Ladies and gentleman, i ask for your forgiveness in my current inability to write a post full of substance and creativity. I want to, no i yearn to with my whole being; but my upper faculties have deserted me and the only recourse open to me is to indulge you, with tales of a place where madness rules and decency is forbidden to enter. Some of you would know this place, Acacia camp, just past galleria on your way to the expansive Rongai. Just I heard someone comment that “the mzungu who owns that place seems to have visited mtu wa kamuti.” This statement was made by an addict, not of alcohol or even drugs, but of the forbidden pleasures housed by the confines of this devil’s den.
The place on a ordinary day is unassuming, simple even under the glare of the all knowing sun. Its supposed to be a camping ground with a bar where patrons can sip a cold one as they take a reprieve from the simplicity of a tent and retreat from the onslaught of thirst and boredom. And every time I passed by the place, it never hit me that its a joint that has found fame among the young who thrive on intoxication and excitement and the older gents who crave for a taste of youth and an exploitation of those who are too worldly to see sense in moderation. And every Thursday night, the devil packs his lucify tent and heads to acacia, and his flock come in multitudes to enjoy the hype that he has prepared for them. And don’t they come, the simple and complicated. The rich and paupers. The beautiful and not so beautiful. The curious and the veterans. In hundreds they pack the grounds of acacia, like wildebeests in the expansiveness of the savanna. And among this peaceful animals, dressed in sheepskin mingles the predators. Lions stalking the unsuspecting or even the suspecting prey, canines showing, claws ready to pounce on the best looking birds among the large flock.
So this Thursday, having sat politely in the company of friends in many occasions and reveling in the wild tales of this hideout, I decided to indulge my curiosity and pay homage to the devil last Thursday. I pick a jav at railway, 100 bob being the exorbitant fare. I decide since its around 7 to make my way to ronga town first seeing as it is my tummy is groaning and throwing a bitchy fit due to abandonment. Honey pot is the joint of choice for affordable food and even drinks, so i walk there briskly before my tummy riots. I order some half chicken which is fried with spinach and full raw bananas with ugali to accompany this sumptuous meal. My pal, probably eager to reach Acacia and partake of its menu before the hyenas reach the scene refuses to come share the meal and asks me to get him there. The meal is so delicious but way too much for one person, good thing is some poorly looking dude comes by and asks for a piece and I’m glad to hand him some if only to help lessen the sweet burden. Churchill is on point as always and someone needs to wean me of this habit, whereby Thursday finds me in a pub to watch the comedy since my crib tv had a long time quarrel with ntv.
Acacia was wild, well atleast that’s the first impression I had of the place. There are two things that hit me first as I approached the gate, and made me wary of the place that i now sought to enter. I wondered about an advise I heard from one of the self professed addict, “keep away from that place, for those who enter, they become slave of the one who sits at the high table.” maybe not in those exact words, but for a guy who only parties once a week, an always here, it was weighty advise on my estimation. I digress so let me retrace back to the gate, where a bevy of seriously bootylicious chics were heading to the gate. When some fool said that the beautiful ones are yet born, this nigger needs to make his way to that place. This were young shapely African ladies looking hot as hell and knowing it by the air of self confidence surrounding them like bewitched body guards. And they were many of them, drawn from the several universities around the place, campuses like catholic and Nazarene.The second thing was the motor madness, the craze of deprived drivers seeking to find satiety for what ails them; lust. That place has a large ground, and it was packed with all state of the art vehicles, some of which were clearly driven by young guys who couldn’t possibly own a jallopy. Here perception is everything and a borrowed or stolen vehicle is better than the bloke sauntering into the club on foot, or even a bicycle God forbid. A guy has to wait for one vehicle to exit the ground before security will allow another in, and one who is not privy to the goings on of the place might be tempted to think that its a car bazaar. For any of you jallopyed guys who might be tempted to make a visit there on a Thursday, kindly make your appearance before dark or suffer the indignity of parking outside the gate and miss out on the convenience of staying strategically placed in the field where the prey can find you easily and be reeled in by the allure of the Moti.
On making my way into the gates, the sheer number of people overwhelms me; never mind that it’s on a damn Thursday. Hundreds of gents and ladies, thousands even. this place has an orgy look to it, as if the people come here to participate in group orgies. I couldn,t help but stare briefly at this dude sitting on the bonnet of his car, fondling two very beautiful ladies and the vixens seemed to be enjoying the unnatural scene. I hurriedly moved past, trying to make my way though the sea of humanity and squeeze my way into the packed club. I call my pal who picks me at the entrance and weaves a path through the gyrating women and the men busy dancing if it can be called that, for its more likely to be considered sexual foreplay than dancing. I didn’t know such a room could hold so many people, and there is not nearly enough seats or even tables to host the great multitude and people are just content to drink standing anywhere they find a spot to put their beer on.
The indoor club is simple, very simple and one can’t quite understand the allure of this place considering the ilk of the people attending here. The table i stood, no seats remember, was surrounded by women and soon they were all over the place shaking what their mama gave them. And dear tree, notice my attempt to avoid blasphemy, these ladies could dance. There is nothing these mamas couldn’t do, and try as one might, one couldn’ stop staring at the obscene ways this mamas flaunted their wares and in the words of one Avril and Marya “chokozad.” But the guys were having none of that “chokoza only” vibe and were busy fondling the inebriated and even sober ladies with abandon and i never saw, not once, any lady protest. And that night, I moaned the loss of decency that was once the Kenyan soceity, and looking at the sight before me, i knew that the devil had conquered; well atleast here in the seclusion of Acacia.
In this place, the rules that apply to the rest of the clubs in the country cease to exist. here guys bring most of the alcohol from outside and no body raises an eyebrow. here there are no bouncers to frisk you for weapons or such. Here alcohol is cheap and people are free to drink as much as their hearts desires. And they do so to the fullest, and it was common to see beautifully dressed ladies staggering and loosing the battle with gravity, fall to the pavements of humiliation and embarrassment. I watched with pity as I saw clearly drunk ladies struggling to hold their blacked out friends only to go down in a heap of bodies, and no one cared. here the dj plays all manner of obscene and wild music, and intones to the revelers that if you are tired of dancing, go ahead and do the business. And the young revellers scream with delight, and the young gents become daring in their multiple exploration of the female species. i sat there and watched, transfixed and scared, and I ignored the subtle advances of some of the ladies, choosing to rise beyond male lust and instead respect their dignities, or at least stay apart from the devilish hold upon these lost generation. here the ladies move closer when a random guy pulls a passing lady close, and is all over her skimpily dressed body; pressing close to let the demons explore every nook and curve in her splendidly formed body. When you step out for fresh air, you can see into the vehicles and have your gaze held by the rhythmic motions of those who inhabit the vehicles, as they perform the eternal dance of passion; unafraid or bothered by the hundreds of patrons in the grounds. When the club closes at 11, you can see the ladies bundled into the vehicles and off to different locations, possibly to participate in after party orgies.