As a general rule, and as a need to preserve my sensibility, I don’t hang out in Westlands. But I went recently, to pay homage to a friend who was having a birthday thing, and I was reminded once again why it’s not a place that gongs my bell. At dusk, Woodvale Grove transform into a green ugly vein of profligacy that throbs like a septic wound. If Nairobi is a body, then Westlands is it’s varicose vein.

It’s the gridlocked traffic at 2am, twisted and whorled together like overnight spaghetti. It’s the horde of drunken underdressed girls in their high heels and blood red lips and vacant looks, jaywalking across the road as they cling onto the arms of their men whose eyes twinkle with ideas. It’s the hubbub of the music spilling onto the streets from all the clubs competing for patrons. It’s the long-nosed young expats standing in the cold outside Bacchus and Havana Bars totally disbelieving of their good fortune at being in Africa complete with a gardener and a slender girl with half her tits in his mojito. It’s the spoilt daddy’s boys from Gigiri who crawl by the street in their latest serpent black luxury sports cars, with interior lights switched on so that you don’t miss the face of privilege. And in the air, the smell of sexual anticipation hangs like Limuru fog in July and will remain so until the dawn sunlight blows it away to Kitengela.

I nipped into the new talk of town Aqua Lounge, and found half of Nairobi there, eager to be counted ...... Read the entire article

Men have always strove to build cars that transcend imagination, like the Audi with its four rings that promises to wring all the pleasure from life. Or the Volvo, a sure sign that God only wishes us nothing but safety. The Jaguar, a perilously curvaceous car that was built nude, and has always remained nude in our eyes. Or the Range Rover – my first true love, you won’t find a more orgasmic machine. With these fine machines, man continually proves that luxury will always be borderless.

But the one car that doesn’t have any disclaimer, chokes debates before they start, silences cynics and herds admires into a lifelong cult, is the Mercedes. Even the name sounds highbrow. Like it belongs in a family lords. And it does.

And it’s this car – a Mercedes E200 (2011) – that soundlessly pulls over at the underground parking of Johannesburg’s OR Tambo Airport last Saturday. Sleethingly black. Long. Sleek. Gleamy. Gratified. Hot!

We gawp.

This is how South Africa Tourism folks pick up their guests. This is how they show you that they woke up on the good side of their beds. And their guests are myself and two lovely ladies; Susan Wong from Capital FM and Njeri Chege from Hill and Knowlton Strategies, the PR that put this small media shindig together.

So we, while desperately clinging on our suitcases, stare at the Mercedes for a bit as she stands there on the asphalt, massive wheels turned against the pavement, waiting there like the thoroughbred ...... Read the entire article

I’m in a cyber somewhere in dowtown Kampala. It’s a hot dark small room next to a cereals shop. The aircon blows in dust. If you want cereals from Kampala kindly send me an sms. Like beans. Their beans look healthy and happy, I bet they came from a farm that was full of song and sun. I nipped in here an hour and half ago to write a story, and I did but then some chap who was looking for something I was looking for called and said in a thick Ugandan accent, “you come, I found it” So I left my wordpress open and told the lady at the desk not to let anyone sit on the comp because I will be back in 10mins.

I came back 5mins later to find someone on the comp. Of course my 1,100 words were no more. After near death experiences on bodabodas I have little strength to fight the girl at the main desk. Also she truly looks like she doesn’t give a damn about anything. Not even her hairtstyle. So to calm down I’m going to go to the next shop and look at the happy beans. Maybe even make friends with the owner – who looks like he needs to learn pick a leaf from his beans.

Kampala is hot. I’m here to work. But you can’t really say you can come to Kampala to work. It’s an oxymoron. So you will play too. And ride bodabodas and stare at some happy beans. By the way, this is not going anywhere, in case you are waiting for traction. I’m going to rumble on here for a bit until some guy who is burning for me some bootleg ...... Read the entire article

I’m writing this from Manda Beach, Lamu, under a pagoda. An arms length away is a chilled glass of red, waiting breathlessly to be sipped. I’ve just applied some sunscreen, which means if my kin and kith from shags were to smell me, they would imagine me to be a bit too fruity for their own reputation. Across, in the next island, is the princess of Monaco’s palatial indulgence- it commands reverence. To my left, in a different pagoda is Georges-Marc Andre, a EU Ambassador who I shared a dhow with here from the hotel. He has such swanky Ray Bans that I would have loved nothing better than to steal. But Georges is cool, so I let the thug in me sit.

It’s Sunday, which means it’s the day Lamu House hotel throws a beach lunch at their Lamu House Beach Club at Manda Island. It all goes down a storm. It also means, one of the coolest chaps you will meet in Lamu, Frank Feremans (he owns Lamu House but more on him later) will be walking from one pagoda to the next, handing finger foods and asking if there is anything at all you need with your drink before lunch is served. West African music trickles from the makuti-thatched bar behind as speedboats moor into the beach with more guests. The sun bristles overhead. This is heaven on a Sunday.

...... Read the entire article