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