What is rhumba if not a language-less gift? When the words don't mean as much as the feeling of rebirth? Because that's what listening to rhumba is—the same feeling a new-born has even in their unawareness of the gift of their lungs and heart.
Isn't that what nostalgia—the bedrock of rhumba—is? To feel that you never grew up. That you still sit on the floor with your toys as the scratching sound of your father's LP spins, the pin jumping loops to find the music.
When your father seems old but is barely in his mid-30s, dealing with more than you ever did at his age. Isn't it the sound of adults at night, laughing in the living room, having Tuskers as you stay up in your bed, listening to what you will learn is Zaiko Langa Langa
A time when rhumba was shady and boring…when you knew so little because life hadn't raised its skirt for you to see its bloomers underneath.
This is the only reason you'd find yourself at Liquor Bistro on Kisumu's Ondiek Highway, sandwiched between nondescript bars and eateries.
It has no ambience, Liquor Bistro, no defining character and no hardware you will remember. It could as well be the famous shebeens of South Africa. But you don't seek a rhumba establishment for ambience; Good rhumba is the full ambience.
At Liquor Bistro, the music is something of a spiritual nature, at least the night I was there in December. Ondiek Highway is the electric avenue of Kisumu—many bars and restaurants selling either food or music.
Liquor Bistro is a small bar, with a handful of seats and tables. DJ Abbix—stood in a corner behind his deck, presiding over the 30 souls of rhumba.
I was with my friend Pinye (not the deejay), a childhood friend and the greatest lover of rhumba I know (apart from the rhumba oracle, Fred Afune). The music transported us back to a time when we were foolish children eager to grow up. That's what good rhumba does—it gives you your childhood back, even if just for a night.
