The place has changed its name - it's no longer Amazonia, it's Corner Kitchen now - but bars in Nairobi rename themselves the way people change jobs, hoping a fresh title fixes something structural. It's upstairs at Lavington Corner Mall, which I've always liked for the same reason I like Kinoti, the friend I was meeting – neither of them tries too hard.
There were four of us and we were the only ones there all evening. This sounds sadder than it was. Something quietly luxurious happens when a bar belongs entirely to you—the music, the rain hammering the roof in a furious torrent, the waitress with nowhere else to be. The music streamed from YouTube—ads and all. Nobody touched their phone to fix it. That felt like a small victory.
The food was honest. My friends had the dry fry goat and I had the chicken. It was good and unfussy—the kind of cooking that doesn't need a description.
At some point, a Congolese band entered, dressed with the specific flamboyance of men who believe in their own show, and began tuning up. "They're performing rhumba tomorrow," the waitress said. We nodded like people who might come back.
The evening's real discovery was Caol Ila on the menu, priced at a number that made me hold the glass up to the light. "Is this bootleg?" I asked, not entirely joking. She swore on whatever waitresses swear on. I drank it anyway - two tots, maybe three - what I call drinking your age. The next morning I woke up fine. Either the whisky was legitimate or I’m doing this drinking thing right.
At some point, a couple walked in from the rain, surveyed the emptiness, and left. I watched them go. Some people need a full room to have a good time. We didn't. The band was still tuning. The rain had stopped. The Caol Ila was real. That was enough.
