Blankets & Wine: How everything that could go wrong, went horribly wrong

Alright, class, settle down. Now that the noise has quietened, the hashtags have cooled off, and influencers have finally stopped pretending that they had “the time of their lives,” let’s talk about what really went down at Blankets & Wine. To be honest, I wasn’t even planning to write this piece. I had a complimentary media pass and didn’t want to sound like that ungrateful cousin who eats your food then complains it was too salty. The easy way out would have been to stay quiet. But journalism, at least the kind worth doing, is not about stroking egos or curating fake vibes; it’s about saying the uncomfortable things out loud. And the uncomfortable truth is this: the September 28th edition of Blankets & Wine Festival might just have been the most spectacularly mismanaged event I’ve attended this year.

Quick disclaimer before anyone gets their knickers in a bunch: my issues are with the general organization of the event, not the performers. Every single artist who stepped on that stage delivered like their rent was due the next morning. Flier, whom I didn’t even know existed before this festival, had me Googling him before his set was over. Billy Black was so soulful I half-expected him to collect an offering basket after his performance. Zaituni’s voice? Let’s just say if milk and honey ever dropped an album, she’d be the lead singer.

We Are Nubia hit notes so high the Kenya Civil Aviation Authority (KCAA) should’ve charged them for airspace. Toxic Lyrikali showed up and immediately all the women at my table were gone, like my salary on the 2nd of the month. Chimano, well… was Chimano; glitter, drama, and fabulous chaos wrapped into one. And Tems, the headliner, may have been the main attraction, but Uganda’s Joshua Baraka waltzed in, stole the show, and then had the audacity to bring out Bien and Mr. Tee like surprise gifts at a birthday party. Bottomline is, the music was good, it just deserved a better event.

Let’s begin with the sound; or rather, the weapon of mass destruction masquerading as sound. Whoever the sound engineer was, I hope they went home after that event, looked in the mirror, and asked themselves, “Was that music… or was I just torturing Nairobi for sport?” Because what came out of those speakers was not sound; it was trauma in stereo. The bass was so aggressively distorted it felt like my internal organs were being rearranged. At some point I was convinced my appendix had shifted to my throat.

Every time an artist grabbed the mic, there was that one second of hope, that “Maybe this one will sound better”, followed immediately by an eardrum-shattering reminder that No, it would not. By the third performance, I was already blocking my ears with my hands so much I looked like I was rehearsing for a nationwide campaign against noise pollution. At one point, I actually considered Googling “How to perform an exorcism on speakers.” Because that sound system didn’t need an engineer, it needed a priest, a prophet, and possibly a hardware reset from Jesus Himself.

And then there was the timing. I like going early to events because I always have this need to find the most comfortable seat from where I can enjoy both the performances and judge people as they misbehave. And so I was at the Laureate Gardens venue by 12:30pm, had a few bites of chicken because I was famished, and was seated by 1pm because the programme said the first act was supposed to take to the stage at 2pm. By 3pm, I was still scrolling through X, questioning my life choices, and wondering if the show was being coordinated by Nairobi matatu conductors. When things finally got moving, everything was already behind schedule.

Joshua Baraka was meant to open for Tems, who was billed as the closing act, the crown jewel of the night. But because everything began later than advertised, and because lag times between the sets (that included adverts) piled up, the Math simply wasn’t Math-ing. So, when Tems’ scheduled slot arrived, Baraka hadn’t performed yet. And Tems, being the international star presumably with contractual time restrictions (and possibly more important things to do like getting some sleep), had to go on. So, she did her set, glittered, glowed, and exited stage left. Then Baraka came on after her, technically closing the festival. But if anyone could flip that kind of scheduling chaos into a win, it was him. He didn’t just perform; he conquered. He closed the night with so much energy and flair, it almost felt like the organizers had planned it that way all along. Almost.

And then…the bar. Picture this: I arrived at the main arena at 1pm, took my seat like a disciplined church elder, and thought, “Let me order a cold beer to pass the time as I wait for the music to start.” Simple, reasonable request, right? Wrong. The bar wasn’t open. Why? Because the cashier hadn’t arrived yet. A cashier. At a festival of this size. Apparently, one person held the keys to the kingdom of thirst. Fine, I thought, maybe they’re stuck in traffic, rushing over with the float and receipts. I gave it thirty minutes.

Two hours later, still nothing. By 4pm, my lips were dry enough to qualify as sandpaper. By 5pm, I started calculating whether I could squeeze drinking water from the grass. And then finally, at around 6pm - six in the evening, my friends - the bars opened like heaven after a drought. And because everyone was already thirsty for something by this point, there was a terrible scramble for drinks at the bar counters that almost caused a stampede. To add insult to injury, even the poor souls who had gone the extra mile of pre-ordering their drinks days in advance were left high and dry. Imagine paying upfront so that you can avoid queueing, walking into the venue with the confidence of a shareholder, only to be told, “Sorry, your drinks are missing in action.”

But here’s the kicker: while the rest of us were out there dehydrating like forgotten sukuma in the fridge, influencers were being served drinks the whole time. Cocktails, beers, spirits, water; the works. Watching them sip happily while the rest of us stared like Dickensian orphans was just plain insulting. Now, don’t get me wrong, I respect influencers. They do their job, they create content, they sell brands. But if you’re going to serve them and ignore the rest of us, then just call it what it is: a private party for influencers, with background extras who also happened to buy tickets. Because nothing says “we value you, our paying customer” like watching someone with a ring light get three bottles of gin with different flavours while you’re negotiating with your saliva glands.

Speaking of thirst, let’s talk about water. Or rather, the complete absence of it. At an event of this magnitude, you’d think water vendors would be everywhere, throwing bottles at us like campaign T-shirts. But No. By late afternoon, water at the venue was about as easy to find as affordable housing in Nairobi. The last time I saw a bottle of water was when I’d just arrived at mid-day and grabbed a quick bite of chicken (remember that?). After that? Nothing. If you were near the stage and needed hydration, your only option was to lick your own sweat. By around 7pm, the performances were just background noise to me; my real headliner was the fantasy of a sexy, curvy, dripping cold bottle of Keringet strutting onto the stage.

And then, there was the crowd. A sea of people. A gathering so large it seemed like a Guinness World Record attempt for “most humans crammed into a field without collapsing the ozone layer.” Personal space was extinct. I was so squashed against strangers I’m fairly sure I owe three people child support now. Breathing turned into a community project, you inhaled what your neighbour exhaled and prayed it wasn’t shisha.

Now, I'm not even too mad at that: a big crowd is fantastic for the balance sheet. Tickets sold, bar tills ringing, sponsors smiling - I totally understand that. But the question is; was the event prepared to handle that crowd? Absolutely not. It’s one thing to pack in bodies, it’s another to keep them watered, cooled, and comfortable. Profitability may have won the night, but the actual experience – what Blankets & Wine has always been known for since inception - was in the pits throughout.

Just when I thought the circus couldn’t get any wilder, the security team decided to audition for WWE. My colleague - a young, hardworking lady photographer - was manhandled aggressively during Tems’ set. She had made her way to the front section and politely asked for permission to film, was told “Yes,” and three songs later was suddenly told “That’s enough” - then promptly treated like she was smuggling state secrets out of the venue. When she agreed to stop and tried to leave, they bizarrely wouldn’t let her out, effectively detaining her. Eventually, she was forced to sneak out backstage like a fugitive. Security should keep fans safe, not traumatize the media team. If this is their idea of protocol, then the only thing they successfully secured was a bad reputation.

In the end, Blankets & Wine September 2025 was like that friend everybody loves but can’t always rely on. When the artists hit the stage - Tems, Baraka, Toxic, Zaituni, everyone - it was moments of pure joy, of magic, the kind of energy that reminds you why you brave traffic and overpriced snacks. But those highs were buried under a mountain of avoidable chaos: delayed starts, sound that seemed to be waging war on eardrums, biblical thirst, security behaving like Eastlands club bouncers. And this is not just me, complaints about bad service, bad sound, long empty gaps on stage, overpriced tickets for what felt like less than premium treatment have echoed loudly online.

Blankets & Wine is supposed to be a cultural highlight, a Sunday afternoon of music, joy, and style. And to be fair, the artists upheld their end of the bargain. But the organizers fumbled. Badly. The entire thing felt like a masterclass in how not to run an event.