That was when chapati was still a delicacy. Chapati symbolised festivities. I can’t remember what was so special about chapatis, but all I remember was that you would bite a chapati and instantly experience multiple ‘mouth orgasm’ of sorts.
As a Nairobian, everyone wanted your opinion on politics. And when you talked, everyone cocked ears to listen. At times, someone would be asked a question on a matter they are completely ignorant about, but because of Nairobians’ know-it-all attitude, they would lie through their teeth but villagers took the lie as gospel truth.
Local bar
At the local bar, the moment you arrived, the bar maid jacked upright. The unkempt barmaids ducked to the ladies to spruce themselves up, powder their noses and whatnot. Their multi-coloured petty coats that always hang beyond their hemlines immediately got readjusted. Those who had been sulking would flash you a ‘welcome’ smile, and even struggle so hard to speak broken English. When you sneezed, the bar manager (a clueless chap with absolutely no idea what management is all about) got concerned and would send a barmaid to your table just to check on you, and to confirm that you were OK. Where you sat was always a big deal, everyone jostled for space on your table. And with only Sh1,000, you would fund an overnight binge drinking for all patrons.
At night, you would stagger to a local disco dance to shake a leg. Unfortunately, the dance was always organised by some sly and cunning men, from the DJs, MCs, to the bouncers. They, for instance, imposed a weird ‘entry fee’ in the form of two or three beautiful women!
And if they discovered you had ‘smuggled‘ yourself into the disco without ‘paying‘ that entry ‘fee’, they would fine you heavily or throw you out, of course, unceremoniously.
And boy, women those days, just like today, loved DJs. The bugger always had a bevy of beauties hanging around him, one wiping sweat off his face, another one fanning him...and the other one massaging his biceps and neck. Boy, everyone wanted to be a DJ when they grew up.
After drinking yourself silly and committing all sorts of sins, you just had to go to church and repent. While there, the ingenious pastor had a way of squeezing money fout of rom you. Let’s just call it ‘tithing differently’.
The man of God, after a very punchy sermon and when you just thought he was ending it, would change his mind. He would look around and notice unusual faces, which looked like they had money. He would then declare an impromptu fundraiser to buy the church choir a bigger trumpet! By the time you left the village, you would be as broke as a church mouse.
The Standard
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