Retro Rewind: A love letter to old music, tequila, and millennial women

I’m going to make a confession here that most of my friends will find laughable. I’ve come to realize, much to my own surprise, that I don’t actually enjoy drinking. Yes, I said it. Take a moment, let it marinate, and get all your laughter out of the way, boys. It’s not that I despise alcohol per se, I just don’t fancy what it does to me. I love the company, the laughter that flows freely, and the kind of conversations that only seem to happen when there’s a bottle in sight, but the actual drinking? Not so much.

I hate how my head begins to feel like a balloon that’s trying to float away, or how suddenly I’m telling stories no one asked for. I made peace with this inconvenient truth early this year when I turned 30; that strange age where hangovers come with mood swings and introspection. These days, I find myself gravitating toward quieter corners of life; laid-back joints where conversation isn’t a shouting match, or better still, my couch, a remote, and the comforting silence of a weekend spent doing absolutely nothing.

If I absolutely must leave the comfort of my house to partake of a drink, then by all means it should be a decent one; something that doesn’t make my entire body file for medical leave for the next three business days. I don’t think that’s asking for too much, is it? But the problem is that we live in a country where most of the alcohol sold in entertainment joints is about as real as campaign promises. Half of it tastes like it was brewed in a chemistry lab by someone who failed their KCSE practicals.

Hell, just last week the United Kingdom added Kenya to its travel advisory list, cautioning their citizens against consuming local alcohol for fear of methanol poisoning. Imagine that, the British, who have survived centuries of bad weather and worse food, warning each other about our drinks. And so lately, I’ve lost all enthusiasm for nights out that involve questionable booze and guaranteed regret. I’d much rather stay home, wrapped in the chaos of ‘Shameless’ on Netflix; a show so wildly unpredictable that I can’t tell whether I’m watching comedy or tragedy.

And yet, as life often does, it decided to interrupt my peace just when I was beginning to enjoy it. The culprit this time was Mueni; a professional persuader whose phone calls have the unnerving ability to turn my quiet weekend plans into elaborate social escapades. She rang me up last week, her voice all sunshine and mischief, asking if I’d accompany her to an event at the Ngong Racecourse. It took a fair bit of internal negotiation, a few sighs, and the false promise to myself that I’d “only stay for an hour,” before I finally gave in. I accepted the invite for two reasons: first, it was an old-school music event, and nothing gets my blood humming like the nostalgia of a good throwback jam. Secondly, not once has Mueni ever placed an unworthy drink before me. The woman may sin in other ways (none of which I’m privy to), but her taste in alcohol is nothing short of divine.

Because Nairobi traffic does whatever it wants, whenever it wants, I left the house at 5:30 p.m, but still found myself rolling into Ngong Racecourse slightly after 7pm last Saturday. Nairobi roads have a way of humbling even the most punctual of men. Luckily, it was drizzling just enough to keep the fainthearted away, so I waltzed through the gates in under a minute; no queues, no chaos, no “tafadhali songa kidogo.” The air had that sweet, earthy scent that only Nairobi rain can conjure. The kind that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, you made the right decision leaving the house.

Now, millennials like myself, we’ve evolved. We no longer do those 2a.m party arrivals or sunrise exits. No, we’re responsible now. We like to go to events, even clubs, early, have the appropriate amount of fun possible, and still make it home in time for our midnight nap and moral recovery. Every once in a while, we pull an all-nighter just to prove to ourselves that we still got it, but if we’re being honest, we’re wired for events that start at 2pm and wrap up neatly by 11pm. That’s the sweet spot. Just enough fun to feel alive, but not enough chaos to need electrolytes the next morning.

The grounds were spacious and neatly organized, with two main tents holding court like rival kingdoms: the Casamigos tent, grand and glowing with that soft amber light that makes everyone look slightly more attractive, and the Pepsi tent, which had a giant TV screen broadcasting the Manchester United vs Brighton game to a devoted crowd of hopefuls and heartbreaks. The drizzle had turned into a polite mist, and the air carried that comfortable buzz of laughter, chatter, and clinking glasses.

At one corner, a row of food vendors worked their magic, filling the air with the smell of grilled meat, spices, and temptation. The options were plenty, but Mueni has a thing for Geco Café so we had their fries and grilled goat meat. The waiters were brisk and kind, the drinks came faster than the small talk, and there was enough space in the Casamigos tent to move around without performing acrobatics. Hell, I bumped into two of my old campus friends in there, which felt like a full-circle moment. Maybe we’re all just growing up in style.

Mueni (Okay, this is the last time I’m mentioning her, I swear), ever the efficient hostess, handed me a Casamigos cocktail before I’d even settled into my seat. A smooth handoff, part welcome, part temptation. I took a cautious sip, and immediately remembered why I trust that woman’s taste. See, Casamigos isn’t your ordinary tequila; it wasn’t conceived in some fluorescent-lit boardroom by tired executives trying to meet a quarterly target. No, it was born in the kind of friendship most men only dream of; that of famed Hollywood actor George Clooney and his neighbor Rande Gerber - two rich fellows with too much free time and very refined taste buds. Legend has it that they wanted a tequila they could sip all day without the usual salt, lime, or facial gymnastics. So they found a master distiller in Mexico, created a private batch that was smooth, subtle, and dangerously easy to drink; the kind of tequila that sneaks up on you like a text from your ex.

Word spread, bottles multiplied, and before long, what started as their “house of friends” tequila became a global brand. In 2017, they sold it to Diageo for a casual $1 billion, which is the sort of money that makes even bad decisions sound poetic. Casamigos finally made its Kenyan debut in March this year. I remember it vividly because it happened on my birthday eve at the Sankara hotel rooftop, and I dragged three of my friends there and we had the time of our lives. And now, here it was again, returning to my hand like an old friend with good stories and bad intentions.

By the time the drink had warmed my chest and loosened my shoulders, DJ CNG was already deep in his set, spinning pure nostalgia like a man on a mission to remind us who we once were before taxes and back pain. His playlist was a love letter to the past: a bit of ‘90s R&B here, some classic hip-hop there, and just enough sing-alongs to make even the quiet ones nod and mouth the words.

When DJ KK took over the decks around 8p.m., the energy shifted; tighter, cleaner, more deliberate. A little bird told me he’s actually the brains behind the whole Retro Rewind festival. I don’t know how factual it is, because I still haven’t managed to get a hold of him to verify, but the story I heard was that he got tired of begging promoters for gigs, so he built his own stage instead. You have to respect that kind of audacity. His set was electric; not the frantic kind that tries too hard, but the confident groove of a man who knows exactly what buttons to press, musically and emotionally.

And then came the moment that sealed the night for me, his final set song, the ‘Friends’ sitcom theme, at exactly 9:58pm. I swear my soul jumped. I didn’t just sing along; I belted it like it was 2004 and I’d just discovered what adult friendships really meant. ‘Friends’ isn’t just a series to me, it’s scripture. Comfort. Comedy that aged better than most of us. When that last note hit, I could’ve gone home right then and declared the night a success.

When Fully Focus finally took the stage, it was as if someone had flipped a secret switch hidden beneath Nairobi. The whole tent shifted; shoulders straightened, backs arched, and conversations melted into bass. The man didn’t just play music, he conducted emotion. You could see people go through all five stages of nostalgia in under three minutes.

But the real magic wasn’t just in the music alone. It was in the crowd, particularly the women, God bless those women, glowing in that effortless millennial elegance that can only be achieved by someone who has lived, learned, and refused to settle for less than three skincare steps. I stood there, quietly in awe, watching them dance with the kind of confidence that comes from knowing both who you are and what song is next.

These women – radiant and unbothered – moved and swayed like they owned both the rhythm and the reason for it. There’s something about millennial women that humbles you; they’ve perfected the art of looking like they’re not trying, while simultaneously outdressing, outdancing, and outvibing us men. You can always spot them; confident, cocktail in hand, laughing like they’ve survived enough to earn the right to enjoy themselves without apology. Watching them, I couldn’t help but think: maybe growing older isn’t about losing the thrill, but learning to curate it. To choose joy, deliberately, in a world that’s constantly testing your patience.

When I finally left (because I’ve become the guy that leaves parties at 11pm), the music was still echoing faintly behind me; a mash-up of laughter, bass, and memories I didn’t know I needed. I wasn’t entirely sober, but I was clear-headed enough to know the night had done its job. Not every outing needs to end in mystery shots and poor decisions; sometimes it just needs good sound, familiar faces, and tequila that doesn’t taste like regret. Maybe that’s what our thirties are about; learning how to let the night wind down without fighting it, knowing that peace can be found somewhere between the last sip and the first yawn.