It reminded me of a café in Paris. I had sat outside, against the window, watching Parisians rush home. It was already dark, the tail end of winter. Cold, like the devil’s sense of humour. A heater glowed red above me, yet the cold kept me company.
At Oysters and More in Village Market, one recent night, I felt that same cold, partly because I wasn’t appropriately dressed, and partly because the warmer was too far and being shared by two other tables.
I took too long staring at the mostly-seafood menu. I’m not a fan of seafood. I wondered what baked oysters tasted like. The avocado-prawn cocktail sounded like something that would make me make a face. The seafood tagliatelle seemed promising. Or maybe the red snapper fillet. I finally settled for chicken tacos. They brought the wine.
I was seated against a pillar. Oyster and More sits right along the pathway, so people pass close to your table, close enough to pick up your fork without you noticing.
Two uniformed police officers with guns strolled by, headed to the Safaricom shop. Teenagers with wild hair and slides. Couples holding hands. Pairs of Somali girls cruising the mall. A pretty baby, an angel, really, who just discovered they can walk, ambled past staring at their own legs, holding onto their father’s fingers.
A brave man walked by wearing nothing but shorts. A small family, West African, by the sound of it, filed past, everyone talking. There was no shortage of entertainment.
There was music from the bar, but also music from everywhere else, a clash of sounds. The waitress, a chirpy soul, danced a little. A joy to watch. Everything was stimulating. Even my tacos.
In the courtyard, it had started drizzling. Light puddles shimmered and burst into colour. Young girls and boys, immune to catching colds, darted through the rain, laughing. I felt that everything was enough, everything in my life. Maybe the cold does that to one. Maybe sitting still does.
