Ever since I met my friend Kamau at Bournemouth University, I had always wanted to visit Kenya. He was from Kiambu - an obscure pin on my map that I had no clue about. Still, it was the birthplace of one of my closest friends, so I had to know it. He ignited my interest in Kenya and made me curious to see it for myself.

So when I graduated and got some savings, I decided to book a flight and take the risk. I didn't know much about Kenya, except what Kamau had told me and what I had searched on the Internet. I was one of those guys who believed Africa to hold more than the 'A penny could Save a life' posters and Wild animals running around. My outlook was mostly due to the influence of Kamau's tales, I have to admit, but some of it was still my own. I was eager to experience his stories, offering to take this trip as a vacation rather than an exploration.

I arrived in Nairobi after a long flight and checked in at a hotel near the city center. After a quick call to Kamau, his excitement assured me he'd be the perfect tour guide. So, I landed in the country with unwavering confidence. My expectations were mirrored in the decor of the Hotel. It was quite modernized, proper compared to some motels in my hometown - rundown and with minimal renovations in the name of 'preserving the history'.

The hotel staff were friendly as well, though they struggled to understand what the hell I was saying when I asked them for the Wi-Fi password - Scouse accent is a curse I have to bear I guess. They gave me some tips on where to go and what to do in Nairobi, and they also recommended some local dishes to try, I had to try them.

My first meal in 'Kanairo' as one lad called it, was Ugali and some vegetable dish I had never heard of or tasted before, but it was somehow tasty. It was a special in the hotel, listed as 'Mboga Kienyeji' on the menu. Something about that name jumped out of the menu, I had to try it. I was somehow familiar with Ugali though, from my various internet dives searching for popular foods in Kenya. The side dish, I had never heard of, but based on its texture and presentation I could tell it was made from a cocktail of several leafy veggies, and I also tasted a strong presence of onions. Other than that, my tongue did not mind the new sensation. It was simple but satisfying, and it filled me up well.

The next day evening, after a long day of sleep recovering from my flight, I called up Kamau and he told me to meet up at a place called Afya Center. He said he would meet me there in two hours, but from my experience with him back on campus, I had to add another hour to that timeline. He had a habit of procrastinating on assignments and arriving late to meetings, always excusing himself with, "Where I'm from, we call it African time." I took an Uber to the destination, Nairobi was strikingly different from London streets. 

People walked faster, as if expecting rain, compared to the leisurely pace back home this was like running a marathon. And shoulders would bump along the streets without a 'sorry' or any expected apology. Not to mention the ladies vending fruits and veggies along the walkways, some literary setting shop next to parked buses and cars. I almost stepped on a few along my way. I admit, that took some getting used to. But after walking through the streets like a tightrope, guided by Google Maps, I finally met Kamau at a corner, next to a tall Green Building - Afya Center I guessed.

As we walked, in the middle of the road mind you, we dodged cars and motorcycles that swerved around us. He easily chatted, catching me up on his new life and reminiscing about our old days, as if we weren't just strolling through gaps between moving cars. I struggled to keep up with the conversation, too paranoid about the speeding vehicles that seemed to ignore us. Couldn't they at least step on the brakes? Sheesh!

He led me to a nearby parking lot where there was a row of colorful minibusses with loud music blaring from their speakers. They had graffiti-like paintings on their sides and roofs, branded with names and designs mostly influenced by Pop Culture - Eminem and Jay-Z on one, Christiano Ronaldo and Muhamed Ali on the next.

"These are Matatus," John explained. "They are the most popular and cheapest way of public transportation in Kenya. They are like buses, but more fun and more crazy. You can find them everywhere in Nairobi "

" They look awesome!" I said.

He pointed to a Matatu. It had a picture of a DJ spinning records on its side, and it had flashing lights on its roof. The music was so loud that I could feel it in my chest. I could not remember the stage where we boarded, all I heard was a man in a half vest shouting "Westie chwani" to my face. I say 'to my face' because that's literary what happened, and they flocked to my side, tagging at my shirt and begging me to board their matatus. several had feint traces of alcohol to their breaths, I could not blame them though, they worked on party buses what's one drink for the night?

We got on a Matatu and paid the conductor, or rather Kamau paid. I still hadn't grasped the workings of Kenyan currency -  he warned me most foreigners would be charged 'mzungu prices'. The Matatu was packed. Some danced in their seats, some sang along to the music, and some were just enjoying the ride.

The Matatu driver drove like he had nine lives to spare, weaving through traffic with his hand never leaving the horn, and shouting at other drivers. He made sharp turns, sudden stops, and risky overtakes. He didn't care about traffic lights, speed limits, or road signs.It was a thrilling and terrifying experience at the same time. I held on to my seat for dear life as the Matatu bounced up and down on the bumpy roads. Kamau laughed at my reaction."This is how we roll in Kenya! This is Matatu culture!" he said.

We arrived at our destination after about half an hour. A club. It was a large building with two floors, the second floor had a balcony hanging on its side and tables already filled. Party time started early in Kenya, I guess. There was a queue of people waiting to get in, and there was a bouncer at the door checking IDs.

"I know there's clubbing in London. But you have never experienced sherehe here in Kenya," Kamau said.

Something told me my faith was a bit misplaced in Kamau. The leaking ambiance and blasting music from within the club held it together though, barely held it. I couldn't disagree, I was excited as well.

Kamau showed his ID to the bouncer, who nodded and let him in. I then fumbled for mine. The bouncer looked at them suspiciously and turned to Kamau who still hung at the entrance.

"Huyu umetoa wapi?" I said.

I looked at Kamau, sourcing a translation. Foreign interactions were awkward for me, he knew that.

"He's asking where you're from?" Kamau shouted at me.

"I'm from Liverpool," I answered, awkwardly smiling at the end.

"Liverpool? Do you know Steven Gerrard?" the bouncer asked. The queue behind me laughed alongside the bouncer - a weak attempt at small talk. Or maybe they were laughing at my heavy scouse accent, I couldn't tell. I mustered a halfhearted laugh as well, not wanting to make the interaction sour, but he seemed to sense the unease.

"Karibu Kenya my friend. Have a good time," he said, his bulky arm landing on my shoulder almost popping it out of its socket.

"Thanks," I said.

I followed Kamau into the club. The music was loud and thumping, and the lights were flashing and changing colors. People were dancing, drinking, smoking, flirting, and having fun - typical for every club. The only thing I was unfamiliar with was the songs played and the dance moves, either way partying required no choreography, and I was ready to throw out my desynchronized dances. There was a bar at the far end, a dance floor, a stack of stairs leading to the first floor with a label reading VIP area, and a DJ booth atop a stage at the forefront.

Kamau led me to the bar and ordered two drinks for us. He handed me one and clinked his bottle with mine.

"Cheers, mate!" he said. Perhaps a bit of my scouse accent had rubbed off on him. Four years around me was enough for him to catch it.

"Cheers!" I replied.

I raised the bottle to my lips and took my first sip of the famous Tusker beer. Whoa! It was like a dance party in my mouth, and my taste buds weren't exactly in sync with the rhythm. The initial burst of bitterness had me doing a mental double-take.

As I settled into my seat, I took another sip. This time, I tasted mild malty notes underneath its fizzy exterior, but somehow sweet. Kamau had already gone through half his bottle while I was still swirling the drink in my cheeks.

I followed his lead and downed the whole bottle, not even giving it time to form condensation around its edges. He ordered another round - perhaps this one was meant to drink to the rhythm of the blasting music, nonetheless, he was my appointed pacesetter. For a good thirty to forty minutes we drank the beers, shouting through the music and speaking on our endeavors after we graduated, and then my tongue begged for something stronger.

He slapped the counter several times and the waiter dashed towards us like he was a genie summoned. After taking Kamau's order he came back with two shot glasses and a green bottle.Kamau filled the glasses and pushed one towards me.

"You said you wanted a Kenyan clubbing experience right?" he said.

I looked at the glass, the surface shiny and silvery, like mercury. It sparkled under the lights. I lifted it to my nose and sniffed. It smelled like mint and citrus, with a hint of something else I couldn't quite place that pinched my nose. I decided to go for it and took a sip. The first thing I noticed was the coldness. It felt like ice on my tongue but without the melting. Then I tasted the flavors: minty, tangy, sweet, and something else that was hard to describe. It was like metal, but not in a bad way - like kissing a robot or licking the end of a battery cell. It tingled on my tongue but was also very smooth. The warm sensation down my throat forced my eyes shut and I kicked about in my seat. I liked it.

"That is what we call Chrome mate!" he said.

Chrome, a fitting name for a drink with such a metallic aura. I drank more, losing track of time and space. I felt myself letting loose, and confidence flooded my sight. I turned to the dance floor and sought a soul that could handle my two left feet. I danced with anyone who asked, or anyone who caught my eye - anyone who fancied the 'mzungu'. The girls here in Kenya had a wild side in their system. I couldn't handle their spirits - but a few more shots of Chrome and we were on level terms - bring it on!

I was having the time of my life.

I was so deep in the rhythm of the night that I lost sight of Kamau. I scanned the club, but I couldn't find him anywhere. Despite being hammered I was still aware, barely. Where did he go? 

Did he leave without telling me?

Maybe he went to get some fresh air, or to make a phone call. I pushed my way through the crowd, stumbling towards the exit - damn! That Chrome is some serious stuff. I reached the exit and walked out into the street.

The cold night air slapped my face as walked out and I sobered up a bit. I looked around but I didn't see him anywhere. His loss! Nothing was going to ruin my great time. He was right anyway, Kenyan 'sherehe' was vastly different from his college raves.

As he was on his way back in, a group of people approached me. They looked friendly enough, through my drunken eyes - smiling and waving. They dressed casually, like most club-goers.

"Hey man, you up for some stuff? We have everything you could want," one of them said.

Though my stimulated mind struggled with his already naturally thickened accent, I could still get what he was saying - miraculously. 'Stuff' was a codename familiar to me, it seemed it meant the same thing even across continents. Of course, I dabbled in a few of the 'stuff'. College was a wild place, a lot happens in four years.

Why not - I told myself. with a few nods, I was on the same page as the lads. We took a few turns and landed on an alleyway, devoid of any presence. I lost track of time but I knew it was too late for pedestrian sightings. One lad, with a leather jacket, pulled out a sachet, filled with white powder that seemed to splash on the edges and walls of the plastic like it was liquid - was it? My drunken eyes could've been playing tricks on me.

As they sought out the various items in their hands, a loud voice, like a church bell, rang in my ears from behind me. Surprisingly, it was louder than the club music, louder than the matatus.

"Karao!" one of the lads said, igniting a scatter from the rest. They vanished into the night, just as they appeared.

My feet were too wobbly to react, and my mind was too slow to register what was happening. Before long two men had reached me and grabbed me by my hands, violently. A vice followed, squeezing my wrists together and binding them with cuffs. Putting two and two together as I was wrestled into the light, I could tell who they were.

One of the men gripped the back of my trousers and together they pushed my uncoordinated body forward, talking strings of words that registered no meaning to my hammered state. It was only when one mentioned the word "Jail" that my mind snapped back to function.

"Hey hey! hold up, where are you guys taking me?" I said. My slurred speech and scouse accent did little to aid my communication. But the men responded like they did not care what I had to say, like their minds were focused on something else as they dragged me farther and farther away from the club.

Why were they not in uniform? Was this typical for most Kenyan police? Why did they not chase after the others? These questions did nothing to help my situation - but they lingered in my mind. They eased on the pedals, slowing their steps down as if they read my reaction and saw that they were getting nowhere with their brutishness.

"Where's your ID?" one asked.

I dug into my back pocket trying to fish my wallet out but he pushed my hand back and reached for it himself - like I was going to retrieve a weapon. He carelessly flipped through my cards and landed on my driving license. He then read out my name, his accent made it unrecognizable, still, I answered to it. I caught a slight glow from his expression, like he had hit a jackpot.

"Illegal Substance Use! And you are a foreigner... do you know how many years is that?" he said, waving what seemed to be a fake walkie-talkie to my face. If this was an intimidation tactic then the Kenyan police need to up their game - there are far more dangerous weapons than cheap plastic. I complied anyway.

We had a back and-forth between them, conversation often cut short with the two guys pushing me forward. Then I remembered what Kamau had told me, back when we were still in college. There was only one way to appease them.

"How much, officer," I asked, bluntly.

Their mouths grew tired of the yapping, instantly - as if to say 'Finally!'. They pulled me to the side once more, it was not as if anyone was watching. In another string of conversations between a drunk foreigner and two officers, we finally settled on an amount. five thousand shillings they demanded.

Five thousand shillings? That was like thirty pounds, thirty pounds to get off easy on drug charges? What more could Kenya gift me?! I pulled out my wallet again and turned notes of a thousand shillings like book pages, trying my best to count to five. Thankfully I had exchanged a few quid on the airport when I landed.

But even before I could flex my arithmetic ability, one of the cops reached for the entire stack of notes and ripped them from my wallet, and walked away. The other unlocked the cuffs around my hands, and they hastened their steps, eventually breaking into a jog across the road. They didn't even write me a ticket?

I stumbled back to the club, I had bills to settle, and a friend to look for. It didn't hurt me that much, I lost about eight thousand shillings on that stack, probably forty quid. That was worth a taxi in London, Uber around here costs way less.

I decided to wait for Kamau at the bar, adding shots of Chrome to my system until my will finally succumbed to it. He eventually returned, mumbling on about some girls he met in the VIP section upstairs and how they fancied our company. I followed him, and that was about the last thing I remembered until I woke up the next day.

I was face flat on the floor. A sharp migraine had shocked me to wake and I had barely regained control of my body. The room I was in seemed unfamiliar to my sight, until it wasn't. It took a while to realize that I was back in my hotel room. Kamau was on the other end of the room, sprawled on the couch - seemingly worse off than me. I could take a drink or two. But him- a whiff of methylated spirit could knock him off clean - he was that light.

Eventually, he woke up, finding me in the kitchen, downing a concoction my mother used to make, claiming it helped with a hangover. I did not know whether it was true, or it was because I had practiced it so much that it grew into a placebo effect, but it often did the trick. A cup of hot water mixed with ginger and honey. Kamau begged for a cup. We were whisked back to the old days after a wild rave on campus and waking up the next day. Both of us shared a laugh, relating the situation to our shared memories without needing to speak a word in between.

I narrated the odd encounter to him, what I had experienced outside the club when looking for him. I did not expect his reaction, I expected a remorseful friend. He burst out laughing, his sound grating against my ears like nails on a chalkboard - Hangovers made sounds seem that way.

"Buda! You've been played," he said, "Karibu Kanairo,"

I waited for his breath to run out as he laughed his lungs out. Soon, I regretted his answer. perhaps I was better off not knowing, it made me hurt for my lost forty quid - not because of the amount, but because of how I was swindled out of my money.

It turns out that the drug dealers and the 'cops' were all an elaborate heist. They would seek unsuspecting victims for their scams and pretend to sell substances to them. The fake cops would then rush to the scene and drag the victim out, threatening arrest and jail time. Eventually, they would solicit money, and the cycle would continue.

They moved like a traveling circus crew, from club to club, never striking the same place twice, or often, to reduce suspicion and likelihood of getting caught. I felt like an idiot, the naivety piling up on my hangover and dampening my spirits.

Kamau's laugh didn't make things any better. I knew why it amused him, because he always told me stories of how easy it was to get swindled in Nairobi, I believed him, but I always swore to him that I would never fall for such. I guess words do come to bite back harder than I thought. All things said, as I sipped on my ginger and honey tea, I could say I got a proper welcome... or as the locals would tell me afterward, "Karibu Kanairo"