This archive report was first published on 19 July 2020.
Death and Disease Lurks as Kenyans Make Merry, Break the Law ¶
On a typical Friday evening, Nairobi's CBD is usually alive with energy, but the COVID-19 pandemic has brought a sense of despondency to the city. The once-lively bars have shut down, and the streets are quiet, except for the sound of people rushing to beat the 9pm curfew.
However, in some city estates, bars continue to operate from dusk to dawn, disregarding the law and contributing to the spread of the deadly virus. Our team of six, consisting of three journalists from the Daily Nation and three from NTV, decided to investigate this phenomenon.
We began our sleuthing in Nairobi West, a neighborhood known for its vibrant night life. The area is home to over 30 bars and nightclubs, and it's a beehive of activity on a Friday evening. We arrived at 8pm, an hour before the curfew, and were greeted by the sight of vegetable and fruit vendors selling their wares, while traders walked from stall to stall with flasks of hot tea and coffee.
As we made our way through the neighborhood, we came across a preacher in a suit and tie, open Bible in hand, preaching to a group of people milling around a woman selling fried fish. We also saw a container complex that housed rows of wine and spirits shops, which were doing brisk business as the 9pm curfew loomed.
Inside the complex, we found a sitting space with four large tables, all crowded with groups of people making merry. There was a young couple hugging, while their drunken friends sang happy birthday to one of their friends. The three shops that were open were doing brisk business, and from the looks of the happy customers, they had enough stock to keep the groups of mostly young people happily drunk.
As we observed the scene, two drunk middle-aged men approached us, one of them exclaiming, 'Daktari!' and clapping hands with the other. They laughed loudly at their own joke, and when the handshake ended, one of them unconsciously rubbed his nose and declared, 'You can't drink beer and transmit corona, and if you have it, just take lemon and hot water and you'll be fine…'
Our next stop was the populous Umoja Estate, where a number of bars operate day and night in the full glare of the law. We exited Nairobi West and joined Lang'ata Road, which was lined with cars and matatus being driven by impatient drivers. We joined Lusaka Road, which was also parked with cars, and soon found ourselves on Jogoo Road, notorious for never-ending traffic jams.
As we made our way through the estate, we came across a woman with a child strapped on her back slowly walking by, as well as a man grilling meat and what looked like potatoes, surrounded by a couple of men looking at the meat expectantly. Shops here were still open, so were M-Pesa outlets and chemists.
Our first stop was Hornbill Pub in Umoja 1, but the bar was closed, dark and devoid of activity. Or so it seemed. We ignored the parking lot and drove on a couple of meters away, parking outside St Luke's Academy Nairobi Diocese. A police car with two officers on board drove by, but neither of them looked our way, even though it was 9.45pm.
They must be tired of trying to shepherd Kenyans determined to break the law. We alighted and walked to the pub. Apart from the cars parked outside, the place looked deserted. As we got closer, we caught muted music coming from behind the firmly closed doors of the pub. A tall muscled man wearing a short-sleeved flowered shirt stepped forward and stopped us in our tracks.
He gestured towards a hands-free water station where, to turn on the tap, you use your foot to pump the water. After we washed our hands, he took our body temperature using a thermometer gun. Satisfied, he directed us to a side door, which turned out to be the entrance to the bar's kitchen.
It was a narrow hot space, and on the fireplace were several battered sufurias, all with meat in various stages of cooking. After taking a few steps, we crouch into a chest-length opening which led into the bar.
We were immediately hit by a wave of body heat. The spacious darkly-lit space was packed to the brim. There were no seats in sight, and I and my NTV colleague, Seth Olale, were forced to squeeze ourselves onto a seat occupied by a group of three women, two laughing raucously as their friend twerks in the face of a man that tries hard to ignore her. No one was wearing a mask, not even the waiting staff.
