Kwani Litfest is on, people. We turned the switch Friday night at Acapulco (the one in Nairobi, not the Mexico) with the help of Just A Band, who are not just a band but practically a football team of dj’s, instrumentalists, and Eryka Badu-esque sirens.
A steady drizzle throughout the day didn’t stop the crowd from filling the garden to capacity, and then some – by nine o’clock people had to park further away than their apartments.
Acapulco is an unbeatable spot for a party, unless you happen to be the one trying to finish your dinner date in peace. You feel like you’re at your wealthy god-father’s estate, wandering through the thick arches separating the various dining rooms, admiring the surf photos on the walls and the wine collection stocked above the bar at the entrance, then skipping the line (horrendous) and getting your drink at the bar set up outside instead – sadly, they neglected to stock it with tequila, one of the evening’s only disappointments.
You could find Mr. Cuervo inside if you had the patience, which may have explained the lingering presence there of writers like Andia Kisia and Jackie Lebo; it certainly explained mine.
Other familiar faces were prowling around too: Judy Kibinge, the multi-talented filmmaker; Wambui Mwangi, the most literary academic in town and a person who usually likes to throw these kinds of events in her own garden down the street; Muthoni Garland, nominated Caine Prizee (‘nuff said), Doreen Baingana, the Ugandan writer fresh in from Kampala, and Martin Kimani, the Kenyan journalist you are least likely to actually see in Kenya – to name a few.
Notably absent were Chimamanda Adichie and Ishmael Beah, whose globe-trotting schedules won’t deposit them here till later in the week, and our very own Binyavanga Wainaina, whose recent trip to the Ghana Litfest resulted in blink and you miss it appearance early on. A spell of malaria that dampened his usually festive mood and ebullience. (But not for long, he assures us – he might even be up for his reading tonight at Sunday Salon).
The band went strong until, well, who was checking the time anymore? Whenever it was, their stopping didn’t slow us down much; that was the moment Tony ‘Smitta’ Mochama entered the fray, and things got truly vodka-riffic from there on in. The dj’s inside cranked it up a notch or two to get the dance floor moving, the ladies took over the men’s washroom outside (‘you can use the bushes, boys’) and the writers took over the garden bar. For the next several hours (or was that days?) we left no drink unturned.
‘Funny,’ said Miss Lebo at one point during the night, ‘we used to throw Litfest parties and you’d know every single person. Tonight I don’t recognize half the people here.’
Sounded good to us – a sure sign that this year’s Litfest has already outpaced the previous years. Friday night proved that more is indeed merrier; here’s to more of the same in the two weeks to come.
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