Polemann residents get a whiff of the big celebration day when PartyLake trucks drive into the street carrying canopies and party accessories. The company had to reach out to their remote warehouses to meet Bandele's needs. Before occupants of the castle shows up, self-appointed supervisors among residents welcome the trucks with smiles and banters. The significance of the day is lost on none.

Another sign of a big day is the signpost at the street's entrance which displays the message: "Polemann Street will be closed from 2 pm till further notice. Road users take note."

Joyous residents cancel their programmes for the day. A few take the day off at work. Others report for duty but return early. The jobless ones gather as early as 7 am, ridding the street of plastic and paper filth.

Cars parked indiscriminately disappear from the service lanes, for fear of losing them completely or in part. Assorted species of hoodlums will flood the street today, all of whom will be celebrating with Bandele. Police patrol vehicles parole the street very early to dissuade talented trouble-makers from getting creative.

While the sun smiles on the horizon, the ambience of Polemann turns festive when the first deejay arrives – to the cheer of youngsters. She sets up her equipment at the roundabout end of the street, dishing out vibes from Big Nuz and Babes Wodumo.

Vans tagged Ulambile Foods cruise through the street, spreading the aroma of freshly made delicacies. While they set up in the space allotted them, residents start taking their seats, dressed in party attire. Employees of PartyRobbots move around taking charge of programmes and security.

The arrival of trucks carrying fresh juices gets the crowd clapping, but the noise reaches soccer stadium levels when Makro Liquor vans sail into sight. The prospect of limitless alcohol slackens salivating jaws, just as some take to the dance floor.

"Awwa! We will drink and die today!" Pius-de-Drunk, a popular street idler says, to the cheer of his fellow layabouts. As words of praises fly about, critics who're usually quick to condemn Bandele's extravagance now switch sides.

The first VIP arrives at 11 am at which point Molefi observes that the street is taken over by guests, to an extent that moving around is a problem. The only open space is the round-about section allotted to entertainers. Arriving VIPs have to wade through the crowd with police escorts. "Watch out for the rascals." Molefi cautions PartyRobbots staff.

Pius comes forward to meet Molefi, hiding his earlier angst for not being given a role in this festival meant to celebrate his hero, Bandele. "We will die here drinking today!" He greets Molefi who only manages a smile.

To mark the party kick-off, music seizes to play at a quarter to two. Akida steps into the castle's balcony, flinches at the sea of heads before blowing a Vuvuzela for two minutes or so. "Pooo!"

Cheers and praises rent the air, after which the deejay resumes playing music, notching up the volume, opting for hip-hop jams as the area turns into a concert of some sorts.

Enter BayanaPinchers, a strippers group meant to entertain Bandele's inner-room guests. They sashay through the street in synchronous gaits, to the admiration of countless drooling eyes.

Restless Molefi checks the audio-visual screens at the five locations – three on the street, one within the compound and another on the lower floor. Confirming them okay, he prepares for his welcome speech – the first item on the agenda.

Bandele is nowhere in sight because PartyRobbots are keeping him incommunicado, leaving Molefi with the choice of making a phone call to his boss. But the lion is somewhere in the inner room. He showed up earlier to welcome his friends at the lobbyroom which the well-resourced interior décor group transformed into a remarkable party venue. Security into the lobbyroom is water-tight. Only special access cards guarantee entry.

"Switch on the displays, please." Molefi, now dressed in a black Vuitton suit, bow-tie et al, calls out to the ElectroWorks staff to make him proud.

"Role out your tapes." He instructs the videographers as if they need to be told. "We want to start now."

Molefi signals to the deejay to stops the music.

The Zuwebaar dancing group moves to the roundabout podium to deliver a good performance. The sight of unclad dancing girls sends frenzy to the crowd who sings along with the popular Soweto-based entertainers. The noise that greets the performance reverberates far into the crevices of the hinterlands.

Peeved by the deafening noise, residents of neighbouring streets ring the police to explain the rationale behind authorising such a huge gathering in the heart of a residential neighbourhood. Wails of police vehicles give assurances that they'll control the crowd, but men in uniform carefully avoid Polemann, claiming not to have foreseen the monstrous gathering.

Much as the celebrant's popularity isn't in doubt, no less a factor is the presence of senior police officers at the gathering, all of whom are dressed up for the function. And of course, the packs of assorted liquor reserved for the police makes disloyalty to Bandele a non-issue.

Molefi grabs the microphone. "Bandele at thirty-eight!"

"Hurray!" The crowd's roar compares with that of a soccer match between Orlando Pirates and Kaizer Chiefs. The VIPs clinch glasses in the lobbyroom.

"Good afternoon, people. You're all welcome to the Polemann Castle on this auspicious occasion – the thirty-eight birthday celebration of Chief Ambassador Bandele de Sergeant – the most notable person on Polemann Street, the most popular man in Orlando and the most recognisable face in Soweto."

Chants of 'Soweto' rent the air. Bandele, in the bedroom, relishes his aide's voice appreciating, for the first time, the lad's wide vocabulary.

"Permit me to say that it's not every day one has the opportunity of organising a function like this. So we decided to make this a special occasion. One that will bring people together for a celebration. We have packed programmes for your entertainment and enjoyment. We will attend to everybody. There's enough to eat, enough to drink and enough souvenirs to go round. Adequate precautions have been taken to keep everyone safe. We worked hard to secure the area. The Police and paramilitary men are all around us, so there's no reason to worry. There are four special hotlines for all guests and the numbers are displayed on the big screens right now. Please dial them if you need anything. Just anything. Once again, I welcome you all to the Polemann Castle on this celebration day. Enjoy yourselves and have fun, ladies and gentlemen."

A thunderous round of applause follows Molefi's speech, after which caterers take centre stage, distributing encyclopaedia-sized menus to the VIPs. One booklet contains twenty-four delicacies, eighteen smoothies and cocktails, plenty of small chops amidst varieties of deserts.

"He must have spent sixteen million five hundred and forty-two rands on this party." One of the residents says on the street. His assertion spurs others to bring out phones used to calculate how much it might have cost to throw such a party. When figures get mixed up, they abandon the task in exchange of plates of rice, chicken, salad and chakalaka, all served with large cups of apple and orange juices.

As they're accustomed to doing, naughty residents divert food and drinks into their houses. The more the service ladies move around, the less the food plates available. The act has no age limit.

An old woman of fifty-seven can't seem to move away fast enough with two plates of rice. "Where are you going with the food," a PartyLake food server asks the old woman who has a ready-made answer: "There are party guests inside my house."

The lady can't complain at what seems to be the norm.

Munching and drinking take a halt when an image of Bandele, dressed in a snow-white tuxedo, appears on the screen.

"Hey!" The crowd yells, hailing their hero. "What a nice man." "The Lord of Orlando." "No one but you." "De Sergeant's true son." "The Lion."

Bandele sits on the custom-made birthday chair placed in one corner of the lobbyroom, to the delight of ululating ladies who watch with their scintillating but querulous eyes, willing to know which of their lot will sit beside the celebrant. None. He waves at guests and they respond cheerily, some with mixed feelings.

Looking pleasant and somewhat overwhelmed, despite his arrogant self, Bandele is lost for words at the turnout of people. Yes, his name rings far and wide, but a situation where the street brims with people isn't expected.

Ladies of different hues revel in every corner of his lobbyroom, many of whom are his exes, business partners, acquaintances or follow-come. Naughty ideas spring up in Bandele's head but he cautions himself – for once.

BayanaPinchers damsels move around to serve the celebrant sushi: four at the home bar, three on the yellow rug, two on either side of the round-glass centre table and the rest bestride Bandele's thighs, each begging him to eat from their hands or cleavages.

"A challenge for the celebrant," someone says, giggling.

Bandele lifts from the chair, plods around with proprietary solicitude, picking an item each from the damsels, chewing as he swaggers on. Soul music regales in the background.

At 6 pm, dusk settling, Molefi orders that the floodlights be turned on. That sends the guests into raptures of excitement. "We'll party and die today," many say in excitement.

Molefi hurries up the stairs to oversee the cutting of the flowery, thirty-eight-layer cake just ferried into the lobbyroom. The crowd wows as the cake displays on the screens.

Bandele flounces towards the table to pick a knife. Many glances around looking for the lucky lady to share the spotlight with the celebrant. With no one in sight, some ladies readjust their attires – pulling their skirts or gowns, retouching their faces, flashing bright smiles or even pampering their hairs. Nothing seems to be left to chance, just to get his attention.

Feeling encouraged and worthy to be with him, Dineo gets off her seat and walks towards the celebrant. Surya follows suit, and so do a couple of others. The unambitious ones watch with restrained relish.

Bandele waves a hand, signifying that they should all step back.

They comply, albeit coyly.

While Bandele cuts the cake at the count of three, upset ladies knock heads together, clapping half-heartedly. Others flap natural or mascara-laden eyebrows. But the deluge of flickers from photographers makes ladies' apathy count for nothing.

No glowing smiles from the queen of the house, no one to emote at being celebrated with her man, no one to drive back tears while waving hands in a birthday this lavish, in a gathering this huge, in a mansion this big and for a man this wealthy. Who does that? Many seem to ask with their eyes.

Nevertheless, guests take turns to snap photos with Bandele who's too happy to have them flocking around him. The more; the merrier.

Photoshoots over, it's now dancing time. Many are already on their feet, shuffling and buzzing to the Afropop songs on air. The celebrant, though not a good dancer, proves to all that he can shake limbs in a coordinated manner, much to the delight of the ladies willing to take the floor with him.

Bandele, wineglass in hand, meets three of his friends who aren't dancing with their wives. Rhulani shoves him. "Mister Celebrant, happy birthday. You're just seeing us now, uh?"

"What can I do? The whole Soweto is here." Bandele glances around, eyes bulging. Rhulani chortles and then draws closer to Bandele's left ear. "You put together a beautiful bash, well-organised and impressive."

"What do you expect? I rule over these people."

The men laugh and clinch glasses, peeking at the celebrant.

"Don't get carried away," Durban-based shipping magnate Rudo blurts. "You don't compare to men like us. Throwing a big party doesn't make you a successful man. Responsibility does."

"I wonder why you have to bring us here when you can rent a hall," Masaba says.

"Don't mind him." Rudo cuts in. "He only wants to show off his mansion – his queenless mansion." He points a derisive finger around. "If you want to invite us next time, a lady should be by your side. All these spendings are a waste of resources." His hands flail. But a peal of hearty laughter from the other three pricks the celebrant's mind.

Bandele takes a studied look around. Most men are here with their wives, some also with their children. Apparently, he's still the odd one chasing after single ladies.

"You're a lone ranger," a politician friend declares. "You don't have a wife by your side and you say you're successful."

Rudo stokes the jest. "You only know how to throw money around. You lack the discipline to raise a family."

The celebrant's smile fades off as he grimaces at Rudo. "What do you mean?"

Rudo locks eyes with Bandele, steeping his voice several notches lower. "No man lays claim to success without a family."

The three men crack up again, shoving and dancing to Davido's new number, 'IF', which get ladies buzzing around.

Rudo's words sink into Bandele's consciousness, but he quickly dispels them as the ranting of a jealous mind. The two hardly get along, unlike others. But even so, throwing stinkers at him today isn't fair. Bandele casts a curious look at Rudo to determine the motive behind the unsought advice which now echoes in his head.

Convinced he has offered the celebrant the best birthday gift possible, and perhaps sensing Bandele's brewing angst, Rudo leaves the dancing floor to join his seated wife who's heralding their two kids. He plants a kiss on her forehead, knowing too well that the celebrant watches. Rudo waves at Bandele, flapping derisive eyes.

For the celebrant, the issue here is not about getting married. He can fix a wedding tomorrow if he so wishes. But looking at Rudo, his wife, who gets him swollen-headed, is not half as pretty as any of the ladies on his CPL, let alone the RPL. Can't he look around and see the varieties of classy ladies dotting the landscape?

Molefi, who's been calling his boss without luck, suddenly shows up on the dance floor. "It's time for a vote of thanks." He says to Bandele who sees it as an opportunity to tongue-lash Rudo and his co-travellers.

Molefi picks up the microphone.

"People, I believe you're all having a good time?"

"Yeeeeaaah!" The crowd yells. The noise outside takes a while to subside.

"We're happy to hear that. The celebrant will now give us a speech. Molefi raises his voice as if in a stadium concert:

"Ladies and gentlemen, permit me to invite the celebrant to give his Thank-You speech. He's no less a person than the one and only Lion of Soweto, by every means a Blesser Extraordinaire.

ATM in the kitchen; bitcoins in the wardrobe

He doesn't count cash, credit card is breakable

Other blessers beware; no one compares

This is Bandele, the old sergeant rises, elevated above contemporaries

Two thousand ladies on queue, their mothers clap hands

The only blesser who blesses other blessers

Orlando bows daily, Soweto salutes every hour"

While most guests clap and rejoice at Molefi's praise words, not a few of them exchange puzzled gazes – especially his friends who don't understand why Bandele should be praised in such manner.

Molefi achieves his aim of getting the crowd to issue resounding applause that will urge the celebrant to make a speech. But then, he recalls that his boss easily gets carried away when praised. Hopefully, he'll stay humble today. He's been quiet all day, anyway.

Bandele receives the microphone, floating in cloud nine at the applause welcoming him. Molefi's words echo in his head. People like Rudo must take a cue.

"People." The celebrant begins. "Everybody, this is the Bandele you know, the Blessers' blesser."

Molefi's face drops, regretting why he didn't rehearse this part before today.

The celebrant continues.

"The one that is well-loved and respected throughout Soweto, throughout the country. I'm a blesser extraordinary. I said it before: I can feed the whole Soweto. I have fulfilled my promise today. Which one of you here doubts that I'm the Lion of Soweto? I'm the only man capable of closing a street in the whole Johannesburg. Look around you, the ruling-party politicians are here. Business people are here. Government contractors are here. All the important people are here. Anybody not here this evening is not important. This is the lion talking. And I mean it."

He pauses, flares his nostrils and looks around, apparently finding no words to continue.

Molefi whispers into Bandele's ears, after which the celebrant wraps up the speech.

"Thank you all for coming. The celebration continues till tomorrow. I have food and gifts for you all. Happy evening."

He hands over the microphone and then raises both hands as if triumphant after a long-drawn battle.

Unsure if Bandele is influenced by alcohol, Molefi yet again regrets not writing a speech. But then, that will expose the celebrant's bad reading habits, even if it would have prevented him from this braggadocious speech.

Molefi feels like doing some atoning.

"Dear People, you've heard from the celebrant. As you can see, he's in a celebratory mood. He really thanks you all for coming around to make today a success. Entertainment continues, but whenever you decide to leave, do have a safe return back home."

The applause which greets Molefi's atonement seems to smoothen any misgivings some might have raised.

Even so, some of the VIPs begin to leave the lobbyroom with their partners, deploring the celebrant's haughtiness. While some overlook the need to bid him goodbye, others wave at him from a distance, pretending to be in a hurry. Their cars, parked far away, seem a good excuse to scurry out of the venue.

However, if departed folks think the party is over, how wrong they are. Ladies in the lower floor fill up the free spaces in the lobbyroom. This is their chance to meet new men – new powerful men, public figures. Service providers serve small chops on gold-plated plates. Assorted wines make the rounds. Music plays on.

The situation on the street is no less entertaining. The amount of liquor gulped is immeasurable. Pius staggers while hanging two Moet bottles in his hip pockets, two Red-Label bottles behind, pouring Hennessey on his head, drenching his hair and clothes. "Today will never return. Let me bath with liquor."

Laughter rents the air.

"Look at me very well: these wine bottles in my pockets are for the future. I'm banking them."

He moves around with the gravitas of the celebrant's relative, pouring alcohol into his breast pocket, soaking body and shoes as though beaten by the rain. But Pius isn't the only drunken one here. Just when the people think they've seen the craziest, another person steps forward to best the previous performer. Obscenities take over for the rest of the evening up till the wee hours of the morning.