One particularly warm Friday night, I found myself at Cock and Barrel in Nairobi’s Westlands, carried there by the currents of the evening. I'd just wrapped up a masterclass on authorship at a nearby bookshop, my head still spinning with ideas, and needed a drink before the commute home.
The place hummed with energy, mostly a lively Indian crowd whose laughter and conversation wove into the bar's low rumble. My friend Ali and I claimed two seats at the counter, giving us prime real estate: raised stage dead ahead, bar at our backs, and the beautiful chaos of a Friday night unfolding in between.
