The Night I Became a DJ Against My Will

After high school, my second job was as a cleaner at a nightclub in town.

If you don't know what a nightclub cleaner does, I honestly don't know how to explain it to Gen-Z's. Back then, clubs didn't have those fancy automated floor scrubbers. We used mops. Real mops. The kind that smelled like bleach and broken dreams. And we cleaned everything—spilled drinks, broken glass, and occasionally, people who had passed out on the dance floor and refused to leave.

I worked the 6 PM to 6 AM shift. The night shift.

The pay was three hundred bob per night.

One Saturday, everything changed.

That evening, the club was packed.

I mean packed like a matatu during rush hour.

The DJ—a guy called DJ Shujaa—was spinning vinyls like his life depended on it. He had this massive sound system that looked like it could power half of Nairobi. The bass was so heavy, I could feel my kidneys vibrating.

Around midnight, pandemonium struck.

DJ Shujaa's girlfriend walked in.

Now, DJ Shujaa's girlfriend was what you'd call high maintenance. She had weaves that cost more than my monthly salary and nails that could double as weapons. She walked in with a face that said, "I've been looking for you."

The DJ saw her.

The DJ panicked.

The DJ ran.

Left everything behind.

I was mopping near the DJ booth when I heard the commotion. The crowd was confused. The music had stopped. People were looking around like lost sheep.

Then the club manager—a man whose name I never learned but whose anger I'll never forget—grabbed my collar.

"Wewe!"

"Mimi?"

"Ndio wewe! Unaweza spin?"

"Spin nini?"

"Vinyls, mjinga! Unajua kucheza muziki?"

"Nataka niseme nini?"

"Unaeza ama hauezi?"

I had never touched a turntable in my life.

But my mouth, in its infinite wisdom, decided to say:

"Naeza."

And just like that, I became the club's DJ.

Have you ever seen a monkey try to operate a calculator?

That was me.

I stood there, looking...