Roadtrips to Naivasha

You’ll get a text from your friend asking you to send her Kshs 3,500 as your contribution to her birthday trip to Naivasha.

Then you’ll ponder on whether you really want to go, only because just a few months ago, 2 to be exact, you had travelled to the same house with the same crew to do the same thing.

But FOMO is for losers, so you’ll alter your weekend plans to head to Naivasha with the crew. You’re happy that contribution money is less than last time. Which could only mean one thing: more guys have been invited.

As usual, departure time is postponed by 6 hours and you end up leaving Nairobi at 4pm.

Designated drivers aren’t allowed to drink, so your driver will have to suck it up and listen to all your stupor conversations en-route.

Because of that, you won’t even remember the actual trip. Neither will you recall dancing at Delamere at 6pm with your BFF cos ya’ll were too turnt. It doesn’t matter. You’re young, wild and free, you reckon.

The gang gets to the Great Rift Valley Lodge. You came in 5 separate cars. Your boy was driving his Vits and had caught mad feelings cos no chick wanted to get into his car, allegedly. He-he. Another chick came with her new mzunye boyfriend. No one rode with them either, only cos they would have literally been third-wheeling. The rest of you packed yourselves like salty sardines into the other 3 cars, and a Naiva night it was.

As with previous road trips, the chicks strutted to the kitchen to cook and the guys well, you’re not sure where they were since you were also in the kitchen making nyama, despite your PC feminist antennas quipping high.

But that’s a storo for another day.

The food was delish, to say the least; pasta, both fried and baked chicken, your BEER nyama (yes, you cooked with someone’s beer), pilau, mash potatoes and even greens.

Then came the speeches. But you got so hammered on your way to Naivasha, that you end up either blacking out, or simply having no recollection whatsoever of what happened that night. The car you came in ferried the liquor, and you had an entire Southern Comfort to yourself. Kwanza the big one. Ok, not aaallll of it, but quite a bit. A lot.

The next morning is welcomed by extra bottles that had been deliberately and secretly stashed away in someone’s boot. Some Jamie and some Flirt Vodo. The KC coconut crave didn’t pass your Naivasha organizers’ shopping list either. Someone whips up a 1L Delmonte Gold Pineapple Juice tetra-pack and you marvel at the fact that there’s actually a Delmonte Gold brand. Out of curiosity, you taste it, but not before your best friend yells, “Don’t you dare open that pack of juice!” But since you’re nursing a hangover from hell, you shrug and reflect – what the heck. You’d rather sip your portion of juice, since you won’t be drinking anymore anyway.

The juice tastes the same as the kawaida Delmontes at Tuskys. Maybe with some added pineapple pulp. You wonder why people pay more for the pulp when they could just blend a pineapple for 10bob.

You’re all seated at the front garden of the villa. The Great Rift Valley Lodge houses are gorg, and there’s a front garden for bougie-ass things like breakfast picnic and ish.

Birthday girl approaches you all from the kitchen back-door with a cooking pot in hand to make the KC Coconut punch. Apparently, all the dishes were used the previous night during family dinner, and the rest were reserved for making breakfast. You guys pay Helen, the housekeeper to clean the dishes. So no one wants to touch even a spoon. Also, the other plausible excuse is that there is no soap to clean dishes.

They – the KC Coconut punch committee – use a mwiko to mix their concoction: KC Coconut, Delmonte Gold Pineapple Juice & Lime Juice. Turns out it’s like, really good. But you can’t drink cos your body has fikad its drinking limit. So you only taste a little and spit it out.

Then come the silly jokes, the gang making fun of each other and bets laid on the table.

One bet in particular, was that the word ‘Exhaustipated’ actually exists. It’s when you’re too tired to give a shit. Literally.

Guys place bets on the word; 720 bob and a 1000Ushs note, which is equivalent to 33bob. The 20bob was your contribution to the bet. Turns out the word actually exists on Wikipedia!

Then the ‘Who would you rather: Kill, Date, Marry ’ game.

You got 2 dates, 1 marry. You’re glad that no one wants to kill you.

Fast forward to the gang leaving the place at 6pm, and converging at Delmonte for a JD on the rocks for the road; After all the previous night’s and day’s drinking. Then a successful trip back to Nairobi, before heading to Charlie’s Bistro for a final nightcap to end the trip in style.

All things considered, the gang’s conclusion is that it was great trip with forever memories.

“We should do this again!” Someone yells, and you all scream, “Yeah!” in agreement.

Oh, & a shout out to KC Coconut. You heard that bartenders in clubs use KC to make cocktails anyway; so when you see a chick twitch her eyebrow in disgust at KC, and she loves to take cocktails, you conclude that she’s probably been on that KC a couple times.

Speaking of eyebrows, what’s with Nairobi women and their obsession with YouTube eyebrow tutorials? Someone should host an intervention on behalf of women with abstract paintings on their foreheads, you smirk.