Kijani Bar at the Movenpick Hotel strikes me as the place you find yourself on a dark, rainy evening, feeling blue and heavy in the heart.
You are seated at the round polished counter, staring into your whisky, wondering how many moves you have left before the bottom falls off.
The bar is the dark type with dark wood and furniture, an elaborate ceiling, and a very busy carpet you can't look at for too long without risking a migraine.
The barman moves about in a silent blur; mixing, pouring, shaking. Because the bar is cylindrical the room feels round, like it’s swirling like your thoughts.
You reach for a packet of cigarettes from your breast pocket and the barman says, “Sorry, it’s a non-smoking bar.” You grumble something and put away your cigarettes. You stare at your phone. Two men walk in with a lady. They are laughing.
The lady has a red purse and a nude scarf dangling around her neck. They pull seats at the bar. One of the men - the burly one - leans on the counter with both elbows and tells the barman, “What do ladies drink here?” You turn to have a good look at the lady. She has a tiny birthmark just below her left nostril. She’s handsome.
Your phone rings and you tell the person on the other end that yes it’s raining in Nairobi, yes that would be less than ideal, and yes, you are fine.
When you hang up, the men are drinking beers and the woman is sipping a cocktail that has the temperament of a Molotov cocktail. You are more tired than you are sad. The rain continues outside, raining on the swimming pool outside. Isn’t that a waste when it rains in the swimming pool?
The bar is suddenly cold but you’re not in a hurry to leave. Not in a hurry to go up to the room upstairs to find your wife in bed with a book, her back turned to you.
You want to take the lift downstairs and walk out into the rain and never come back to your life. Maybe start over on a farm somewhere, raising ducks and feeding doves. That’s the feeling Kijani bar evokes.
