There was a time when clubbing was a 4-day weekly occurrence for some of us. This was when we were noticeably younger.
On Wednesday we stumbled into Rock Night at Carnivore early enough to catch the “BOGOF”(Buy one, get one free) and drown in Tusker. Thursday night, we’d complain about the entrance fee and yet still wind up at Sikiliza with those USIU folks. Friday we were somewhere in Westlands being sponges of cheap alcohol. We drank like properly drained sinks, smoked like buildings on fire and occasionally stopped to bite something before continuing with the boozing, huffing and shooting pool. On Saturday however, we would club hop. No dedication whatsoever. Go from K1 to Pavement to Crooked Q’s, to whatever else anybody mentioned when we were near the entrance or exit of a club or bar after our mandatory 25 minute stopover.
And then at 6:30am, we’d go get food. How we always succeeded to find an eatery at such obscene hours was always beyond me. This was before Nakumatt was 24Hours and generally, you’d have to eat Nyama Choma and Ugali behind some random kiosk on Wayaki Way or somewhere in Nairobi West or South B. Either way, we’d dine and sober up slightly, sharing war stories and conquests, recounting tales of the nights past. Sometimes we’d go for Soul at K2 on Sunday night, but most times we spent the day watching basketball, playing video games, resting and recovering.
One day, at about 8am on Sunday, we were eating at YMCA when someone proposed that we should go to church. Alas, it was indeed the Lord’s day, and we were dressed…well, we looked decent enough. At the time it seemed like a good idea.
So it was that 4 very hungover heathens made their way to St. Paul’s Catholic Church, giggling and ouching at their headaches. Back then St. Paul’s would get packed pretty damn quickly, and the likelihood of being one of the people standing at the door was extremely high. But we didn’t even quite remember what time mass started, so we got there in very good time and got seats in the darkest corner of the church because hungover people are like vampires. Sunlight = no bueno.
While our heads were hunched over, we didn’t notice the other people entering the room, as we sat there replying to text messages and laughing about nothing. Then I lifted my head up to take a good look at the room. After I adjusted to the light, I realized something. A lot of people’s heads were bent down too. Initially I assumed they were praying. Then I realized that someone must’ve thought we were praying too. In that case…..
“Somebody in this room must be hungover. ” I thought.
So I began looking for familiar faces and wouldn’t you know it, the girls we were SMSing were in that very same room doing the very same thing we were. In fact, there were several clusters of people from the night before there. Outside, there were surely more. We had turned that holy house into an after-party detox.
And this is still the case today. A friend of mine explained that he used to do the same thing, and as I was driving past his church (Pentecostal on Valley Road) I saw it. Across the street were a group of very inebriated chainsmokers laughing and talking about the night before.
This leads me to wonder, where does one find “good” young people anymore? Church-goers are either fundamentalist, sectarian, hungover, or unclassified. Partygoers use Facebook, and that immediately disqualifies you from being in the selection(more on that later). Campuses are basically an orgy waiting to happen and nobody wants to talk anywhere else.
I’m glad I’m not looking for a wife amongst this lot.
For the rest of you, good luck.