I like writing about bars and clubs. Not because of the alcohol, the skimpily dressed mammas or the partying, but because of the kind of people that are there. Its only in bars that everyone is themselves. No pretending. No second skin. No bullshit… People in clubs say things as they are. If you want to know what someone thinks of you; an honest opinion of the same, take them to a club. Buy one or two if they roll that way and when they are in that state, ask anything you can and you will get an honest answer.
Sometime back, a friend of mine told me that he would prefer to meet his bride to be in a club than in church. This was concluded based on his reasoning that people in clubs don’t pretend to be other people. If a girl loves flimsy wear, she will dorn something shorter than a handkerchief. If she likes to grind and whine, she will surely touch the toes when Konshens commands her to do so.
In his infinite wisdom (which makes so much sense) churches have changed so much in recent times. Its no longer about worshipping, repenting, getting closer to God and, the like. Its now more about who has more and who can do the best job at showing it off. Churches have been nowadays characterized with till ans pay bill numbers, completely deviating from their intended original purpose of bringing people closer to God.
This means that everything has acquired a monetary tag to it. This means that people are more concerned about showing what they have (or lack) than being their true selves. They have something to prove. A culture to slide into.
This means that ladies will dorn ugly coloured, long dresses that sweep the floor with each stride, just because the pastor rebukes short wear. This doesn’t mean they like how they look or how they feel in them. They do it because they suddenly have an image to uphold. A ‘character’ to protect. A probable suitor, a neighbor, or the pastor’s wife to impress. They will raise their hands in worship just because everyone else is doing it, not because the Spirit has taken up their bodies and souls.
To quench my desires of exploration, I head to Thika Road on one Friday evening. It’s chilly, wet but the night is still a virgin. Lots of conquering to be done. Lots of sins to be commuted. Lots of fun to be had. I am warm so I halla my drinking buddy and give him directions on where we should meet.
He shows up and the night begins. The following night we are headed to a graduation some 500+ kilometres away so the night has to be short.
He wants us to do something different.
So we enter this club…
The parking is small. Really small. It is suffering. Its filled and stretched beyond its elastic limit. There are around 3879 cars.. From sleek range rovers to mkokotenis, to shoes and sandals at the gate… That’s the first scene that meets us. We struggle, looking for parking space and because Ned Stark didnt die for nothing, we find some parking space and squeeze between a jaguar and a maroonish Range Rover. We are in a Toyota TX.
We finally make it in. Meaning we get some sitting space among the millions of revellers inside the establishment.
There are four counters. The counters are being tended to by four 30ish looking girls evident by the randomly coloured weaves and wigs on their heads.
At the middle of one of the counters is a tree. A full grown tree. A dark greenish ugly tree. By the visible number of whorls, I can tell the tree is older than 89.5% of the xaxa generation.
The age of the tree sets the mood of everything. The patrons, the waiters the vehicles,and also the music that plays from the speakers. The music is 100% Kikuyu. Not that once or twice incident when a DJ throws in ‘Ni Sori’ for Kiuks in the house; its a full, four minutes plus Kiuk song after the next.
Everyone is on the dancefloor. Almost everyone. The place is full of sponsors, kama sponsor ni kitambi. In this world, CEOs, executives, chiefs of party have let go and are dancing the night away to their favorite tunes. I can tell this from the machines in the parking lot. I feel Kikuyunised, so I stand up and roll to the rhythms.
I feel free as I sing out loud memorised lyrics from my time with shush with no 19ish looking chic checking me with weird eyes. Its a free atmosphere. Time to let go. Time to be yourself at least for once with no world judging you. No faked laughs, no Konshens, no Justin Bieber, just us and one man guitar.
You should try it sometime. Pull away from the BS and be yourself. Its refreshing.