Kisumu Clubs, Where Did The Dancefloor Go?
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- March 11, 2023
First, I must confess I am not a regular clubbing guy nowadays; my heydays exploring and exploiting Kisumu clubs and nightlife are in their sunset years. Over the years, I’ve morphed into more of a “Netflix and Chill” guy. In a while, like an animal fresh from hibernation and hungry for the smell of fresh air and earth, I venture out to take in the lay of the land ( of the night in this case), and man, hasn’t the clubbing scene changed? For better, maybe for worse, I can’t say, for like I just said, it’s long since I renewed my “rave” (do they even call it that?) card. Therefore I am not an absolute authority to give grades of good or bad scores. But things have gone and changed in this scene. Nothing in life is ever static anyway.
One main change I always take a great deal of noticing whenever I am out at night, like that famous blue moon (not the drink, please), is how small the clubs’ dance spaces are and ask myself, “where did the dancefloor go?” That spacious, well-lit area with acres to break a leg in? The question reverberates as I teleport (the movies speaking here) back to the good old days.
Yes, those were good times when we’d go clubbing in town and have an absolute ball making moves on the hardwood floor. Clubbing then was a big part dancing, then some parts drinking and other parts doing other stuff. Remember Kimwa Grand? Club Royale? Basement? Obambla? Dubai Complex. These establishments had proper dance floors with suitable space, lights, mirrors, and works.
Even good old Bottoms Up “Club Octopus” had some dancefloor for revelers, yet dancing was not its main attraction. Dance was such a big deal then contests would even be held mid-partying. Those moves you saw Mister Ogilo, “the dancing chief,” pull mainly were inspired by that era. The clubbing era that nurtured legends. Hehehe.
Sit more, drink more
When you get into a club (or let’s call them lounges), you get more seats than you do in church, and churches have plenty of seats, man. When you want to dance, you must scurry for some small space in front of the deejay booth. Suppose it fills up fast like it’s wont to do. In that case, the only option is to dance between chairs or tables.
At the same time, you precariously perform some poor version of an acrobat’s balance tricks to shield you from making one wrong move, tipping over, and sending all your drinks waiting on the table to your ancestors down on the floor as libation. Worse still, spill the drinks that were on the next table.
Woe unto you if you have a damsel and you two catch a raging urge to cozy up in a dance trance. You must pack tight like sardines in a tin and pray you both to keep your pivots. Too much work for his highness and her highness. Where is the dancefloor, please?
The house always wins
Buccaneers had a decent enough area to get jiggy, and so did Signature. Still, the modern joint seems to have adopted a “dance less, drink more policy .”Give patrons a spacious area, and they may do moonwalks everywhere and drink a bottle or two. Make them comfy and on their seats while enjoying some fine music mix and gulp, gulp, gulp, dance, gulp, pulp. This contrasts past years’ spots policy that used to make money off giving people a night of their lives booging. The latter-day ones give you your best night’s boozing. In both cases, the house always wins. Just a change of strategy but the same goal.
The dancefloor days saw clubs charge entrance fees, make a tidy sum off that, and sell some drinks as people dance. The millennials are rarely charged entrance fees (unless an artiste is performing) and rely on drinks sales to do business, and they do make.
People always say their eras were the best, so allow me to say those days we would go dancing “until we collapsed on the floor and were rushed to an ambulance” were the best days of clubbing. So long, dear dancefloor. So long.
