Maybe it’s me, but there’s a certain lethargy with which wait staff in some bars in Diani, Watamu, or Malindi regard you. Maybe they can tell you’re an outsider—Nairobian at worst, with their supposed ill manners and snooty attitudes. (I say their because I’m not from here. I just work here.)
Take my recent visit to Apero Bar in Diani. I hate to be that guy who notices these things, but I was the only Black male client. The others who looked like me were the typical svelte girls with intense eye contact you find in Diani bars. Everyone else was Caucasian. Most were dining, talking softly, sipping wine.
I had finished a triathlon the day before. My friends had gone back to Nairobi, leaving me with a few days to burn before my children joined me. Most evenings, I’d slip into a different bar after dinner for one drink before retreating to my hotel.
At Apero, I took a seat at the bar, my back to the room. The wait staff treated me like a vase without flowers. Not that I was bored. I sat there thinking about my cats back in the village—one social, the other permanently hiding under bushes and the guinea fowl coop.
After what felt like a long time, a waitress, polishing a glass, asked if I had been served. I had several sarcastic responses queued up, but instead said, “No, actually. It would be nice—if it’s no trouble at all.” She looked nonplussed; bored even. She’d just had a baby—I knew this because a leather-faced white man two seats away had asked her how the baby was doing.
It didn’t help that I ordered sparkling water. I must have dropped down to the bottom of the pecking order. But I suddenly didn’t feel like committing to a whisky. The air was faintly unfriendly. I finished the water quickly. The bill arrived even faster.
Outside, the night air was cool as I walked down to Funky Monkey.
