The gravediggers come with deep darkness the night before the burial. They walk the edges of the boma, avoiding the company keeping vigil under the erected tents, the singing choir, and the mourners in heavy jackets huddled in hired plastic chairs. They are skinny but brawny men with gaunt secretive faces, their digging equipment slung over their shoulders. Their clothes blend with the shadows they walk in chatting and chuckling in their grave voices, just another job for them. Mostly they come after having a few glasses of changaa, so their eyes are wide in the darkness. They smoke cheap cigarettes which they hold with the tip of their darkened fingers. If you are keen you might see them arrive; the glow of the cigarette moving at the edge of the boma as they arrive unseen. Their cigarettes paint firefly trails in the night – morse code for death’s next appointment. Half a dozen or so men, carved from shadow and soil, walking in single file. It’s a beatific tableau; for isn’t death itself merely sad poetry?
Someone, a male member of the bereaved family, will meet them at the corner of the boma and confirm the exact spot where the grave will go. They will stand smoking over this final resting place because they have the whole night, and they understand that digging a grave is not just a job; it is, in itself, a ceremony—one that isn’t rushed.
Digging normally starts shortly before midnight, sometimes earlier. Grave digging is strictly done by men because, patriarchy, I guess? However, men with pregnant wives are not allowed to dig graves otherwise it’s believed their wives will have premature births. Twins are not allowed to dig graves either. There is usually bhangi being passed around. There is always alcohol flowing, a local brew that the imperialists called Illicit to reduce you, and your culture, and sell you something their great grandfather started brewing in 1827 off the backs of slaves. Generally, changaa is a local gin distilled by female master distillers – the Min Aumas and Min Awinos of the village. . A sip is enough to make a hole in your shoes.
A crowd will gather around the grave area, men huddled against the cold, watching other men dig. They will sit around plastic chairs or stand and observe the proceedings under the glow of a lantern. The best part of this exercise isn’t the digging but the conversation between the gravediggers and the villagers. It’s ludicrous and hilarious. Wild stories. Wilder observations. Mass embellishment. Half-truths and drunken lies. Ribbing. Sometimes filthy talk, obscene. Often, a close relative of the deceased, suddenly struck by sentimentality, or a strong bout of grief might hand someone their drink and jump into the grave to dig himself.
But always, always, there is laughter. Dark jesters gather at death’s door for the graveside attracts the liveliest of characters. Dark humour is their specialty. The alcohol helps, as with the weed. It usually goes on until the small morning hours whereupon one will often go off to find a sleeping spot under a car.
That’s how it felt this past Saturday at Calypso Lounge on Ole Dume Road.
It felt like we were digging a grave.
In what seems like another lifetime, I used to live four minutes away from Calypso Lounge. Of course those days it was simply known as Explorer Tavern. I stumbled upon it around 2014 when I had just been orphaned by another bar called Caribana Bar on Lenana Road. There’s a peculiar homelessness that comes with losing your favorite bar.
I had been roaming the wilderness looking for the appropriate bar with a seat where I could hang my coat. I very much prefer bars that aren’t famous or popular; understated, could be the word. Some place not too many people have not heard of. A place that cool kids would frown upon. To mean, a place of conversation, with music just right. A place that doesn’t feature brassy waitresses who are all boobs and ass (not that I mind like boobs and ass, don’t get me wrong) because then the characters that will show up will be a little unsavoury, or maybe a whole lot leering. This lot usually comes with pungent bravado, and loud machismo – and it’s not long before someone kicks back their chair to fight. Or brandish a gun. Or much worse, ask, “Do you know who I am?”
You want a place with a mature barman, not one of them hip barmen covered under a heap of tattoos and muscles, and imagine that they are the main act. You want a barman who speaks less, knows your drink, minds his own business, and knows when small talk becomes intrusive. And you want a bar with a clean bathroom.
Sometimes, finding the right bar is like finding yourself – you don’t know you’re lost until you’re found. I don’t know how I stumbled upon Explorer Tavern, or even if it was love at first sight. And anyway, you never really know when a love affair begins. Love is a pawfooted, it sneaks up on you. Maybe the love commenced when it was raining outside and she walked in with droplets of water on her neck and you wondered if that water would taste sugary if you tasted it. For Explorer Tavern maybe it was the convenience; it was merely a staggering distance from home, hidden at the end of a short road off Ole Dume Road with a garden at the back. Maybe it was the fact that it was a whisky bar before it was anything else. But not the pretentious whiskey bars with stuffy toffs with double chins who point at you with their unlit cigars. A proper working man, whisky bar.
Drinks were not overpriced at Explorer Tavern. You always found your whisky there. In that season I was mad about Oban (still a fine drink) and the price was just right for a 35/36 year old writer in the literary trenches. (You don’t leave the trenches, you merely find better ways to sleep on its grimy nights)
It never felt like you were drinking in a bar, it felt like you were drinking in a friend’s home. If you are the kind of person with friends with big gardens. Indeed, Explorer Tavern was once a big home turned into a bar. The rooms became lounges (I often wondered what sketchy characters drank in those rooms; KRA guys, I suspect). There was an unlit fireplace in a cozy space at the entrance and a short sturdy bar separated by a column. Sufficient windows. They played old-school music for folk who stew in nostalgia and rhumba on Wednesdays – for those who identify love as rhythm, not words. It wouldn’t get too full at the beginning, never too loud to feel the need to move your ear close to anyone’s mouth. Parking was always ample for all the idiots who prefer to drink and drive.
I held court there most Saturdays and some Wednesdays. This was way before the cool deejays started coming over to play. Before the parking lot would get full and the cars would snake all the way up to the main road. Before the cigar lounge, the politicians, and the connoisseurs of cigars, and whisky, with big rings on their fingers to match their big egos. It was a small intimate community. I never once saw a fistfight there. However, I once saw a wife show up unexpectedly and grab her husband by the neck and the cuffs. The man wrenched free and ran very fast past the crowds and tables, disappeared at the back, perhaps jumping over the fence, running to the roadside and grabbing the back of a passing lorry like a turnboy and making his clean escape. It all happened so fast that not many people knew what the hell was happening. I have never forgotten that woman. Never forgotten how strong and stealthy she was but also the reaction time of that man. When they talk of “split second: they had him in mind.
Anyway, their chicken choma and cheese samosas were a holy grail. There was a maturity to Explorer Tavern, a familiarity. You recognised the other patrons even if you didn’t know them. However, at some point, they changed names to Calypso Lounge but I never called it that out of principle. The name heralded the new crowd that followed cool deejays. Suddenly some folks were just discovering it; young-ins who would say, “You go to that club for mubabas?” The nights stretched longer with these new deejays.
Then I moved houses a few years back, to a different neighbourhood. So we grew apart. Once or twice a year I’d nip in for nostalgia’s sake, and it felt a little like running into an ex who was suddenly wearing weaves. It felt natural but also it felt like time had settled between us and we became familiar strangers. The waiters were mostly the same. Alex, my favourite, was always there experimenting with new hairstyles. I preferred sitting at the corner of the bar counter, under the television set, that way you could watch an assassin come in through the door. The few times I went back I’d find the corner reserved and I’d be told, “Fred reserved that.” [One of the directors]. And that’s the thing; you step out for a second and someone else takes your seat. It’s a metaphor of life. You own nothing; not your house, not your job, not your children. Sembuse a stool in a bar?
Last week, Macharia, a friend, told me that Calypso Lounge was closing down. I said, “What? Why?” Even though I hadn’t been there in ages, it felt like a deep loss. Like something was being taken away. It’s like someone taking away a piece of your furniture you don’t even sit on. But there is comfort in knowing that it’s there. “Saturday -25th – will be their last day,” Macharia said. “I will see you there, bas.” I told him. I went to sit by the gravesite.
We had a nice catch of the day at La Salumeria then rocked up after. It was pouring heavily when we ran out of the cab under an umbrella held by a guard. Inside, it was already warm and brown toasted; a murmuring hubbub. Fred had commandeered my spot, of course. I went over and said hello and asked him how he felt, last day and all. He said something about connections and sacred moments and the humility of the bar business. “Now I’m a guy who once owned a bar. I have stories.” I then said hello to Mwalimu John Sibi Okumu seated next to him. He calls me “Mr Jackson”. “Bado unaandika vitabu?” He said through his nose, for that’s where Mwalimu’s words come from. From behind the pillar, Lady asked me, “Is that JSO?” I said, “Yes.” She said, “He looks different in person.”
“TV is an elaborate lie,” I said.
The shelves were echoing the story of closure. The half-to-nearly-empty bottles stood apart, already creating distance between themselves. There was a mournful way in which the barmen moved behind the counter; like defeated soldiers at the end of a battle. The staff was skeleton. My favourite barman, Alex, was missing. I ordered two doubles of Gentleman Jack, the only whisky left apart from Johnny Blue, I think. I waited for some friends who we have shared many special moments with at the bar over the years. Chris limped in a little later, leaning on a girl as a crutch. The girl. “I did a 15km run. Then I played golf in Nakuru today with an injury.” He explained the limp. Ben, another friend texted to tap out. He said being in a bar would “trigger” him. “I’m not strong enough to be in that space now.” He wrote. He’s trying to stop drinking and smoking. Very understandable and, really, about time. He’s a much better person for it. The rest of the punks didn’t show or say anything, typically. One of them would text me in the morning and blame the rain because their hair is precious and would get spoiled in the rain. (They are bald) I don’t want to mention names but he’s a dentist. The other one works for KRA. (On brand).
The music was low. More people came in from the rain, zipping up their jackets, and joining their friends at their tables. Man City was bloodying Chelsea’s nose up on the TV screens. Some of the furniture featured big “SOLD” stickers on them. The seats we sat on were already sold. You wondered how many bums have sat on a stool that has been there for 13 years. How many of those people are dead, divorced, remarried, wealthy, broke, sad, happy, or have had their appendix surgically removed? Barstools are merely musical chairs.
At some point in the night, I went out to the verandah to stretch my legs and look at the rain. Makori, the bouncer, was standing where he had stood for as long as the bar had been standing there; at the entrance. He’s one of the longest-serving staff, employed a few months after the bar opened 13 years ago. He’s a bear of a man, towering, black somber suit worn around the shoulders and sleeves. Darkness also wears out clothes. We stood there and looked at the rain. I asked him, “How do you feel about today?” He shrugged his heavy shoulders but didn’t say anything for a bit. Just when I was thinking the shrug was the answer he said. “Things end, but that’s the only way we’ll know what tomorrow brings.” I nodded. Philosophy lives in each one of us.
“What will you remember about it?”
He contemplated this question. “The people who walk in here.” He said. “All manner of people. All sorts of people. Good people. Bad People. Friendly people. Rude people. People come here carrying all manner of things.” He paused. We looked at a lady reverse her car, and opened the door so wide it hit the car parked next to it. I winced. Makori didn’t. His hands remained held behind his back. She spilled out of her car. She was high, I could tell by the way she gingerly clumped up the staircase and fist-pumped Makori before walking in.
“That’s not alcohol,” I said.
“It could be anything,” Makori retorted. [Note: people only retort in books]
We settled into a silence before I pierced it and asked him. “Whatever happened to Strong?” Strong was one of the bouncers there. He told me Strong moved to the UK. “Works in a hotel now.”
“Good for him,” I said.
“Yeah.”
The rain was now coming down in slow lazy needles. It felt like the sky was stitching the earth with strings of water, sealing all the wounds we have caused it.
“You have children?”
“Yes, three.” He said. “My youngest is in Grade Two. The other is in Grade 8. My eldest is actually at the University Of Nairobi, studying Gender Studies.”
“Doing well with them, haven’t you?”
“Yes. All my children have gone to private schools. Education is very important to me. I have a bachelor’s degree in Education myself.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. I got my degree while standing here.”
“Really?!”
“Yeah. School during the day, work at night. I’m registered at the Teachers Service Commission. Got my certificate last year; History and CRE.”
“That’s impressive. What’s your TSC number?”
“1094793”
“My parents were all teachers,” I told him. “Do you plan to teach one day?”
“Maybe.” That heavy shrug again. “Yes. It would be nice.”
We talked about what that entails, to school children and get your own degree as you work a bouncer six nights a week while you also keep the wolf from the door.
One of the directors walked out. Makori immediately stood upright, like a soldier in a passing parade. The director was half the size of Makori. We are all half the size of Makori. Understandably, the director had had a bit to drink so he was a bit shaky on his feet. He reached for Makori’s hand with both hands and told him something encouraging. He then turned to me and said, “Oh, Biko, I didn’t recognise you in a hat!”
He reached for my hand with both of his and he shook. “This is it,” He said.
“This is it?”
“The end.” He gasped. “The bar.”
“Oh yes. How do you feel?”
“It’s time,” he slurred. “It’s time. It’s been good but it’s time. Everything has happened here, everything, good, bad…everything. I don’t know how I feel but it’s time. It’s time. You know who’s happy, though?”
“Who?”
“My wife.” We chortled. He was still hanging onto my hand. “Well… it’s time. Come over to my place when you go to see your relatives. We will have a whisky in my gazebo.” He walked out and was swallowed by the rainy darkness. We watched him get into a dark wet car which took him away.
“Well,” I turned to Makori. “Good luck.” We shook hands and exchanged numbers.
At midnight we got off our stools and faced the rest of the night. I don’t go to bars looking for answers or friendships. And certainly not for love. I have found many things in bars – ideas, lust, opportunity, philosophies, sore throat – but I have never found love in a bar. I have gone to a bar when I’m hungry, happy, or thirsty but I have never gone to a bar when I’m sad. When I’m sad I stay away at home, like a dog that hides to die. So I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t sad leaving for the last time when I got into the Uber. I was reflective, sentimental. I turned back in my seat and looked at the building one last time, certain that I would never be back there unless they turned it into a place that sells chapos. “Next time I see this place, it might be another soulless apartment block with occupants who kill their cactus plants. People who’ll live here will never know they’re sleeping on top of thirteen years of memories.”
“Jesus,” Lady said. “It’s just a bar.”
***
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