AfroHouse and the Slopes

fictional non-fiction, inspired by the rise of “old money” ski tok. there is no i, for i is all who dare to think and ignore on the slopes. 

I Do Not Own Arc'Teryx, But I Have Known Africa 

I have since come to learn that when Snow People are in the snow, and on the snow, they pierce their skis through the stagnant air to the beat of the latest Top AfroHouse Hits. Techno bongos and tribal war cries escape precisely eight Bose F1 Subwoofer speakers, filling these coked-out zombies with just enough uncivilized vigor to partake in civilized words I had once upon a time never heard before: Sabrage, Black Diamonds, and Following Rivers the Lykke Li Way. 

We were in Aspen when I first realized that The Rest of The World was a vibe to be felt, to be heard, a general idea to be known, to be fantasized about that lacked the specificity of Apres Ski in Val Thorens. So in my final retaliation, I specifically took out the Naira Bill stained with the oils of the Global South that had once birthed it and me, placed it to my nose and then promptly upon the line of pure Colombian powder that laid before me. 

“Tomorrow, I will hit the Bunny Slopes!” 

I guess before my high, I wanted to attempt to pierce, with my voice not my skis, the EDM-ized Ivorian chant of On dit premier gaou n’est pas gaou / C’est deuxième gaou qui est niata (They say the first fool is not a fool / It is the second fool who is a fool).