I recently found myself at a dinner table at the Capital Club in Nairobi with three very sharp ladies and one astute gentleman, talking about the Milky Way.
These kinds of things happen to me often—but this was the first time I had to sit still and actually listen to a conversation about the Milky Way. It was after a book club meeting where I’d gone to talk about my new book, which, really, you should grab at any bookshop. [I hope my editor doesn’t delete this part.]
The lounge was dim, like the home of a very wealthy man—or woman. It felt cozy, in a hush-money kind of way. The conversation centred on lifeforms and humanity’s hubristic, insignificant place in the galaxy. Their knowledge of the cosmos was staggering.
Then, naturally, it drifted to death. Because everyone has buried someone. The women lamented the death of manhood—how more and more women are stepping up to organise funerals... and other things, really.
Their arguments were compelling. I found myself sliding lower under the table until I was at eye-level with my steak, a ribeye so good I blinked first. There was excellent wine as well. I had been on whisky earlier during the book club meeting and was already feeling lightheaded. And tired. It was past my bedtime. [I sleep by 9:30pm. Yeah]
At some point, I excused myself to see a man about a dog. On my way, I discovered—to my delight—that it was drizzling. I love rain. I stood out on the curved balcony to watch the city sprawl out all the way to the airport. A plane blinked in as it landed, slow-motion style. Nairobi is gorgeous at night. Shame we’re going to ruin it with greed.
Back at the table, the topic had moved to hip-hop. Turns out these ladies were hip-hop heads, on top of scaling the corporate ladder. They knew something about everything. They were funny. I thought, perhaps someone should record a podcast like that; unfiltered. I begged to leave when I started feeling like I was crashing.
