No Need for Mojo at Nairobi’s ‘Mad House’

But it wasn’t until we got to the door, where the security guard patted down my front side for weapons while a random girl started to pat down my backside for fun, that I started to understand its reputation.

Once we turned the corner and witnessed the dance floor, I fully understood why it is truly a ‘Mad House.’ As the sweet smell of black sweat hit me, and my eyes adjusted to the swirl of liquid motion, I realized that the entire dance floor was a writhing mass of nubile African ladies of all shades and sweetnesses grinding to African reggae.

The ‘Mad House’, like the Hungry Duck in Moscow is a straight man’s dream, for the black beauties were defiantly hungry for some man-meat. So hungry that I was groped by every other girl on my way to the bar and if I made eye contact with someone, no matter how fleeting, she would immediately try to make a move on me!

Luckily I was spared the worst of the advances by the beautiful Kenyan hostel manger and her girlfriend who were my escorts last night and gave me a constant commentary about the joys and pitfalls of Nairobi’s singles scene. They survived the many death-stares of their competition to protect us, even giving King, the married Zimbabwean guy who came with us, their purses to wear around his neck to maintain his decency on his trips to the loo.

Personally, I didn’t need such protection for my decency, as the jet lag and altitude change kept me safely nursing Tusker lagers all night until we stumbled back to the hostel in the early morning hours, just in time for us to hear the first rooster crow his morning alarm and me to pass out from exhaustion.