Yesterday
was Friday— the last working day of the week for me. Normally, it’s a day I
look forward to going home, taking a long nap, or finishing up some articles.
That’s what a typical Friday looks like, right? Or so I thought.
Last
night, I happened to be in town until late evening, just as the nightlife was
coming alive. The first thing I noticed was the lighting— the streets suddenly
glowed with bright, colourful lights. I tried tracing their source, but until
now, I’m still just as confused. The other thing I noticed was the drastic
change in the dress code. In the blink of an eye, official attire was replaced
with miniskirts and ripped jeans. Now, before you ask— I’m not judging, just
observing.
Earlier
that day, I had overheard some of my friends making plans to go out to a club,
or as they called it, a "joint." They asked if I was interested, and
I gave them the classic non-committal answer: “I’ll let you know.” We all know
what that really means.
But
later, curiosity got the best of me. I decided to call them and ask for the
location. I wanted to understand what made nightlife so fascinating. When I
arrived at the club entrance, I noticed two huge guys— bouncers, I assumed. I
stood there waiting, expecting to be frisked or asked for an ID. But nothing.
Not that I have a baby face or anything, but aren’t underage teens supposed to
be restricted from clubs? Again, I don’t look like a teenager, but at least
pretend to check.
Instead,
one of the bouncers roughly said, “Buda, kama unaingia, ingia— si kuzubaa hapa kama
chokoraa.” That was my cue.
Inside,
bright flashing lights and loud music filled the space— no surprises there. It
took me a while to spot my friends, and from a distance, they looked genuinely
happy, sipping from their glasses. As I approached, they cheered loudly—
probably the happiest they had ever been to see me. I was welcomed and given a
seat at the table.
There
were two bottles on the table: "Decanal Merlot" and "Viceroy."
I was informed that the ladies were drinking wine, while the guys were having
brandy. The atmosphere was lively and carefree— I could see why people enjoyed
it.
But then
came the moment of truth. I declined a drink, and my friends looked at me as if
I had just admitted to a serious illness. "Are you sick?"
one of them asked, genuinely concerned.
Now, I
don’t know about you, but since when did not drinking require a medical excuse?
Still, I played along. "Yeah, my stomach is acting up,"
I replied. That seemed to satisfy them, and they even wished me a quick
recovery— alcohol-induced empathy, I assumed.
By 10 PM,
it was time to go home. To my surprise, my friends insisted on walking me to my
bus stop. I
was the sober one remember?
Their reason? "You’re sick." I had almost forgotten
that I was, but at that moment, it was hilarious.
So, my
six friends and I made our way to the bus station, and I boarded my matatu
home. I wasn’t sure how they managed to get back, but I called each one later,
and they assured me they had made it safely.
Reflecting
on the night, a few questions stuck with me. Has drinking become so normalized that you need an excuse not
to do it? And does it have to be every Friday?
But the
most important question that’s been on my mind is: What excuse will I use next Friday when my
friends invite me out again?