I was warned that it was a bit loud and hectic. That it was boisterous and young. “Not for a man your age,” they said. Now, if you want to make me do something, just tell me, “It’s not for a man your age.” So I went.
It’s on Nairobi's Westlands Road. You walk straight into bedlam; young men and women spilling out of cabs. Inside are lots of humans crammed into this airy space. Young humans, to be precise. Everybody is wedged between the ages of 25 to 32, an age which pulses and vibrates and writhes like a fish out of water.
Everything gasps and heaves at Cavalli. There is a lot of yearning around, for life and a true pulse for something primal, for something sexual, a desire.
The music thrusts at you aggressively, pulsing in your bone marrow. I went to reaffirm my youth, I suspect but I ended up confused about my intentions.
Youth is fleeting and it’s strange, it melts like butter on a hot day. The jeans have changed form, they are baggy. Tops hung over navels. Lips pursed with the defiance of age.
When the young bodies weren’t grinding against each other, they were sizing each other up across tables and rooms. The deejay held court in the middle of the room, conducting this hedonistic beauty.
I saw a very hip and cool girl who I wasn’t entirely sure was female. “Is she trying to be a boy or a girl?” I asked. My Lady said, “She is trying to be herself.” I gulped at those powerful words.
I turned 46 this week and you aren’t aware of your age until you go to a place like Cavalli. They were right, it’s not for a man my age.
As we waited for a cab outside, more of this crowd poured out of the cabs or crossed the road to jump in some. Boys held girls’ hands. Girls held girl’s hands. Cigarettes were stumped underfoot before bodies jumped in cabs. There was coming and going, a beautiful symphony of chaos.
