By Nimusiima
Ntinda, besides harboring the cajoled middle-class that skim around in borrowed cars and weary smiles, its night life is alive. When darkness covers the earth, the same cajoled middle-class roam the town. There are quite a number of bars around this metropolis. And it, surely, depends on what ticks your palate, or ears, for that matter.
For the kinds that love soundless abodes and a bit of highbrow with an appetite for soccer, there is Anfield Bar. It is hidden. It is discreet and it is spacious as hell. Yes, its coinage is real. Once in a while, you will chance on folks having banter about the struggling EPL club, Liverpool; talking about Roger’s silly tactics, Steven Gerald’s ailing bones, Sterling’s bolting speed, or Sturridge’s dance strokes. Don’t get peeved. It is just the way it is. They love soccer here. It is a sports bar, somewhat. And if you are the type who loves the yuppie, after-work-corporate-ish, don’t fumble with your thick-rimmed glasses to look farther. Anfield Bar is the bar to plug your derriere. They have a large seating space which can be enough for you and your other three friends. They also have a discreet place with wooden seats where you can drag your lover and talk the language of love, alone. It feels like underwater, man. It is silent. And the only sound that intercepts is the sound of your heartbeat. They have pork as well. Take there your hunger.
However, if you want it loud, if you are in the informal sector, but pretentiously hide in the classy life, Catalina Bar suits you. It is loud in there. Once in a while, they bring wenches and strippers who show you flesh as you pour your warm beer down your liver. It gets rowdy, sometimes. The deejay/emcee won’t shut his mouth. Yes, he is paid to make noise. Irrelevant noise and he won’t mind whether you are watching soccer or chit-chatting with your partner whom you picked off the street. He will make a fool of himself. Also, while here, hold tight of your wallet.
And Kudos Bar that sits across the road on your way to Ntinda is somewhat grand, if you ask me. First, I fell in love with their seats that receive your backside with effusive stoicism. And the setting is flawless. Only that their prices will break your neck. But then again, it is a classy place and you wouldn’t get surprised when a bill comes, peers at it and it is akin to your rent, or tuition. Here, you will shoot pool as waitresses with big bottoms skirt around ferrying your drinks. They ask you in crisp English, and that is a turn on for me. Don’t ask me in Luganda, or Lusoga, or Lugbara. Isn’t the language you are asked supposed to ruin your thirst? It does. They have giant screens and if you are a soccer savvy chap, you are sorted therein. One screen will show a blurry match, but don’t mind. Just walk around, they have a screen outside, which is supposed to be their balcony, or so it seems.
Then there are people who love to wiggle and dance. There are those that want to spend the night rub-dubbing a female specie and wobbling on the floor. Koko’s Bar, which squats off the road past the junction in Ntinda town, suits that kind of section of humans. Climb upstairs, don’t get scared, or lost. Jesus! It can get deafeningly noisy in there. You will fall in love with the waitresses of the night, instantly. I give you my word. Ah, where do they get those ladies? They have the right stuff at their backside and they hold them in skimpy, little garments short of fabric, which is a turn on for you, Mike. They smile weakly, rub your hairy arm as they ask you for a drink. Because they are many, their services are a bit fast. Koko’s Bar is like a club. When the night is old, the dance floor fills up with people dancing and patched onto each other. Don’t get fooled by the girls, you might walk back home empty-handed; watch your wallet here.