Immigrant Chronicles – Party

I’ve never been really interested in going to parties. If it was a small get-together, sure I’d be down for it. It’s just the thought of interacting with strangers makes me sick to my stomach. 

My mom on the other hand loves to party and forces me to go with her. ¨You’ll see all your friends, Just live for once, she said.”  Oh, trust me, my “living” consists of staying in bed by myself with the blinds closed watching Netflix until three in the morning. 

Here’s a rundown on how African parties work. 

When you walk through the door, the first thing that you have to do is greet everyone. When I say everyone, I mean everyone. This gets pretty awkward especially when they pull the classic “I remember when you were this big!” 

How are you expecting me to remember you at 4 months old? 

The weirdest part is when they try to act like they’re your Aunt and Uncle. Trying to give you kisses and touching your hair.

I don’t know you. 

Once you finally get done greeting everyone you head down to the basement. It’s an unwritten rule that when you go to these parties, there’s always a basement where the kids hangout. 

Remember those friends my mom was talking about? They’re either 9 years old or 19, so my 15-year-old self ends up alone. 

Little kids are always sticky and cry for no reason. The older kids have the biggest egos on the planet and act like they’re 20 years older than me. You talk about eating your boogers and playing Fortnite and I’m the immature one?  

Eventually, we’ll all get called up to eat. Let me tell you, the food most of the time isn’t that great. Everyone brings all types of food to share, but keep in mind not everyone knows how to cook, and does it show. 

It’s the most awkward feeling when the person who made the dish you’re eating comes up to you and said, “So Nicole, how did you like the food?” Well, I’m at the point of throwing up and breathing through my nose, but other than that it’s pretty good. 

Eventually, nighttime rolls around and you would probably assume that we would be gathering our things and leaving. Not when you have an African parent. Let me walk you through what happens. 

First, they’ll say that we’re leaving, but will continue talking for another three hours.

¨Go on and start the car, I´ll be there soon.¨ Which translates to ¨I won’t be there for another four hours.¨ 

By the time they finally get into the car, their friend is still standing by the car talking for another two hours. 

Then, by the grace of God, we finally leave. I’m sure now you can see why I hate going to parties. Besides, I host my own party. A party for one that is.