Sabina Joy Club

Dear Lovely,

My heart overflows with sadness. Not because I am missing you, but because I went through hell today when I lost my phone at 9.00am. By the time I reached the office, I knew the phone had been switched off.

I attempted calling it though, just for the sake of calling it, you know? To my surprise, it rang not twice, not thrice but even the fourth time, until a certain guy named Mwas picked it up.

I am sorry to sound tribalistic, but I must confess that his name was Mwas, or Mwangi if you like.

This guy was cool though, because he asked me to meet him at Kayole, near the Chief’s office, which I haven’t done up to now. But I am hoping to work my legs to the place tomorrow.

My love, I see you wondering how this is related to SJ, or whether it will ever be related to this 3-storied building in the heart of Kencom bus station. But I promise you it will, and here’s how:

You see, the old folks know it as Karumaindo. But we know it as Sabina Joy or SJ in short. It’s got stories, so I wouldn’t want to describe it like your usual night club or a pub. It would be an understatement.

I mean, this place is a mythological train, a legendary house, with lots of stories that keep chugging or even coughing sputum of lustful notoriety.

I mean, it has opened its doors ever since God was a teenager. Today, it’s been given a quick makeover, so if the last time you were there was 5 years ago, then you’d be surprised that it’s been upgraded to a more fancier whorehouse than several of its counterparts on the other side of town.

But if you are of a more decent disposition, I would suggest you use the name a ”bar” instead.

Sabina Joy

If you came from mashambani, and you had less than one week to spend in Nairobi, you obviously know this place. And even if you’re a tourist, a student, or a makanga, this place just appeals to you as much.

The appeal and mystery tied to SJ is the result of its licentiousness. Sabina Joy doesn’t show sympathy to the virgins or naive.

Again, if you ask anyone (depending on their disposition), they will scream saying it’s a den in the middle of town where Jezebel hangs her bra and panties.

Here, you’ll be swallowed alive and then spit into the roguish ways of this city of Nairobi. Even though you might be with a group of friends when hanging out in Nairobi, SJ demands that you walk in alone since the quest for sexual pleasures is a journey one takes alone.

I was craving to witness the description above…..

It’s 8.30pm, on the first Friday of the month. Obviously guys have been paid at this time. I opt to leave my wallet and phone behind…… to be precise, inside my car ( I have since bought a car. I told you it’s called esmeralda).

Now I am crossing the road, after Hilton hotel. I am on this other side of moi avenue, and past the Tom Mboya statue, pointing towards state house – perhaps signifying the pitiful emblem of the inability of the luo guy to seat on the big seat.

From the back of my mind, I have always carried this document I call the Riot act. It says – never leave your drink unattended. Secondly, try minimizing your washroom breaks. Third, don’t order something that can’t be opened in front of you. What this means is that I should never order wine, whiskey, etc. Lastly, the riot act states that I should never get too drank!

So I make my way past the National Archive, past the hawkers and shoe shiners counting their day’s effort, street bums and even vagabonds. The crowd seems to be headed in one direction, perhaps heading home after a day’s work.

I am at this place between National Archives, and Paul Cookieman’s shop. You know this place, where men mostly from Nyanza (carrying folded newspapers on their armpits) gather to discuss cheap politics? It’s mostly topics similar to what you’d pick up at Jivanjee gardens and the likes.

SJ will never advertise herself because she doesn’t need to anyway. That’s how shroud she gets. It makes me wonder who this lady named after SJ was.

You see, one moment I am engulfed in the heavy commercial activities and noises of Ambassador bus stop, the next moment I am swallowed in the entrance of Eureka House– which is supposed to be a night club after the makeover. My nose can almost pick up the smell of lust – you know how lust smells like?

This is something similar to a rabbit hole, but with a never-ending staircase that winds up the floors, with only the sound of muffled music to be heard upstairs.

As you walk up the staircase, you meet other men too, trudging upwards, with the same determination that only their crotches could yield.

Reaching second floor, I find a red-eyed security guy who looks like he has never had his sleep for 3 consecutive nights. He frisks me impatiently before waving me in.

Sabina Joy looks differently today. I can’t remember seeing or even walking along a corridor, like most guys did in the 90s and early 2000s once inside the then rabbit hole. But what I find in front of me is a neat bar, with brown colours painted on the walls, and chairs arranged nicely.

The ladies are all over, writhing around in what Nairobians would refer to as sexy.

When I say girls, I mean – fat girls, skinny girls, light girls, dark toned girls, cute girls, girls with appearances that only a mum can love, girls with weaves and those wearing bald head, red-eyed girls, dusty-footed girls, girls wearing heels and those wearing sandals, scowling girls, smiling girls, girls with red lips, girls with shiny lips, girls with pointed boobs, girls with flat chests etc. All these girls share a common purpose – they are here for a price!


To be precise, there are two bars inside SJ. The first one serves its customers right at the entrance, while the second one is at the furthest end. The new arrangement confuses me a lot. It’s not like what I used to see a few years back.

At the furthest end lies a ”caged” DJ, inside a grilled box that looks like a parrot house. It reminds me of a caged psychopath! The whole place is packed to brim!

You should order beer in doubles instead of a single bottle, because this is the norm. That’s a tidy Ksh400 out of my pocket!

So I order my bottles of Guinness. I sit down in a corner, staring at doggy-looking men who pretend to ignore the skimpily-dressed girls. These men are watching National Geographic instead, as if they just came here to watch TV. Clearly they are pretending.

And then a man selling boiled eggs passes by my table. I ignore him. Another man, selling porn comes along, and this time, I shake my head and he moves to the next table.

The Following takes place at 9.30pm, Friday

I signal this light girl I have locked eyes with a few times since I sat at this table. She offers a gentle smile to me, and this is supposed to make me imagine how innocent she is.

She has a decent, brown face, though what she wears contests her decency at this moment.

She’s called Samantha. She actually has brown tattoo with those words highlighted — her name.

I order two more beers for her. We chat a little bit with a few interruptions in between, as a result of a crocodiles eating a live wilderbeast crossing the Mara rivers.

Samantha has a soft countenance. You could easily fall in love with her, assuming you didn’t know what she does for a living. From our conversation, I can see that her heart is filled with insecurities. She can never trust men again, probably because a man abandoned her at some point, after making her pregnant. However, she can still love again — according to what I gather.

Because I had used Samantha’s time, I offered a Ksh500 bob to compensate. SJ gave me unique insights into the trade of the flesh and humanity. It provoked my sense of morality. That’s what Sabina Joy is today!

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