Jojo loves Christmas the way Nairobi loves traffic, deeply, obsessively, and without an ounce of shame. While most people are nursing hangovers on Boxing Day, Jojo’s already counting down,  “Only 363 and a quarter days to CHRISTMAS.”

Her real name is Joyce Muturi, but don’t call her that. To Jojo, “Joyce” belongs to women who wear stockings with open shoes and say things like, “Young people these days.” Jojo stands just over four feet something, she’s a Gen Z soul with the wisdom of someone much older. And yes, she wears a size three shoe.

She’s the last born, and you can tell. That effortless, carefree energy of someone who never had to serve tea to guests or fight over the remote. People call her Jojo or sometimes Joy, depending on how close they are. Mostly, though, she’s known as sunshine draped in sarcasm.

It’s Jojo’s birthday. We’re meeting at Hash Grill, a little hideaway stitched into the soft hemline between Pangani and Muthaiga. If you blink too fast, you might miss it. If you smell meat, you’re probably there.

It’s just past 4PM, and I’m riding in an Uber Baridi. The sky is cloudy but hasn’t opened up yet, like it’s holding back to keep things calm.

We’re slowly passing KCA University when I spot Jojo and Spiky waiting by the roadside. I call them, and they tell me their cab is running late, but it’s no big deal. They’re just happy to be together.

Spiky isn’t her real name. It’s the name the world gave her and she wears it well. Her government name is Winfred Wangui Mwangi. But please, don’t call her Winfred. Just don’t. And definitely steer clear of Mwangi, that’s her dad’s name. And her younger brother’s too.

Kikuyu naming traditions are a beautiful constellation of meaning and memory, stitched with ancestry and whispers from generations past.

As a Luo, things are simpler. My children will carry Okelo with pride, stamped bold as their surname. Their first names will be chosen by nature or circumstance. Born at night? She’ll be Atieno. Born in the evening? He’ll be Odhiambo. We name like we’re telling stories of time, of place and of arrival.

Spiky is in a blue denim dress that hugs her like good karma. Her makeup is a masterpiece. Her perfume is Something Arabic and complicated, Mist-ika-tul-Mystique or something like that. She smells like a desert breeze married to soft rebellion. She’s in a pink cap, stolen from my wardrobe with no intention of return. On her feet is a pair of adidas samba. She looks amazing !

Jojo is in brown khaki pants, a dark green sweatshirt, and her well-worn pair of Converse, her outfit speaks in quiet confidence, like a soft song only the soul can hear. Effortlessly her. Spiky is holding up her phone, laughter bubbling between them as they record a video. Jojo ducks her head, smiling that quiet smile she wears when the lens turns her way, shy, but glowing all the same.

We find  our way through the laughter and clinking cutlery like ink curling across parchment, slow and sure, until we land at a corner table with a view of the world, well, at least a sliver of it. Down below, there’s a bare apartment, save for a single Turkish rug stretched across the floor like it was laid there with purpose. A woman stands quietly at the door, wrapped in a flowing hijab. I can tell she’s Muslim, not just from the hijab, but from the calm, grounded stillness she carries. I’ve always found Muslim homes to be beautifully minimal—like the space itself is pausing to listen.

Earlier, a waitress called Faith had welcomed me. I saw her name on the badge. I’d asked for a dawa (Hot water infused with lemon and ginger, sweetened with a touch of honey) because my throat was acting up. She was warm, the way you wish all waiters were. Now another one, Lucy, comes by to take our order but she seems impatient. We ask for five minutes, and she walks off looking half-convinced. I see her whisper to another waitress, Josephine, who comes over with a much softer approach. She takes her time with us. Helps us through the menu.

We settle on a platter for four because we’re hungry and also because meat. We also order hot drinks. When the food comes, it doesn’t just come. It arrives with flair. One guy has a camera, two others carry the tray like it’s the crown jewels, and Josephine follows with cutlery and serviettes.

 I swear my appetite tripled in that moment.

The food is an edible sermon. It reminds me that life, even on its worst days, can be made bearable with well-grilled nyama choma.

But not everything is delicious. There’s a table in front of us with nine girls. Nine. All from the same office, you can tell. They keep side-eyeing me like I’m their tea break agenda. I try not to notice but I do. They whisper, they giggle, they chew me with their glances. I feel like a paragraph in a WhatsApp group I didn’t consent to.

Still, we eat. We laugh. We exist loudly. Hash Grill is an experience. The waiters here don’t have M-Pesa lady attitude. They don’t look like you owe them child support. The rooftop is chilled. The air has attitude. The ambiance sings, “You deserve this.”

As we leave, I tell myself,  I will come back. With friends. Or alone. Or maybe with Pie (Pie is Spiky), my sweetheart. But I will return. Because some places are not about the food, or the music, or even the people.

Some places are about how they make you feel seen.

 @okelododdychitchats