Changa

The battered Datsun was covered in red dust, had a cracked windshield, broken turn signals, and a front end that vibrated badly. John controlled the protesting vehicle with skilled authority to negotiate shuddering turns around tree-lined traffic circles, southbound in the left-hand lanes of Kenyatta Avenue. It always seemed odd to see the steering wheel on the right-hand side of an automobile. We drove to a dilapidated shanty town in the outskirts of Nairobi. The man who John rented the car from was with us, leading us to his home and family to sample changa, the homemade version of Kenya Cane.

After a sharp two-knock rap on a weathered wooden door we entered a small shack with a dirt floor.

The place was dimly lit by a yellow glow radiating from a kerosene lamp. Its gray plank walls were partially covered with shelving paper, cardboard, and outdated calendars. We joined eight black men who sat or crouched around a crude coffee table sipping warm Tusker beers. They paid us three no mind, accepting us as friends of the lad who brought us there with courteous nods and smiles. An elderly woman appeared from another room with a glass jar half filled with a clear liquid and the moonshine was passed around the table. Distilled from sugar cane and maize, the potion sipped  sweet and smooth.