• There had better be one hell of a closing party for all the good times it created
They tell me it’s Last Orders at Gipsy Bar on August 27. They inform me that owner Karim has called time after 27 years on what can only be described as a Nairobi legend.
I can only hope the long-serving and thoroughly loyal staff, from Steve the barman to George the bouncer, and all the rest will be okay.
As for Karim, thank you for the space, the music, the Gipsy Burger and your friendship.
If Masharubu had Karumaindo, Whispers had Rhoda’s Place and Norm Petersen and Frasier Crane had Cheers, then for 17 seasons of the Mwangi G show, the place where everybody knew my name was Gipsy Bar.
Almost everyone who made my acquaintance between August 1994 and April 2011 will probably tell you that we first met at Gipsy Bar.
And even when they didn’t know or remember my name, they described me to their friends so well that sight unseen, I could be found.
For instance, one of my artsy friends (and no, that’s not a euphemism) bumped into an old friend of his at Gatwick Airport. The Artistic One was travelling to London, while his pal was moving to Kenya for work.
He told her that if she ever needed to meet people, she should visit Gipsy Bar. And once there, make a beeline for the big bald guy who would most probably be at the bar, holding court and swigging a Vodka orange.
The young woman did as she was told. When she tapped me on the shoulder, I turned around and speedily flipped through my mental gallery of faces, but couldn’t place hers.
Despite my attempt to gallantly cover up the fact that I had no clucking clue who she was, she could see she had me at a disadvantage. She told me about bumping into the Artistic One in Gatwick and his message to her, and here she was, on only her second night in town.
For a while, I was gobsmacked and thought she was pulling my leg, but I accepted her story anyway and we became fast friends. Months later, the Artistic One was back in town and confirmed the story over a few Vodka oranges.
There are so many stories I could tell about Gipsy Bar. Some funny, some sad and many scandalous.
For instance, there’s the tale of the temporarily embarrassed millionaire who popped in one quiet night with his small entourage, ordered drinks all round, only to find he didn’t have his wallet on him.
Because he was a well-known face from the newspaper and TV, and had been known to pop into the bar occasionally, his promise to pay was acceptable to the manager on duty that night.
Everything would have been fine had the millionaire not then become a jerk, calling the staff names and hurling a pint glass at the barman, who ducked causing the glass to hit the duty manager squarely in the face.
Never have I ever seen anyone react so fast.
In one fluid move, my pal, the normally mild-mannered duty manager, hurdled over the bar and grabbed the rude millionaire’s shirt collar and belt and proceeded to literally hurl him out of the bar. Just like in a TV cartoon.
But for me, the best thing Gipsy ever did was to unwittingly (at least at first) create a space for members of Nairobi’s queer community.
There were other bars where we also met and I have written about those here and elsewhere, but Gipsy Bar will always be special to me (at least) for the freedom it allowed the community.
I’m sad I won’t be there for the big finale and really, there had better be one hell of a closing party because every legend should go out with a bang.
If there’s a DJ in the house, please play this request: I Got Cash by the Brooklyn Funk Essentials.