After the Showman Residence by Nyashinski (which was a scream), a friend suggested we stop by a new bar for one drink.
He’s a young fellow, this friend, though his ex-rugby frame hides it. Inside, he’s still a boy searching for his true north. I tend to attract these young cats – looking for something: purpose, fathers, friend.
We ended up at Loco Moto, a place I know well but not as Loco Moto. It used to be a carwash. Then someone opened a bar. Now it’s this thing.
I hadn’t been in ages, partly because a friend who loved it moved to Congo to work on wealthy Congolese teeth. He’s a dentist. The bar was loud. Not me showing my age – just a fact. But we were already there, so what the hell.
He knew everyone. From the guards at the door, he was shaking hands, doing a small lap of honour before we sat. We joined a table with his friends – ex-rugby fellows, softening at the midsection but not yet settled into their mid-30s. There were also two girls at the table, mid-to-late 20s. A bottle of Johnnie Walker Black stood in the middle of this gathering. I ordered water.
Someone was talking about someone making serious money from some government import deal. I could tell he was lying. You can always tell an embellisher. They don’t pause. Even when it’s not their turn, they are still speaking.
Another fellow was trying to get the attention of a girl with dark lipstick. One ignored the other girl entirely, constantly scrolling through game score – probably gambling.
I felt out of place. Tired of the loud music. The room was young. But then, many rooms are getting younger.
I started thinking of a hot shower and my bed. So I told my friend I’d turn in early. My issues aside, Loco Moto is the kind of local that you’d fall in love with for its lack of pretense.