Butterfly Goes on a Mini Adventure

On my way out of the plantation, I grabbed a copy of one of the free London papers. My chauffeur driven ride home was comforting, and even though I was yawning once every 30 secs, it was Friday night, and I felt haunted.

Clarkie is off with her cousins, and so I have a very rare whole, free, weekend with no responsbilities. Except maybe to take out the rubbish and wash up the dishes that had been stinking out the kitchen for the last two days. What was a girl to do?

I read the paper with a cup of tea, and a small item alerted me to the fact that legendary hip-hop DJ Cashmoney, from Philly, was playing at a bar in Brixton. There was no point in calling Suzy Wong, she was baby-sitting for her sisters, it was 12.30am, and I guess probably too short notice for most people. An hour later, I clip-clopped out of the house in my grey suede ankle boots, skinny jeans, and grey pleather Primark jacket to catch the number 2 to Brixton. I guess that hip-hop blood still runs hot through my veins.

Inside it was ram, and there he was. The Legendary DJ Cashmoney. I got a vodka tonic, found a ‘kotch’, and just jiggled my hips to the music. Saw a few peeps I knew, the comedian Toju who plied me with compliments about how good I looked (always welcome after a week on nights), ‘glowing’ he said (that Nars loose powder is the bomb) and ex-RPM dancer and filmmaker Mark, who was sporting a cool new 'black punk' haircut. I touched his head, and as I moved away from him, a ‘plainers’ girl (i.e. not pretty, but not busted) came from behind and looked at me as she made an exagerrated grab for him, as if to say ‘ah my man dis’. Daaam girl. Well everyone have to watch their man, but I understand the plainers girls definitely have to work harder. Plenty manteef deh bout. And in that relationship, her man is definitely the main attraction. I’m just saying.

Cashmoney played a good set, unfortunately the majority of the crowd were quite young, or just people out on the piss, so he couldn’t get that deep. But it was nice to hear some Main Source, KRS1, Eric B, Tribe Called Quest, Nas, Lupe Fiasco and Roots Manuva. I mean hearing any one of those tunes would normally make my night , but all of them?!? I was transported back to that teenage flygirl who wore C17 jeans (a black British flex), purple and white Patrick Ewings, and a purple leather goose jacket in a hip-hop jam all night and never felt hot.

When Cashmoney came off the decks he came and stood right by me, all my London cool went out the fucking window, and I was shaking his hand and telling him how I saw him when he first came to London in 19-long-time. He was cool though, very humble and didn’t act like I was trying to dash him some coochie like Rakim did when I met him. As if. I mean, if you were gonna go the hip-hop ho route, you wouldn’t choose Rakim would you? I mean, he’s a god! It would have been LL. He was the hip-hop pin-up, and didn’t disappoint when I met him. Damn fine ass big-wet-lipped motherfucker. I most definitely would have back then. And I would have broadcast it myself to MOR (Man On Road - copyright S).

I got talking to this stout looking 'red' guy Jason. “Did you used to rap?”. Oh no. My cover was blown. Now I look like a sad has-been bitch in a rave on my jacks. “Yes”. “What group was you in?”. “She-Rockers”. “Oh shit. Yeah.You look the same man.” Why is he lying? I'm nearly three stone heavier, and I have shoulder lengths dreads as opposed to the flygirl cut I rocked back then (Just for the record, Monie copied me). We got talking about music, and he recommended Lupe Fiasco and Omar’s albums (I know. I’m late). We talked about food we liked, in particular Japanese, Chinese and Indian restaurants. And as I live in Vauxhall he said I should go to the Sunday market and visit the Tate Britain, which I haven’t. Ever. Unfortunately as cool as he was to talk to. I didn’t fancy him. I have Mandingo syndrome. I like them tall, dark, and bigger than me. And he was short, red, and bigger, but in girth, not height. So I’m shallow, fucking sue me. But we hung out, danced, and I said I would see him back there in a week when singer Horace Brown (One For The Money) comes to Plan B.

A squat African man walked by me purposefully a few times. I could see he was on a ‘eggs’ flex. He made a beeline for me so I gave him ‘me back, me back, me back, me bloodclaat back’. Translation: I turned away and started to talk to Jason.
“Why are you turning away? The man wants to talk to you.” “He’s not the guy.” “What are you looking for?” “I ain’t looking (lie), and if I was, he still wouldn’t be the guy.” “Why not?” “Because, I know what I like, and dat nah mek it.”

Man blaze women on a regs because of how they look, and I’m sure I don’t escape judgement, hence why I have been single for three years. There’s better looking, slimmer, finer chicks out there than me, no doubt. But I got what I got, and I’m sure it will be enough for someone.

So a couple of V and Ts and a glass of wine later, I leave Jason (“so you ain’t gonna give me the digits then?”) and head towards Morley’s chicken (bwoy come just like Gina Ling). Damn that alcohol. And then the cab office, which is shut.
By now the New Look fashion boots ah kill me to bloodseed and I’m walking like a bimbo with constipation. I head back to Plan B and get a cab off the road. I know, that was a bad move but my foot was so bruk I couldn’t walk no further. Me did look good though. Made a mental note not to argue about the fare. Anyway, I get to my yard then the man tells me £9 to blow’ole. As comedienne Gina Yashere says: “I. Don’t. Fink. So”. I had a £10 note which would weaken my case, but I didn’t care. I was not paying £9.

Butterfly: “You must tink seh me born yesterday! Where are you going with £9?” “
Teefin Cabdriver: Ah, it’s late. So the price goes up.”
B: “Don’t chat foolishness. It’s not bloody Christmas or New Year’s Eve. Do I look like a tourist to you?”
TC: “You know how much petrol I burn to come here?”
B: “Fumes. That’s what you burned, Brixton is at best a mile from here, you can get here on the red.
TC:“It’s only £2, you gonna argue over £2”.
B: “You don’t know my situation? If it’s just £2, then why are you trying to overcharge me.”

I guess he couldn’t take the noise because I paid the £7 with my £10 and got my change. To bloodclaat. Dem nuh ready fe dis yet bwoyyyy.