EssayStoryJournalBook reviewReflectionResearchLetterPoemMemoir1,235 words6 min readAutosave enabledA few moments ago, Laurent had looked at her surroundings with disdain, waving her straw hat in front of her face as much to chase away the odors as to cool herself. She was a pallid beauty in her early twenties; to her, traveling so far from home was an unpleasant chore instead of an adventure, only exceptional for this case. She loved travelling. "Nairobi, the big city at least according to the map of Kenya", she made a snorting sound. According to the briefing at the Microsoft office, this was little more than a glorified, boggy watering hole for the Maasai people. Not exactly civilization. She wished she was back in Hollywood. For all its faults, at least that city had culture. Hearing her mutter, the dark-skinned driver of the wagon turned to her. "Sorry Ma’am? Did you say something, Ma’am?" "Nothing worth repeating, so, where is this new Tribeka Club? Are we almost there?" The drive had been as interminable as it was unpleasant. "Almost there, Ma’am", the wagon creaked ahead down to the end of the dirt road, finally stopping beside several horses tethered to a hitching post just opposite a ‘Nation Centre’ building. With a sad attempt at pride, the driver gestured. "Here it is, Ma’am. The Tribeka Club, Nairobi's finest, Ma’am" With a sigh of dread, she looked at the rundown building. "I was afraid you were going to say that." She shook her head. The Club was certainly one of the largest and sturdiest structures in all of Nairobi, but that wasn't saying much. The grounds had gone to seed, making the weeds indistinguishable from the once-tended flower beds that extended to a nearby Gibson’s place. ‘At least they do have one of those, in case I would want a coffee,’ she made a mental note. As the patient driver waited, Laurent had climbed gracelessly out of the wagon. "Don't wander off," she had said. "No, Ma’am", he had replied. Stepping toward the Tribeka Club, she wrinkled her nose as she glanced over at a bunch of women selling some vegetables and overripe fruits which gave a stench smell while a couple of young children were begging right beside them just next to a Bank of India. "Couldn't they have picked a better place to put a club? On another continent, perhaps?" she murmured to herself. She had then climbed the porch steps and entered the open front door; as many flies seemed to be wandering out as venturing inside. Not a good sign. She took a moment to assess the surroundings, observing the details of the room with a sour frown. The Tribeka Club spoke of weary, faded glory, a time when Cecil Rhodes and intrepid explorers had seen the Dark Continent as a treasure box to be unlocked. Allan Quarter main, a renowned explorer back home, had personally done much to foster that impression on gullible English schoolboys who were hungry to read tales of adventure. She now was getting exhausted and bored. Inside was full of the empire's dregs, old men awash in gin and memories who sat around at the tables snoring, playing cards or checkers, or endlessly repeating stories of their past escapades. ‘They should drink in their own houses at their age’, she thought. Young people were countable, and those present were actually with older, like much older partners. What’s with this country? A black valet stepped up to meet her. "Good evening, Ma’am. May I help you? A drink perhaps?" “No thanks, I am gonna go outside for a sec for some air” she replied, the words out of nowhere. Outside, it was completely dark and from the balcony, she could watch the moon rise. It was full, with an orange tint that had her thinking of home and her brother who now was probably in one of his fights with dad. She now felt guilty for leaving home. She really missed her brother and his sweet French toasts that he loved so much for breakfast. It was then that she saw these two ladies who seemed deep in a conversation walking by but stopping just by the club’s door; probably deciding whether to enter or not. A minute had passed and she found herself already downstairs. “Hey there, I am Laurent and you guys should get in”, she retorted. Not how she had wanted to make an introduction with these ladies who could be her only shot of making friends in this strange world given the high likelihood that they were of same age. “If you don’t mind me helping you decide that is” she added,” Oops there goes nothing. “Nothing personal, but I think you should mind your own business”, one of the ladies who had been standing on the left shot back slightly irritated by the look of her shrink facial expression. The other lady gave her a shush-sign then turned to her “Hey, I am sorry about my friend, she didn’t mean it in the wrong way,” the other lady now muttered something she could not make out due to the noises emanating from the huge speakers above. Laurent blinked at other lady’s stunning appearance. She was curvy and fit-looking, dressed in a stylish but not gaudy dress. She appeared to be in her early twenties with startlingly dark eyes and dark hair; a white silken scarf was chastely tied around her throat. It was going to be a long night. “I did not mean to be rude. I am sorry,” she uttered, now it was Laurent’s time to blush. “Never mind, I should be the one apologising. I did not mean to come to you guys like that.” Extending her arm, “I am Martha,” she said, “and I am Keisha”, the other lady added also extending her hand. With the introduction coupled with small talks on Nairobi and Africa in general, the three ladies decided to get in. "Could we have a whisky, a red wine and a black ice" Keisha requested the bartender who was already standing by the table with a brown, rectangular, wooden-like tray. "Hey! A double!" she shouted at the bartender who had just made to go to the counter. She then turned back to her. "And I shall regale you with how Nairobi has been unsafe of late and what I have had to go through this week.” Martha, who had been sitting quietly opposite them, gave a sigh of relief, probably because she had seen the bartender walk back with their drinks she presumed. Now Keisha and so-called Laurent appeared to grow irritatingly close barely ten minutes after they had been acquitted and stepped into the new club. “Great”, Martha thought, noticing that perhaps she could be dealing with the third-wheel-ordeal all over again. Wow, so much for her Friday evening. She was relieved though not to be on the hot table having to listen to Keisha’s every single ordeal with the thieves in Nairobi, who appeared to really fancy stealing from her every day of the week. The crowd around them grew noisier as the latest modern West African music played thanks to the Nigerian brethren whose talents seemed to go over the roof by day. Echoes bounced crazily. There were cries of encouragement, shouts of appreciation for the prowess of the DJ, and aggressive dance moves especially by the ladies who actively swung their hips to the songs’ rhythms.