Years ago, when I was living in Nigeria, I went to a party with two of my friends. I thought my friends were cool, and by the way they carried themselves, I think they thought so, too. However, I didn’t think so about myself, especially when I was around them. In fact the only reason I knew them and occasionally got to tag along with them was because they were my neighbors.
We were all about the same age, lived in the same neighborhood, grew up together, played soccer together, rode bicycles together, practiced Michael Jackson, Hammer, and New Edition dance moves together, as well as shared tips with each other on how to win girls. Actually, they shared the tips; I used the tips. They never worked for me, though. The only tips that worked for me were the ones that I stuck in my ear. Don’t they feel good?
Furthermore, my friends went to renowned and cool high schools. I went to an unknown and “uncool” high school. The main thing that was cool about my friend’s schools, other than the fact that they were popular in Nigeria, was that they were co-ed schools. I went to an all-boys boarding school—so not cool. At the school I attended, we were banned from having assorted haircuts. Every student’s hair was supposed to be plain. No box, trapezium, pentagon or high-top cuts. With this in mind, what we, the students, usually did was wait till a few days before the school semester was over before we had our hair cut into whatever style we wanted. That way we’d look nice when we got back home for the holidays.
As usual, I had one of those Carl Lewis-type cuts about two days before we dismissed for school break. The next morning, during morning assembly, for whatever reason, our Vice Principal went on a “hair-hunt.” I was one of the victims of his unexpected raid. I felt my confidence dashed to pieces like my hair, which was falling before my eyes as the Vice Principal drove his scissors through the middle of the top of my head like a dump truck driving its forklift into a building. Talk about having a bad hair day.
Consequently, I had to get all my hair cut off. In the early nineties, at least in Nigeria, that style was not in vogue. I’m amused that in the 21st century, despite the competition from cornrows, close cuts are still holding strong, at least for African-American males. Even so, my oblong head does not hold close cuts well. Be that as it may, I was back home from school two days after my bad haircut. Once I got home, my friends informed me of a party that was going to take place and I decided to go along with them.
We caught a cab and went to the area where the party was taking place. It was a house party, and, by the way, we weren’t invited. We were going to crash the party. My friends were decked in Bugle Boy shirts, stonewashed jeans, and Timberland boots. Their haircuts, swagger, and wardrobe helped them look like Bobby Brown. The way I was dressed made me look more like Charlie Brown. My friends looked like they were dressed in 90’s garb. I looked like I was dressed in 60’s garb.
I got half of my wardrobe from my dad: a white, gray, and green striped, long-sleeved shirt, and a “square” navy-blue, woolen tie, which was way out of fashion. Was it ever in fashion? I also wore black, baggy, gabardine pants. My pants were so baggy that you could fit two of me in them. The material for my slacks felt silky, and they were so shiny that a lady could use my pants as a mirror to put on makeup. I was sandwiched between my friends when three attractive teenage girls approached us, and I could feel the butterflies in my stomach. My anxiety was fueled because of a bad experience I had—or never had—with one of the girls. I had a crush on her, and I made a fool of myself in trying to go out with her. Well, she rejected me. (I told you the tips never worked.)
One of my two friends and I had escorted one of the other girls in the trio to her house. She used to live in our neighborhood, too. Though we never chit-chatted, I knew who she was, and she knew who I was, too. The third girl was a mystery to me and to my friends, too. That mystery was quickly dispelled when the girl that my friend and I had escorted introduced my friends to the unknown lady. Again, I reiterate, she introduced my friends to the mystery girl; I wasn’t introduced. My friends did not bail me out, either. I just stood there embarrassed and moping while the girls engaged in a conversation with my friends. Shortly after, I found myself standing alone like the Statue of Liberty, watching my friends and the gals stroll away together toward the house where the party was taking place.
They just left me like I was not there. I was devastated; I felt rejected. My party ended before it started. I managed to pull myself together to go to the party. I wasn’t there long when one of the hosts of the party felt that the guys outnumbered the girls. So he decided to start bouncing unwanted guests. Yeah, you guessed it; I got bounced! I found myself staring at a steel gate which stood between me and the party. I held on to two of the bars of the gate with my head sticking through the bars like an inmate probably once did in Alcatraz. I didn’t really do that—but, can you feel my pain? Fortunately, another friend of mine who also crashed the party kind of bullied and sweet-talked the bouncer to get me back in the party. I appreciated his help, but my party was finished after I felt snubbed by my friends and the ladies who took them away from me.
It wasn’t too long after I got reinstated into the party that I saw my two friends and some other ladies get into a car and leave the party. They left me behind. To be honest, I was happy they did. I did not attempt to stop them because I was not in the frame of mind to handle any slight, especially in front of the girls that they had with them. I had to borrow money from some other friends, who I followed, to catch a bus that would take me home. And to catch the bus, you would have to have the skills of an NFL wide receiver because in Nigeria, “some” of the transportation was such that you’d have to take a dive to catch the bus—still in motion. With that in mind, I was successfully able to pull a Terrell Owens to catch the bus that was going toward my house.
Once I reached my stop, I signaled to the bus conductor, the guy responsible for collecting the bus fare, and alerted the driver to stop the bus. Once I disembarked from the bus I saw a cab also come to a halt at my stop. An attractive young lady stepped out of the cab, paid her fare, and seemed to be heading in the same direction as I was. Coincidentally, I had seen her before. She was one of the prettier girls that I scoped out at the party I had just come from. All of a sudden, the butterflies began to dissipate. The flies disappeared, but they left the butter; in other words, I felt I had some flavor or “flava”. Charlie Brown was given his marching orders, and in came Bobby Brown. With the proper etiquette, I approached the lady, introduced myself, and confirmed that she came from the same party that I just left.
I reasoned with her that since we were heading in the same direction, I hoped she didn’t mind if I tagged along with her. She obliged. I don’t know if she accepted my request because it was late at night and she felt secure with an escort, or she was just being friendly with me; the bottom line is that I got the hook up. My party finally started. We had a friendly and meaningful conversation on our way to our respective homes. In fact, I escorted her all the way to her house before I went to mine. It was about a 30-minute walk to her house and 20 minutes from her house to mine. I don’t recall if I got her number, but that’s beside the point.
My point is that the setbacks I faced with my friends at the party set me up to meet the lady in question. The rejection lured me away from my so-called friends and placed me on the path that led me to someone who accepted me and made my day. This is kind of how God uses rejection to benefit you. I felt rejected by my friends. Since we lived and grew up in the same neighborhood, in a sense, they were like family to me. I still consider them as such. In fact, I don’t hold the incident against them. I was emphasizing more on the rejection I had to deal with.
Though my day at the party started out sour, it turned out to be sweet. My friends, both the males and the females, perhaps unbeknownst to them, clouded me with disappointment, but the pretty girl I met on my way home handed me the silver lining.
[1]O. J. Toks, Rejected for a Purpose (Pennsylvania: Elevator Group, 2010), 97-101.
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