At the bar next door

Where are bars born? On staircases as men and women sit together. In buses and flights. In bed. In restaurants over meals. In the hearts of men and women. I marvel how someone comes up with a name like a Bar Next Door and I wonder how nobody ever thought about coming up with a name like that, because it has a nice ring to it and it's catchy. The Bar Next Door is indeed next door to something, which in this case is Getrude’s Hospital on Nairobi’s Othaya Road, in a new shopping centre.

If you are reading this and you are over 40, stop. Because it’s not for you. It’s for cool children. I’d say the age is early and mid 30s, uppity and woke. People with vibrant Instagram accounts and who stopped using Facebook because it is “old.”

I saw quite a few of the influencers the last time I was there, in their white sneakers and glowing skins and photogenic. The music was fantastic; urban pop, played by a deejay. There is a beautiful terrace-like seating and a gorgeous bar at the end. Parking is ample, safe and well-lit. I ordered mbuzi wet fry which the kitchen killed.

I’m 43 years, “killed” in this context means, the kitchen did a good job. Killed in woke language might mean something else.

It had a youthful bounce to it; upbeat, a place where the sun never sets on youth. It’s already created a buzz, this joint. It’s a place where you go to drink but also to be seen — if you have nice clothes and you can wear sunglasses at night and not get dizzy. Although I had a swell time, I see myself going back, not on a busy Saturday night, but on a random weekday to sit at the bar, on the high stools and have a tipple quietly. I loved their bar.