On the evening of Saturday, October 5, 2002, as the daylight savings time was reaching its climax, one of the evenings that happens every now and then when I drive around town to see what is happening.

I had no destination. My first stop was Midnight Special, a popular bookstore that sits on California's Santa Monica Promenade. The place is open twenty-four hours. There, all books, whether in Swahili, Twi, Bavaria, Finish, Hebrew, Adangbe, Igbo, Ga, Hausa and Yoruba, can be ordered within weeks, that is, if it is not found in the bookshelves. I spent some time combing the shelves and glanced through some book reviews--the conservative Commentary Magazine, the superb Hebrew journal, Azure and The New Yorker Review of Books. Interesting, lively and a literary environment, the sweet breeze, a stone throw away from the celebrity studded Santa Monica Beach, made my day. The Promenade, at Santa Monica, the best establishment of its kind in the Yankiland, is more than a show, sometimes pretty much busier than the Sunset strip and Hollywood Boulevard.

 

But life on Hollywood Blvd., and its surrounding gay and lesbian communities, is more like a night life, patronized by tourists and freaky club goers - from Hip-Hop, lap top dancing, to salsa, you name it - it's all out there in polluted and morally outrageous Hollywood.

 

Unlike Santa Monica Promenade, which is also patronized by tourists, with many bookstores and eateries sitting here and there, it is more often frequented by a clientele and groupies from show business and the movie industry; and from the intellectual elites to the working class community. After a brief tour of the compact bookstore, I walked past the meeting room known for the academic and literary heavyweights that frequent it, to the counter where I checked out the latest issue of GQ (Gentlemen Quarterly) Magazine to see who is wearing what in the Fall. On my way out, I noticed a big crowd down the street, next to Barnes and Noble, on Pico Boulevard. It was a free live jazz concert ensemble featuring some around-the-area local jazz vocalists, vibrophonists and windists. Being a jazz enthusiast, I joined the crowd and had a "hell" of an evening watching this local jazz group display the old trick of combining classical jazz with Afrobeat. The atmosphere was very entertaining, my kind of crowd, to tell you the truth.

 

The time was about 7:45 p.m., time pretty much running out, and I had to leave to see what else was happening around town. I took a walk down to 3rd Street where I parked and drove back east on Santa Monica Blvd. heading toward Hollywood where all the trappings of motorcycle party makes Hollywood another sin city: hundreds of bikes, leather boots, tattoos, hot chicks and good old-fashioned rock and roll, the kind of white-trash rap-rock Kid Rock invented, blasting all over the place.

 

When I got to the intersection of Santa Monica Blvd. and La Brea Avenue in Hollywood, my phone rang. I was at the stop sign and about to make a left turn on La Brea Ave., to see what the gists and vibes were all about at the famous Whisky-A-Go-Go in West Hollywood. However, I pulled over after I had made the left turn to receive my call. The call was from non other than my cousin who had wanted to know where it's been "jamming" or who was throwing a party. It's Saturday night in Los Angeles, remember? I told him my location and that I was heading to Whisky-A-Go-Go to see if BiafraNigerian Jimi Hendrix would be performing and displaying his Hendrix-like finger-tapping of his lead guitar.

 

He said: "Ol' boy, meet me at the 'Mercedes Benz Boyz Club.'' For those who do not know, "Mercedez Benz Boys Club" is the nickname to an African Restaurant, Saaris, located at the corner of Hillcrest and Kelso, in the crazy crowded downtown Inglewood, California, the original home of World Champions Los Angeles Lakers. The restaurant is another eatery for BiafraNigerians from all walks of life. Since I hadn't had anything for the evening, I made a swift about-turn, not minding the bad cop image of LAPD, heading to Inglewood and looking forward to a hot meal of utuna ji, pounded yam and edi kai kon, the popular Calabar vegetable soup. He placed my order as we talked it over on the phone.

 

I arrived there a little bit behind time. When I walked in after a frustrating ten minutes driving around-the-block to find a parking spot, my food was ready waiting for me to do justice to it. The faces there weren't familiar, and the patrons calm and glued to the big screen TV set watching the reviews on ESPN, college football played all day and into the evening. Man, what a spellbinding day watching college football, switching from channel to channel.

 

I had already discussed on the phone earlier with a boyhood friend, another bare-bodied hot-dog eating college football fanatic. He had predicted Notre Dame and its new coach, Tyrone Willingham, would "whoop Stanford's bad …." They did. Willingham's 31-7 rout of the Cardinals listed him among three other Notre Dame coaches to open 5-0 in their first seasons. He said, " I cannot wait to see the UCLA Bruins and Oregon State Beavers game." I told him "I can't wait, either." Boy, I almost had a heart attack when the Beavers led 14-0 in the first five minutes on a game-opening 80-yard run by Steven Jackson and a shocking 83-yard blocked field-goal return by James Weathersby, Thank God, the Bruins overcame the Beavers in 43-35 thriller.

 

I probably would not be writing this piece by now had the "green leaves" Oregonian Beavers won. Also my friend soothsaid with confidence that  "Florida will demolish Mississippi." He was wrong. I watched Mississippi's defense shut down sixth-ranked Florida forcing quarterback Rex Grossman to throw four interceptions for a 17-14 upset victory. College football was the theme of the evening at Saaris.

 

The dining room at Saaris is what might be described as casually serious (or perhaps seriously casual), a small room of four four-seater tables, three two-seater tables, and two six-seater tables behind the bar with four stools, in which on this particular evening the place appeared like several black tie looking corporate wannabe groups seemed to be having serious business over meals.

 

Well, after the battle with utuna ji and edi kai kon soup, news came in that a  birthday or christening party was being thrown at Hollywood Park Casino, on the sixth floor. My cousin who is not fond of BiafraNigerian parties, its weariness, its local and cultural pattern of flowing gowns and spraying money in-your-face, would call it a night and go home or stop by the newly-opened Dynasty Club which is a block away from Saaris. He made up his mind but I didn't. When we walked out from Saaris, he drove north on Hillcrest which leads to Dynasty, while I drove south via La Brea Ave. to Century Blvd., finding myself on the valet parking of Hollywood Park Casino. I was enjoying Blue Oyster's "Joan Crawford" blasting from my car stereo when the valet attendant walked to me and said "ten dollars, sir!" I dipped my hand into my jacket's inner pocket, brought out some cash and paid him. He gave me a tag.

 

Hollywood Park Casino is electric, now more like the sin cities - Las Vegas, the Indian reservations and Atlantic City. It's hard to figure out who is a gambler and who is a whore. Everyone seems to either be buying or selling something; except the colorful head scarf, red caps, and flowing gowns, an indication some African "chiefs" are throwing parties upstairs. Other than that, the place is a house of 24/7 freaky reggae dubbers, gamblers, and "whisky and whores."

 

As I walked pass the glass door, noticing a staggering crowd of gamblers, disco freaks and whores, I made a left turn and marched down the hallway toward the racetracks, then took the elevator to the sixth floor. I rode the elevator with two couples who "yanned" in thick accented Igbo-English. They did not recognize I was Igbo, talk less a Nigerian, until I said "Daalu nu!" They starred at me, still thinking I was a Yankee.

 

Off the elevator, and to my right, was the ballroom. I trooped in and did not recognize a single soul of "chiefs" wearing Yoruba-Hausa-Fulani outfits until a familiar face popped up exclaiming "ol' boy na your eyes be this, where you come go now, man no dey see you again?" I never see this kind party wey you go pay money to drink, na wah-o," he said. I went past the counter where the drinks were sold just to take a good view of the ballroom. I sat on a small chair while the chairman of the occasion, an American-based "chief," addressed the audience. The party was thrown by a couple celebrating their babys' first  birthday, who was born months premature and had little chance of surviving, according to the "chief" who was the honorable chairman.

 

Notably, I had no idea what part of Igboland the celebrant came from until another familiar face approached me and asked if I was from Mbaise. I told him "no."

 

Anxious and curious, he asked again, "Where are you from?"

 

I told him "Amazano," which puzzled him and in turn I asked him: "Are you from Mbaise?"

 

 He said "Yes." Then I asked him: "You must know Biafra?" (mentioning the world renowned Biafra by his last name).

 

 He said "Yes, brother 'Biafra' is here with his entire family."

 

 I asked him, "Can we locate him, I wanna talk to him?" He said "of course!"

 

Next, we walked down the entire ballroom and could not locate Biafra. Biafra left earlier, probably before I arrived the flowing gown and spraying money in-your-face event. I was there for about a little bit over an hour and saw many more familiar faces including some of my distant cousins who hail from my Amazano community. On my way out was the ushering of  Emily-nwanyi-na-ebi-ego-like dancers, who began karaokeing the Yoruba popular anthem:

 

Oshe, oshe-o, oshe-o oshe g`oo...oshe, oshe-o, oshe-o oshe g`oo, thank you, thank you, thank you and thank you very plenty.

 

That alone turned me off. I wondered if this was a Yoruba owambe party or an Igbo-related bash. It made me look like a saint. A black folk listening or reciting Ozzy Osbourne's Black Sabbath. As a result, my appetite for partying all night was killed seeing how the efulefus, the worthless bunch among us have been selling us out at all cost.

 

Nevertheless, I took my "bad ---" out of the pay-for-your-drink and watch the "chiefs" and their lolos, princesses dance joyously to ose-owambe music to another function organized by Enugu community in the Los Angeles area. The venue was a ten minutes drive from Hollywood Park. When I got there, nothing really changed. There were more flowing gowns than I could have imagined.

 

With all this, I took my frustration of the night to another level. I decided to check out all you can eat buffet and night club called Little J's, in the heart of downtown Los Angeles. There, the parking was free even though a cover charge of fifteen bucks and a valid identification admits you, it was finally my perfect place of the evening, and I loved it.

 

Little J's has four dance floors and a live band stand. Temptations, Four Tops, Carl Carlton, Roger Troutman's Zaap, Ohio Players, Buddy Miles, Dennis "Don't Look any Further" Edwards, Paul Lawrence Jones, Evelyn "Champaign" King, Alisa Peoples, Chaka Khan, James "JT" Taylor, and many other old schools have in the past stopped by to pay homage. I settled at the porch where a local rhythm and blues band was entertaining for the night.

 

The crowd, the music and entire environment made body and soul one. There was no hard feelings, no intimidation, no red cap "chiefs," no flowing gowns, no pussy-footing, but fun all night long. I ate all I could, danced my blues away to the music of Shalamar, Lakeside, Brass Construction, Teddy Pendergrass, Earth Wind and Fire, James Cotton Band, David Joseph, Irene Cara, Sisters Sledge, Gap Band, Bootsy Collins, and Mr. Funk himself, General George Clinton's "One Nation Under a Groove."

 

By 3:30 a.m., I was totally satisfied and exhausted, ready to go home for a well-deserved Saturday night after nights of searching for a groove.

 

Little J's is not a cheap place, but it's not expensive either--the fifteen bucks cover charge, the glamorous women that graced the "joint," the all you can eat at no cost kitchen, and the ten bucks a drink was worth the night; better than pay-for-your-drink to watch our "chiefs' in flowing gowns, and our princess' reciting a Yoruba national anthem.

 

Who knows, next time, the Emily, nwanyi-na-eb-ego-like dancers may be reciting Ebenezer Obey's classic "Alhaji Danjuma, na Agege, Alhaji Danjuma, na Agege, Alhaji Danjuma, na Agege..."

 

Odi Egwu!