His counterpart - a most voluptuous vixen with a very pale face - wore a bewitching snow-white body-hugging dress with no brassiere nor knickers. (Don’t ask me how I knew).
It seemed like a match made in Kilimani, which is where Black Samurai is, on Rose Avenue.
The lift opened to a very chintzy floor decor, where very beefy but friendly men milled about in muscle shirts.
A svelte hostess in a very short dress waited to show us inside. Inside the club, thumping music competed with the decor which featured a variation of white seats, gold-plated furniture, flashing lights and all-round gaudiness.
Fun fact; “lounge” in Nairobi is a euphemism for white seats.
Inside was light enough to see your date's mascara but dark enough for discretion. Strobe lights ran along the ceiling. Everything seemed to flash and glitter.
The main bar throbbed with life and light. There was a monstrous - wall-to-wall - TV screen near a large, dramatic dance floor that shuddered.
All the women were dressed to come out and the men, like me, naturally made great effort to dress up. In jeans. (The ones who weren’t in jeans were not Kenyans.)
Near the deejay booth, some girls squealed on a rotating 360-degree photo booth machine, creating content for social media.
The music was excellent and the service was quite attentive and most tables featured bottles, meaning a long night ahead. People were having a great time.
If you want to listen to great music and feel like you are in a club, please go. If you are big on aesthetics or suffer from epilepsy, avoid. The bourgeois, like my friend Kui, would have been mortified there.
