You always run into someone you know at Da Bar in Kisumu’s Mega City Mall. Like this older gentry I mistook for a childhood friend’s neighbour who turned out to be “the biggest sugarcane farmer in Nyanza with thousands and thousands of hectares of farmland.” (That’s how he introduced himself).
He was those men in their late 50s who refused to age; he had on shorts, loafers and a money belt. He said he resides in America and kept shouting in my left ear that he went to school with Uhuru Kenyatta in St Mary’s. Even showed me an alumni WhatsApp Group.
“Where did you go to school?” He shouted over the music to gauge my pedigree and when I said Maseno School, he held my shoulder and said, “Ahh, close enough.” He was a lout; drunken, somewhat entertaining if I hadn’t left earlier, and a charlatan.
I saw my friend’s on-and-off girlfriend with a man wearing a ridiculous hat with a feather on it. The feathered hat saddened me more. She sashayed over and asked me where my friend was and I wanted to retort biblically, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Instead, I said, “He’s burying Caesar.” Who? She inquired. Told her he was at a funeral. “Tell him I said hi,”she said. I bought her a tequila and she went back to her feather.
I ran into a client who we are currently doing a project with, the most unexpected sighting so far. I was walking out at midnight, he was walking in. “Karanja!” He reminded me. “From the bank.” Blimey. People passed around us in crashing waves. The music drowned us, great music I might add, by a talented deejay called Deejay Manu.
Da Bar seemed like the happening place, a watering hole for people passing through town who want to see Kisumu’s marrow. Standing out on the pavement talking to the umpteenth annoying Uber driver (Like Ubers in Mombasa, Ubers in Kisumu won't accept the fare on the app. They negotiate.) I finally got my arm twisted to pay more and went to my Airbnb. A small loss against a major win for the night.
