By Momanyi Osoro
Nights ago, I went clubbing with my boys. It was a wild night, stalking the streets of Nairobi. We were a cohort of university students, armed with caution money from the government as we painted our beautiful city red. We hoped from club to club, drinking and dancing our youth away. We kissed chicks we cannot even bother to look at in broad daylight. We talked to chicks we can’t approach when sober. Blame it all on the hot drink. Arsenal was playing United. And in the drunken haze, we celebrated each time United scored. I fear for Arsenal fans though, they are always disappointed. What if arsenal was some kind of social experiment you know? To see how long a human support a football team? What brings that kind of loyalty? Is there the possibility of one running mad because of his team losing?
As the night flew by, the drink washed down on us too much. I couldn’t dance, my friends couldn’t dance. We sat at our table and stared right into each other’s faces. In there I saw vanity and confusion. Maybe a misguided youthfulness, burning with the urge to belong. The eyelids of my friends were tattooed with the struggle of trying to discover what does life really entail? You come to campus, you study hard and go to a party on Fridays. Is there nothing else one can do? Just a vicious circle of remorseless venality and peer pressure. It was in that cloud of thoughts that I decided to quit drinking and partying. They don’t make me a better human being. And waking up with a hangover isn’t going to change my life. I will just be more and more miserable.
It was around 3 a.m. when we dragged each other out of the night club. Streets were well lit. Ubers were being hailed. Men and women pulling at each other. Set agendas were yet to be completed. Hotel rooms and lodges would be the climax of this wanton debauchery.
My boys and I have this code we live by ‘leave no man behind’ of course we stole it from the US Navy Seals. None of us is that smart to come up with anything like that. We staggered along the highway towards our apartments. Cars woozed by, the city was waking up. Men pulling carts behind them. Women hoisting wares above their heads and sausage vendors setting up shop right across the streets. In a way I wasn’t happy, while hardworking Kenyans are starting their business, we are from clubbing. Then we will sleep for a whole day. And later we would brag how we are campus students. Utter nonsense!
We stopped to buy sausages.
Two men carrying guitars walked by us. In the drunken mist, I asked them to stop. I am a writer, they play guitars, deep down we are all artists. And artists have this deep connection I gather. The power to create. They seemed to be middle-aged. Wrinkled faces, a testament to the hard life they have experienced. Their shoes were visibly worn out, and they had shabby clothes. One could tell that even though they were artists, they did not make as much money. Maybe they were miserable and chances are they will die poor. But then, they had decided to follow the unconventional path and follow their heart, die for passion.
Under the street lights, with temperatures almost at freezing levels, they unsheathed their guitars. We had not offered even a cent but they played for us melodious tunes. Original sounds that we can find nowhere. We danced, clapped and joshed around. They struck the last tone, packed their guitars and soon were on their way. As they disappeared into the darkness, I thought to myself. As an artist, what is my role in society? And do I deserve to die poor and miserable while entertaining the masses?
By Momanyi Osoro
Written by Momanyi Osoro. He is a Kenyan writer and social media influencer studying journalism and Mass communication. His main genre is creative non fiction and satirical lifestyle stories. Check out his blog on www.kinasisi.blogspot.co.ke
Connect with him on Twitter as @OgunOsoch
And on Instagram @osochogun