A fight that Landed Steve to the Government owned Airbnb- Kamiti
Legend has it that Friday at 6:01 PM a herd of office warriors sheds their cubicle armor and migrates toward the nearest bar. Steve is one of those warriors, a man whose idea of financial planning is “one more beer, then maybe tomorrow.” So when the weekend rolled around and his laptop had finally stopped nagging him, Steve did what Steve does best: he went to Club 1824 to irrigate his throat and balance his poverty level against reality with a cold, diplomatic lager.
At 1824 Steve starts as a functioning adult and, by the third beer, becomes an inspirational case study in poor decision-making. He tells jokes that were funny in 2013, dances like gravity is optional, and compliments strangers like a confused motivational speaker. The bouncers at 1824 have a rule: no chaos, no stubborn drunkards, no funny dressing and absolutely no interpretive breakdancing in the club’s fire lane. Steve tested that rule. The bouncers enforced it. Steve was escorted outside very fast like an unlicensed hawker along statehouse road.
But Steve is a man of taste and poor impulse control. Being thrown out of a club is just step one of his evening’s creative plan. He marched into a CBD bar that advertises “good music, bad choices” and resumed his one-person parade. Drinks flowed, dignity receded, and Steve’s confidence rose to levels that should require a permit.
Then disaster or comedy, depending on your moral alignment struck. Steve found himself in the middle of an altercation with someone he assumed was a fellow man also upset about something trivial (probably a bad song choice). Adrenaline and alcohol rearranged his brain into a very specific kind of bravery: the sort that ends in memorable headlines. Mid-argument Steve landed a punch, threw a dramatic spin, and prepared his victory speech. That’s when reality whispered: “Bro, check again.”
Because the “man” he’d been tussling with was, in fact, a woman who had chosen tomboy chic as her evening’s armor. The masculine woman had wore a baggy jeans, a t-shirt and timberlands, the whole “I could fix your car and beat you at football” vibe. Steve’s bravado hit the brakes.
In Steve’s words (and I quote, because he is a legend): “Bro, mimi sikujua ni dem! Alikuwa amevaa jeans ya tetema, t-shirt ya Arsenal na Timberlands. Nilidhani ni morio, nikashangaa niaje hizi ngumi zinakuja kama rungu, alinikula hadi flying kick ndira ndio nikaona hapa nitamaliswa. Ilibidi nimemuuma matiti!” Translation: I didn’t know she was a woman! She had on jeans, an Arsenal tee and Timberlands. I thought I’d walked into a wrestling match!
Panic in Steve’s brain is an improvisational art. Instead of apologizing or running, he executed a move that can only be described as “the flailing genius.” He attempted a high-drama recovery, a theatrical dodge that involved a lot of arm-waving, a heroic squeal, and what witnesses later described as an accidental hug attempt that looked like a question. Steve decided to chew the woman”s nipples like kangeta (khat). The person across from him interpreted the whole thing as an escalation. The crowd interpreted it as free entertainment. Someone called the police because Steve had turned a bar into a soundstage for slapstick violence.
Court day was the kind of spectacle you can’t pay for. Steve turned up in his signature designer suit, while his adversary arrived in a blouse and a PCEA women’s guild kilemba that somehow made her look like mother Teresa. The judge peered over his glasses and said, with the kind of patience reserved for assembly instructions and stubborn parrots: “Kijana, unapigana na wamama wa kanisa!.” (Young man, you fight church women.)
The rest is history, or at least chapter one of Steve’s autobiography, the paperback version. Steve ended up doing time at Kamiti, where the diet is a rustic fusion of items that should probably be cooked but are presented with optimistic confidence. Rumor says he’s currently dining on raw maize and four solemn pieces of beans popularly known as githeri, a gastronomic experience that pairs poorly with regret but perfectly with introspection.