There is something deeply suspicious about grown African men throwing birthday parties. It sits in the same uncomfortable corner as telling another man, “Goodnight”. I learned that lesson the hard way one chilly evening after a long phone call with comedian Eddie Butita.
“Uniambiaje mwanaume mwenzako goodnight? We acha hizo bana, umeangusha gangster points.” (How do you tell another man goodnight? Come on, you’ve just lost your gangster points.)
That was the exact feeling that crept down my spine when John Christopher invited me to celebrate his 40th birthday at Red Ginger.
Red Ginger is Nairobi’s newest dining hotspot, the kind of place where every socialite seems duty-bound to take a hundred photos before ordering a drink, only to flood Instagram with its picture-perfect aesthetics.
I must admit, their posts had infected me with a serious case of FOMO [fear of missing out]. I had already promised myself that one day I’d take my woman there to find out whether Red Ginger truly deserved all the hype. From what I’d seen, the place was stunning. What I never imagined was that JC, as he proudly calls himself, would be the reason I’d finally walk through its doors.
I’ve known this brother for years, and I cannot remember the last time he booked 30 tables just to break bread with family and close friends. Certainly not at 40. At that age, I figured a man should be growing wiser, not louder.
I expected him to summon ‘the boys’ to his palatial home for marathon chess matches, glasses of his beloved Tennessee whiskey and enough laughter to keep the neighbourhood awake until dawn. JC has never struggled with volume. If anything, silence has always struggled with JC.
But here he was, inviting us to Red Ginger, ladies and gentlemen, for dinner, drinks and a birthday celebration. None of it made sense. Neither to me nor to several of the ‘brothers’.
Then someone reminded us of the world’s oldest cliché – love. JC had found someone new. He was smitten. And she wanted him happy.
“As African men, we don’t celebrate birthdays like this, unless it’s because of the Caucasian,” one of the boys muttered. “She is lovely though.”
John had sworn to us countless times that love had permanently been crossed off his life’s agenda. His new mission, he’d often declared, was to make more money, enjoy life and travel the world alone or with his sons. And we believed every word.
After watching him survive enough heartbreaks at the hands of Nairobi beauties who seemed more interested in his wallet than his heart, we had no reason to doubt him. Yet here he was.
Beer mug in hand, with a T-shirt struggling to maneuver his steadily expanding belly as he ushered every guest with an enthusiastic “Karibu! Karibu!” while constantly stealing shy glances at his Caucasian beau.
“I’m no longer convinced the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” another of the boys whispered, perhaps just as bewildered as I was.
Was this really the same man?
Still, bro code leaves very little room for public interrogation.
So we did what brothers do.
We grabbed our drinks, took our seats, and watched JC’s telenovela script develop.