WORLDS LOUDEST LIBRARY
Last week was a good week.
I don’t remember what I did on Monday and Tuesday, which reminds me of a theory that that’s a syndrome of my current almost excessive connection to nature. But on Wednesday, my friend Zuma called me over to his digs to reconnect on an old business idea. After derailed and deranged matatu rides, I arrive in two pieces to a surprise of an S35 cooling like a giant snail on his little lawn. Zuma works hard and plays hard, a case whose evidence is the S-Class Benz, the eclectic blend of premium whisky brands on his cellar and other things. One piece of mine is hungry as fac. The other is down for party like the sole of a carpet.
So we drink and talk and eat and drink and talk and I sleep.
In the corks, I bathe I eat we clean Zuma’s lawn because brothers that clean lawns together make more money to buy bigger lawns together.
The day somehow ends at dusk because after work (which is actually just me looking for a job), I was seen cutting through the dark like a dark knight, only that I was hunting for my dealer. He has a way of changing the position of his gate so people think he moved. After that, I occupy Odiero’s couch because why should I go home so far away when his digz is just around the dingy Corner of Da Great-just 30 bob away from my offey? He’s the latest of my friends to cross the broom which kinda gives me the chills but hey, with the chills of July, I have no more chills for societal conservatives. Marriage is for the old at heart and after all, my future ex-wife is probably still playing jenga in some baby care that will have turned into a bar by the time she’s my klande.
Speaking of which, raise your hand if your kindergarten is now The Hood like Adam Kiboi, or if your former primary school is now the New Muthaiga Shopping Centre, like Iloti. Me I went to old dilapidated government schools but one of my childhood playgrounds is now Java Upperhill. Do you now see part of the reason why we don’t have legitimate history as Africans sometimes? We just want to do things in the fastest, funkiest ways possible. That’s why we’d rather drink Obama Cane instead of some This [insert brand here] brewed in smoked casks, follows a century long tradition of distilling to a crisp taste of our founders who mated with dragons.
The next day, beautiful ones, akina Nyambu Fifs and Sandra Chege have organized thatHomeboyz Radio and G-Money come to do their morning show from our office. For some reason, I had gone to bed early-in the morning because I was learning the new app for making paper clips disappear from high-end clients so that I don’t go out of business. That means that I came late, which is every lady’s hope-most of the time. But I’m not late because the programming needed us the office folks to be on air much later than I had come. I meet Ro of Pmbc Library (whose farewell party got botched by cops on Sato), installation artist Lorna Ng’eno of Kinu Africa and Ray Mwihaki, the brain behind psychedelics such as Kaki.
The show goes well, we even get served breakfast which would be heaven for any bachelor having to leave his sty on Friday morning after Thursday Night Live or Hip Hop Rapsody.
I leave the office early because my old theatre days friend Frank Abong’o ofWhat’sGoodLivewants to commune at their studios. There, there is loud music and everyone just chilling. James Bong Gichuru of #ShengTalk is chill and wise as usual with le beu Aria, sizzling hot beside him in a vintage montage outfit, the type only won by ballsy babes, like Madonna.
Abong’o is in a business meeting as usual as ServHis gets served his deserved measure of ass whooping on a ping-pong frenzy. Suddenly, Ciku, the cool mutual friend turned my own and the cool team of producers (I forget names, refer to first paragraph) tip me to the side as a trinity of male miniature dogs dry-shag one another at our communion.
People start coming in, I see Camp Mulla’s Mikey Mutooni join akina Eugenio and Zain Armstrong as I sip away to Chiromo Lane-a new location Rashid of Roots International had discovered and took me on his racer bike to baptise as The Chemist because it’s original name is just too small and shady not to ignore. Nairobi Underground andKlankollektive are throwing a maiden party there for the virgin time because it’s the newunderground venue in town. The Nairobi Party Fraternity is also losing Antonio to Amsterdam and he agrees to have his last yard party in Nairobi with us, so I’m on the decks to play some dub because Bad Mambo Productions is the new kid in the events block. In their Bad courtesy, they are bringing UK’s heaviest and Bad-est sound systemMungos Hi-Fi to Nairobi for one hell of a party on October 10th.
The party goes well, everyone is there, akina my X but Y?
I go to wee-wee on a wheel in the wee hours of the morning when it hits me that people are going home. The party is officially over at 4am. Before I can think about my comb which I had forgotten in Rakesh’s toilet while trying to look good because I like looking good, David Cecil of Bad Mambo suggests that we go his digz. So we chill with drinks and go to bed at 8am, talking about what we again talked about at breakfast because he didn’t remember shit from last night.
At kedo afternoon, I finally crack my code to find the location of Wachira Njagi’s#MremboSafishidig. After a cool pikipiki ride, blacking out in a jav and unsuccessfully directing lost drivers trying to pick me up, I eventually get to the party. Sage is lying on the grass looking extremely good accompanied by the beautiful Kalahi and Hulda Serro. Of course I’m late because Wachera has hijacked the mind, body and soul of each and everyone at the event by her speech by the time I settle down.
Soon after, she invites me to play some music, which was my duty to this cause today but a bunch of kids wanting to listen to sijui Willow Smith and Meek Mill won’t let me selekt in peace. One comes to tell me that her friend (read crush) wants to dance to “Naija”. I say I don’t play that shit as I cue in Weche Tek-written by Enos Olik, sung by Dela and produced by Wawesh Mjanja. Hiyo ndio ujanja-my ninja.
The sun fast hides its face in its hooded sheath of golden clouds and I’m eventually dropped by akina Syoks in a random parking lot in town before I get lost in the dark around the Hilton. I hook up with Taz and his blood for a flood of booze and exchange of brain juice. It turns out that Taz, Mike my computer guy and a salsa dancer called Arnold whom I had met on NYE party know so much about evolution of language, History and other nerdy things.
We agree to start a pod-cast before Jakababa picks us up-up Ngong Road.
12:00am: WLL POLICE RAID
I gather my thoughts and vision as a police car is parked at the Creative’s Garage gate. I’m like WTF? But I walk in any way because that’s how I make money-selling bad news. At the entrance, I learn of a police raid on WLL for either playing loud music after the licensed time or for convening an illegal meeting. I don’t know, either or none of those.
It turns out that some douches from the neighbouring apartments were fighting on the street so the watchie called the police who as usual, like the fire fighters, arrived long after the fighters had probably made peace even. So they turned their attention to Creative’s Garage where the World’s Loudest Library was throwing their monthly book swap party and reading.
Peter, the good sound technician is arrested and made to carry the whole mixer as evidence for “playing loud music”. And we’re just there like, so does it mean that one can also be arrested for making illicit brew because they were found with water? It’s that kind of ambiguity.
Ray immediately launches a fund drive for 20K or they (cops) take Peter to the cell. Everyone thinks that we can’t let them take Peter with them, so we all contribute our transport monies so that Ro whose farewell party just got ruined has to drop us all home on Sunday morning before he catches his plane to Boston.
As we discuss Boston on the way home, it turns out that the only thing I know about Boston is Boston Legal and that it’s that place where skinny Kenyans always win marathons.
Storo by @RonjeyRocks