE wrestling matches.
*Eh ehh. Wen I say moni dey. I mean moni dey. Na ballers full ground here*
These words the club Mc and hype man shouted into the microphone.
All the while directing our attention to a group of girls lighting candles placed in a mini coffin.
Upon closer inspection, the candles turned out to be bottles.
A number of ten Moet bottles placed in two rows of five and carried to a table of four guys.
Upon reaching its destination, the corks were let loose.
A fantabulous spraying of its contents on wristwatches and gold chains worn by all four occupants.
Olorun mi ooo.
350k at a go.
A year salary of some state workers drank within ten minutes.
Apparently they were ballers.
A term of endearment for those people who seemed to have perfected the art of making other club goers feel sorry for their pathetic lives
Apparently they were the *money gang*
The crew who were perfect in showing others the misery of being rich and poor at the same time.
For a salaried earner of 100k was bound to think himself poor and wretched in the sight of the show of opulence.
While I was still mentally calculating the costs of the ten bottles, the sirens and eerie gong rang out again.
The ballers had spoken again.
Another ten bottles of Belaire to prove an established point.
Another 350k to emphasize and rub salt into our open wounds.
A loud reminder of our poverty and their obvious plenti plenty moni
The concluding part to come out soon

okonta kosi