Last Friday, eight of us piled into two taxis into Blantyre. Some of us were going for a girl's night out, with one boy in tow, and one was going for a long weekend with his girlfriend. What unsuspecting Mr. Long-Weekend didn't know that we were entering into a highly complicated and intricate dance to surprise him for his 40th birthday, that apparently none of us knew about.
Ten minutes into the car ride, he tells everyone it's his birthday. Acting faces, everyone.
"Oh really?"
A brief discussion, some jokes, and the conversation moves on. I am sweating.
50 text messages with our accomplice, the girlfriend, a traffic jam, ten changes of plan, a faked telephone argument, and a cigarette pitstop later, we walk into the bar we are going to take over to wait for Mr. Long-Weekend and Ms. Accomplice. We walk right into the bar, four of us ready to make this special, and find Mr. Long-Weekend drinking alone at the bar.
Crap, crap, crap.
I'm sweating, profusely.
We sneak out of the bar without being seen (did he see us? No. Oh come on, he had to have. No, I think we're good. No we should call it off. No we're good. Uhhh...)
We regroup at a bar around the corner.
More texts to Ms. Accomplice. Change of plans. We'll walk in and surprise him. The streamers and the trick candles go back in the bag.
Ok, ready?
I'm still sweating.
We walk in to the bar (he still doesn't see us, where is this guy's observation skills! We're not the most sneaky 7 people you've ever met and this is our SECOND time through those doors in half an hour...). I tap him on the shoulder once we've assembled in a choir behind him.
Surprise.
He had no idea!
Success. I stop sweating, and we have a great night over dinner and drinks.
Happy 40th Mr. Long-Weekend.
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