Also 'raving on a budget' – only having fare back home but all the same, getting free drinks thrown our way the whole night. Those were the great days, at least at that's what it seemed like at that time. 

As with every other high school graduants, my pals and I were into the whole mini skirt/shorts/dress craze. Luckily most of the times we went out we had a ride at our disposal, but there was this one night when we had to brave the night out in our shortest of dresses using public transport.

To begin with, back then trench coats weren't a trendy fashion accessory - at least they weren't for my friends and me. So we were pretty much bearing it all from the mathree stage all the way to the club.

Must have been just our night; sitting next to drunk men in the back seat of a Buru nganya might get your fare paid but you have to make do with a lot of accidental groping. When my pals and I couldn’t take the groping anymore, we alighted from the mat only to end up at a touts hang out joint.

I should point out that these pals of mine were the snotty type, you know the kind who think that they live in "Gossip Girl." So the touts tried to make small talk, and any person trying to keep out of trouble knows all too well that it’s best to go along with the meaningless talk.

However, my pals were doing the whole "cold, snotty and higher than mighty attitude thing" which of cause elicited abuses from the touts. We were called Malayas, which still amazes me. If you refuse advances from a man in Nairobi you are quickly christened the malaya title. 

Worst is that they kept praising me since I was the only one in the group willing to talk to them, and it didn’t go down well with my pals. Finally a bus came over and we quickly took solace in it.

While people our age were on their way to the trendiest club, the old folks and others were making their way to a crusade or kesha of sorts. That particular bus seemed to be filled with old timers, and we had to endear sneers and loud remarks at how the world has lost its morals. 

When did the world become an entity to lose its morals, I remember thinking and actually still wonder the same. Thankfully, the grueling ride ended as quickly as it started. It was 10 at night and traffic had taken to slumber.

From the CBD, we took a cab to Electric Avenue, which was the "most happening" place those days. We popped open our ritualistic pre-rave ‘botty’ and the night was back on track again. 

The cab driver must have been new to the trade and almost got us into a number of fenders. I couldn't blame the poor guy, he was busy soaking in the amount of exposed flesh sitting in his cab while stammering praises at how 'sweet' we looked. We obviously led him on and a cab ride that would have cost us about 3 sok got bargained down to a sok.

At electric avenue two of us get into Rezerous and the rest get frozen. This time around, I think we got a bouncer who balled for the other team and wouldn’t see past our charm to let the rest in. So we had no other choice but to go back to the CBD clubs. 

We were into the 'loud club on wheels phase' and ended up taking a louder than loud mat back to the CBD. The mat was stopped at University Way by the coppers, and while making our way into the town center, we found ourselves walking down the infamous K-street.

K-Street

By this time, the alcohol in our system outweighed the blood, and we were entertaining the whistles and lecherous gestures from the men we met along the way. The attention was flattering, from the point of view of a bunch of 18-year-old girls fresh from high school. 

A lot of "big men" in their equally big cars were stopping and offering to take us wherever we were going. It was tempting, but there's something about group mentality - one or two say no and it pretty much speaks for the rest.

Now as we walked on, we met a pack of 'night crawlers' and I smelled danger. This was near City Market and I warned my pals that we should go to the other side of the street, but of cause, they didn’t listen.

Till this day I do not know where those skimpily dressed night crawlers removed the 'weapons of mass destruction (stones) from. They started pelting us with the stones. 

Woe unto the horny boys who were trailing us trying to get lucky. All I can remember was that a cab came to our rescue and we were quick to jump in leaving the poor boys victims of the lampshades. That's what my friend calls them. Which brings me to the next night crawler story.

Lampshades

We were from a function of sorts and were on our way home at around 11 pm. We stopped to buy airtime, which just happened to be at the Hotel 680 environs. So we are dissing a horrifically dressed night crawler while looking for parking space. 

As we stop right besides her, one of my pals realizes that the said night crawler is her cousin. So they start exchanging pleasantries and my pal asks the said night crawler what she does for a living.

 

Effortlessly, the night crawler responds that she sells lampshades to tourists. In her defense she was standing outside The 680, but she didn't have any lampshades that she was supposedly meant to be hawking. Also, the horrific skimpy outfit betrayed her. 

From henceforth we dabbed the night crawlers ‘lampshades.’

How Much?

My one-on-one encounter with a night crawler left me quite perplexed, and that's the tale that follows. I was from the National Theater and decided to brave K-street alone at around 11 in the night. 

When I was around I&M getting ready to cross the road, I dropped a bangle. There I was busy trying to pick it up when this lady approaches me. I am calling her a ‘lady’ to be polite, but she was a hood-looking mama, and I knew that if a fight broke out, I absolutely had no chance against her.

She goes like ‘Niaje?’ At that point, I am trying my best not to show any inkling of being scared shitless, so I stay calm and respond ‘poa.’ Then she goes like ‘niokole mbao nifike home, leo works iko down’ (Help me with twenty shillings to go home today work has not been favorable). 

I quickly do the math, I have my laptop in my handbag and a couple of thousands in my wallet. She will definitely see if I open up my bag and start fishing around for a 20 bob coin. I tell her that I am badly off too and only have my fare back home. 

By that time, we have halfway crossed the road and are near Simmers (how I miss that joint, story for another day). I sighed in relief since I thought that I was safer near a crowd.

She asks me if I go to Simmers since she heard that there are a lot of jungus there. I have been to Simmers and funny enough with jungu pals who were visiting and had wanted to sample Lingala music. 

I tell her that a lot of jungus frequent the place. That is when she asked me a question that took me aback. 

She started with ‘we ni msupu inaka machali wengi hukukufia virahisi’ (you are beautiful it looks like the men easily fall for you). To make matters worse a couple of guys pass by hooting and whistling.

 My eyes are popping and I start hastening my pace, but she is still trailing me. Then she spits out, ‘we hulipisha ngapi?’ (How much do you charge)? 

I stop and look at her, and she looks damn serious. That’s when it hits me, she must have been new to the trade. Ok, and that she mistook me for a night crawler. 

I just rushed on and didn’t say a word only to 'hug bump' into a Congolese man. You know that awkward bump that looks like you are hugging someone, and the Congo man had the audacity to cop a feel. I didn’t hear what the man had to say since I ran to the nearest taxi.

So to speak, I threw away my ‘decent clothes’ which got me mistaken for a hooker the very next day and never frequented K-street past 9 at night. 

Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with night crawlers. Everyone has to make money one way or another but I guess my pride is the only thing that has kept me from trading along that path on many occasions. Or has it really, mhhh, I think the next post coming up should be 'The Kenyan Men Who Have Paid Me For Sex.'