Number 7; CBD now has a club. With a Taste.

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For fans of Hunter S. Thompson, the father of Gonzo Journalism, the all-time most unapologetic, sincere, crude, careless critic; perennially drunk, intoxicated and stoned – and, most of the times, stoned by wrong, wrong things – it would pass a good feeling to step into Number 7, the newest joint in Nairobi

You will be greeted by Hunter’s quote, ‘Good People Drink Good Beer’, and, true to the word, you will have plenty of choices. If you don’t do beer, there will be Hennessy Cognac retailing at $65, the cheapest in Nairobi CBD.

The name ‘Number 7’ might indicate that the club is not in the Champions League, but it misses by a whisker; though, two of my friends think that it is the hottest place in Nairobi. True, it ticks many boxes – good music, good speakers (so good that my colleague hinted that it’s a perfect place to sneak a loud fart), and excellent ambience – but, and I am a little bit sorry for this one – the place requires that you have some quick change for a cab. This column maintains that people should never drive when tipsy, high, drunk or intoxicated.

Ambience

While appreciating the elasticity of the word ambience, and considering the role played by occasion, attitude and other whatnots when deciding whether a place has a good ambience or not, I will appreciate the work that the designers and planners gave to the feeling inside Number 7. The roof is high, and that’s the first measure of a revelers joint, because once a man is five beers old, he feels like stretching his hands and grab a cloud from the sky. For girls, I don’t know, but I think whenever they grow old of the good drink they always think of touching the ground.

The colors are good. Yellow. Yellow is always for mellow, and that makes the place an ideal place for a Wednesday evening after a good conversation with your boss. For an unmarried girl – or modernly married -, you can drop by Number 7, swallow three glasses of cocktail and imagine a future of freedom for all women in Kenya, from girls born in round-small-dilapidated huts in Samburu to off-springs of privilege delivered in Karen hospital and daughters of modesty delivered in Guru Nanak. Or The Mater Hospital.

Staring into the emptiness of Number 7’s space, you can cook up bedroom styles for your accountant boyfriend who is bereft, and poor, in creativity. On the third cocktail, maybe, you will come up with a formula of getting him go down …. uhm …. I mean, teaching him how to collect the juice from fleshy oranges from Ukambani. You can also use the space at Number 7 to think about your grim past, and the befitting present to your mom who had to fight off auctioneers from carrying away her fringe because she could not repay the loan that took you to the academy in Class 8 on time.

I ain’t trying to say that Number 7 is only good for the queens on a Wednesday evening, because I have been there on a Monday, and it is a complete testosterone stirrer. Five men discussing the possibilities of Theresa May future after she repeated the mistake of David Cameron who called for a needless Brexit election by calling a pointless snap election. I have also seen men use the space of Number 7 to analyze asses, and I was glad enough to chip in, in defense of starving girls – the ones with a gaping space between their legs, the kind of space that allows the moon a passage, an entry – by saying that they are the best, the sweetest and, even though they may stock some piles of selfishness, they come across a little bit too clean, I mean, clean enough.

 

For an unmarried girl – or modernly married -, you can drop by Number 7, swallow three glasses of cocktail and imagine a future of freedom for all women in Kenya, from girls born in round-small-dilapidated huts in Samburu to off-springs of privilege delivered in Karen hospital and daughters of modesty delivered in Guru Nanak.

It’s a real Nairobi Joint

Wait, hope the weed smokers are not getting it twisted because I am talking about joints, no, I am not talking about joints.

When you read the history of Nairobi, you will find that it is a city that prospered on its great character, its solitude and the ability to give its residents the same dosage of solitude. Back in the day, there wasn’t an influx of Matatus competing on loudness in the city center, hookers were classical – obedient, patient and cultured – and they never used to push English through their noses. They would always smile. The old great Nairobi was a place of sophistication, responsible drinking and taxi drivers that would speak clean English.

 

Located on Koinange Street at the tip of the CBD, a few meters from the ailing Nakumatt Lifestyle and only a love away from Alliance Francaise, Number 7 oozes coolness and maturity, and it can pass for a very good effort at pulling crowds back to the CBD.

There is a downside.

The middleclass of the City of the Sun thrives on being extorted, and that is the main reason why clubs in Nairobi are the most expensive in Africa. You will need close to $3 to enjoy your cold Tusker, and potentially any beer on the offer. If you have to drink whisky, please order for the whole bottle, lest you walk into your wife with sore eyes after your account receives a beautiful dent.

Maybe they have fixed the food problem in Nairobi’s joints, but I can’t guarantee. Food is a very aesthetic issue, and for someone who still thinks that my mom’s matoke are the best, I might find myself licking fingers on their chicken wings.

It’s a new joint though, and it is a work in progress….y’know, testing the tastes of clientele and trying to hit up a niche. Maybe they will be the home of exclusives, maybe it will be less so.

For now. May we Drink. A good beer.

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