The guards at the parking lot were really nice. One was a wry fellow, quick on his feet. He directed me to a slot and said, “This is the safest place on earth,” in Kiswahili. A great declaration. I remember thinking about those words as I walked into Quiver.
Typically, I’m not a Quiver guy—which begs the question: who is a Quiver guy?
A Quiver guy is the kind who, when he goes to drink, says, “Today I’m going to turn up.” Which means he’s in his late 20s or 30s. Some 40-somethings also consider themselves Quiver guys but that’s a story for another column.
A Quiver guy buys a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black or Jameson or Martel and works through it with his boys. He most likely wears a hat. He will have a date or he will most likely be with his boys. A Quiver guy says, “babes.” And that’s who I saw at Quiver.
The place was massive. Upstairs. Downstairs. A deejay booth. Huge TV screens. Flashing banners shouting about Sunday Brunches, Executive Reggae Mondays, and Deejays Kym Nickdee—he’s good, I’ve watched his YouTube mix on The Bag.
Partygoers enjoy a Friday night out at Quiver Lounge along Thika Road.
Photo credit: File | Nation Media Group
There are Rampage Saturdays, which we were experiencing. And that’s a word a Quiver guy would use: rampage. The place was thudding, people streamed in from the rain, before long it was difficult to find a seat.
Whenever someone bought a bottle, the waitresses in their short red dresses would weave through the crowd, holding it up above their heads—fireworks, pomp, triumph.
The music that Saturday wasn’t up to scratch. The deejay was all over the place. My companion called it “music you listen to while handwashing clothes.” I loved that description so much I wrote it down.
It rained heavily that evening, but inside, the party kept going. Scores of people streamed in as we were leaving around 11p.m. A Quiver guy would never leave a rampage that early. But maybe that’s how you know you’re no longer one—you start leaving before the night does.
