I stare silently at the can of Guinness Foreign Extra Stout, droplets running down the length to puddle on the paper towel. One might say it’s a bushman’s indulgence, drinking before lunch, but I like my beer, especially when it is dark and thick.
Now, listening to the birds chirping outside my window, the sun awash my face, and a roll burning, I couldn’t help but marvel at the weekend past. Peppered with Rhumba nights, rugby action, and crowned by Papa Jones, what could be better?
And I’d be selfish to keep this to myself, without a glimpse of what you might have missed, and a coax to have you in our next revelry.
Bungoma, especially, was a delight. Arriving in the quiet town on Friday morning after overnight travel, it was only fair to rest before finding my way to the Members' Club for the Mwana wa Mberi’s Rhumba Fiesta, Vintage Buddies Edition, which was to begin that afternoon. And the Sasana Motel provided more than just rest.
When the gate opened after ringing the bell, paws greeted me. The Siberian huskies were a pleasant surprise. And as I stooped to pat them, Queenie, on her hind legs, rose to lick my face.
“No, Queenie, don’t,” came the voice as the motel's proprietor strode out of the reception hastily.
“It’s alright,” I said. Patting the dog and smiling ear to ear.
She was Naliaka. A Scottish Naliaka. Interesting, right?
Noticing the instant bond with the dogs, she invited me to the Kennels, where a litter of puppies, a little over six weeks were.
“These are purebred,” she said as I reached in to pat a puppy.
“I keep a Malinois,” I said, showing her a photo. “But I have to confess, my heart is bursting at the sight of these huskies,” I commented, struck by the beauty, as she showed me to my room. A cozy, tiny room, decorated in antiques and exotic paintings.
It is a delight listening to rhumba, but one performed by a live band, soothes differently.
As dusk fell and revelers filled the grounds, the Fiesta Band belted out popular tunes.
Sitting around bonfires and munching on sizzling steaks, while others, couples or alone, swayed to the spell of the strings and brass.
Naamini unaenda utarudi oh
Hata kama sio leo wala Kesho eeh
Mimi Wako Mama
Nawe wangu Cherie Mama
Mbona hivyo Mwenzangu Mama
Waniacha kisa nini oh
oh Bibi eh
Went Les Wanyika’s ufukara sio kilema. To it and more popular tunes we listened and danced the night away. As the night wore on and the cold settled after a drizzle, bonfires roared to life, and the crowd, as if rejuvenated, got crazier. Crazy polite, of course, as it was a rhumba fiesta.
As dawn broke over the western hills, our hangovers trailed behind us like shadows, but Nairobi was calling, and in its heart, the Safari 7s was already roaring
“It has been a great night, I hope the Safari 7s, besides the rugby action, has even more in store,” my colleague sighed, stretching in her seat as we left Bungoma early Saturday morning for Nairobi.
And sure, it was.
The 27th edition, running from 10–12 October 2025, unfolded like a fever dream of sport and sound, twelve men’s teams and seven women’s sides converging on Nyayo Stadium, each carrying the dust, pride, and accent of its corner of the world: from African powerhouses to slick European squads with sunburned fans in tow.
The quarterfinals were pure combustion. Shujaa, Kenya’s own thunder gods, flattened Nyati 40–0, a demolition that left the crowd chanting before the echo died. Morans fought like men possessed, scraping past the UK Select 21–19 in a match so tight it felt like the air itself held its breath.
Shogun Rugby of Spain tore through the French Renegades 31–5, while Zimbabwe’s raw muscle sent KCB packing, 19–10. The semis turned the turf into theatre, Shujaa against Zimbabwe, Shogun against Morans, a clash of continental temperaments, grit versus flair.
And then the final: Kenya Shujaa versus Shogun Rugby. The stadium shook as Shujaa sealed it 14–7, reclaiming glory on home soil under a Nairobi sunset heavy with sweat, music, and beer mist.
The Lionesses, not to be outdone, roared past Uganda 14–10, their victory a mirror of national pride, two Kenyan sides standing tall as dusk fell and the drums of the afterparty began to roll.
The afterparty was a major draw, two nights of music, headlined by Fathermoh on Saturday and Khaligraph Jones on Sunday.
By the time Khaligraph took the stage, it wasn’t a rugby field anymore, it was a cathedral of sweat, sound, and sin. And as I think back now, sipping my dark stout, I know the weekend didn’t end there; it just melted into memory
