In Particula

Ladies wear little black dresses to the clubs (or a variation of it) and guys buy bottles of Jack Daniels (or a variation of it). The bottles sit on the table, basking in the changing neon lights of the club, steadily dwindling into glasses over ice and sometimes diluted into an ocean of soda. It is the new order of things but this new order is leading to the death of the night scene. A night scene that has been so vibrant over the past few decades in Nairobi and dwindled in my early twenties and now spurting out its last breath in short outbursts of dry coughs. Wheezing heavily, longingly looking at its past, tears in its eyes and shaking its head that the next generation will not come to appreciate it for what it was.

Talk to anyone leaving the third floor, the infamous thirties, guys that are flirting with the fourth floor or are yet to embrace the distant warmth of the early forties. Guys with a rasp in their voices and sure demeanor and ladies with eyes gleaming with memories unclouded by new responsibilities of mortgages, children and marriage. These guys must be the last party animals to have existed in their generation and with them is dying a party legacy that we ought to revive before it is too late. Did that sound too dramatic?

This is the generation that referred to raving as hanyee, a word that sounds as cool as an estate in Wangige. A word that has lost its shine over the years replaced by much cooler words, words that can fit into a conversation effortlessly while still chatting up a bird on Whatsapp. But this generation wears that word like a badge of honor using it frequently especially when around youngens like myself. Never too shy to boast of how back in the day they hanyeed like the world was about to end. They even use it in reference to now. Though most of them are now settled comfortably into their careers, families and businesses. Moistly driving their second motis (what they call cars) and reminiscing back to when Toni Braxton would set fire to their loins by letting out a single vocal over the stereo.

These guys bumped to the likes of E-Sir and K-Rupt when South C was really at its finest. They could rock out the house in an oversized t-shirt, baggy jeans, head band or durag and have the time of their lives with close to 850 in their pockets. Back then the economy had not grown any teeth. It was polite, used nice words, and went to church every Sunday. Politicians were not as greedy, at least when they ate they left some for the rest.  Beer would retail at two digit prices and cabs were negotiable.

They did not have fancy clubs like we do now. Clubs that hold themselves with an air of arrogance. Clubs that act like they are God’s gift to parties. Where the bottles are overpriced, the staff walking with chips on their shoulders and waiters refusing to swipe if you have spent anything less than a thousand. These clubs with Deejays whose taste in music traces back to 2007 and the playlist stays on loop the whole night. Clubs that do not even have space to let loose, where you have to push a chair in just to get to shake your leg. They had clubs that were clubs. Clubs with enough space to swing around with a beer in hand and weave past a guy in a fitted cap won backwards. I mean they had so much space a certain politician now would have been tempted back in the day to forge a title deed for the dancefloor itself. The thing is they loved to dance and have a good time.

Watch them with their peers, see how they react when music from their days comes on. They almost in unison get up and break into a dance routine. When was the last time you saw a dance routine? In a club? Un-choreographed? Raw. People just letting the music move them into the swing? I bet never. Not even the likes of Bazokizo have been able to resuscitate this culture.

These guys had legendary concerts at Carnivore. The grounds would be packed to the brim, doves of humans all charged ready to get the show of their lives. Right now Kenyan artistes shy away from concerts in fear of embarrassing turn outs. And Ngoma festival just goes to show you just how those days were, an all Kenyan concert, performing oldies and promising nothing but a night of nostalgia was jam packed. Their artistes back then had clout. They might not have made such a financial killing back then but they rode the wave called fame into the wall of fame. Currently, we sell international artistes to fill up shows. Treat our own current artistes as sideshows. Though to be fair, we do have a few notable artistes doing their thing.

Now most night outs are a blur. With no room to dance and let energy out we just end up sitting and letting the whisky burn down our throats. Memories come back in short flashes of regret and WTF moments. The music is always too loud and spaces too packed it feels like you are on Tom Mboya Street on a rainy Wednesday. Now we just end up with inflated bills, good pictures, cab receipts in emails and nasty hangovers.

Maybe it’s time we too embraced the hanyee.