- Pikadili is in Kendu Bay and it is our pride and glory. Its entrance is gaudy but we do not care.
- The hotel is beautiful, structurally, a bit kitschy aesthetically but still one of our best by miles.
- You have not been to Kendu Bay until you have made a pitstop in Pikadili.
Don’t go drinking alcohol at Pikadili,” my grandmother told me, my cousin, and a friend when we visited the village early this week.
“They sell alcohol for Sh30. Someone drank it with a woman and died. Don’t go.”
“Wait, how do you know they sell alcohol for Sh30, dani?” I asked her jokingly. “Have you started drinking again?” She made a horrified face because she has never drunk in her life. She is in her 90s, a staunch Seventh Day Adventist, the strongest thing she has ever drunk is soya.
“And these women you people drink with in bars will kill you,” she pointed at us with a gnarled 90-year-old finger.
“So is it the alcohol or the woman that killed this man?” my cousin asked. We are laughing but she did not. My friend on the other hand had the what-kind-of-family-is-this look?
Pikadili is in Kendu Bay and it is our pride and glory. Its entrance is gaudy but we do not care. Some might even say its name is corrupted from the Piccadilly Circus in London but we insist that our Pikadili has no relation whatsoever with anything British and we take great offense to that colonial insinuation.
The hotel is beautiful, structurally, a bit kitschy aesthetically but still one of our best by miles.
There is a garden where retirees, travellers passing through, esteemed villagers and visitors sit under umbrellas to have a meal and a beer while listening to Rhumba, Ohangla and Benga music.
You have not been to Kendu Bay until you have made a pitstop in Pikadili. It is a shame my grandmother thinks it is the pit of death.
“Dani, there is no alcohol for Sh30 at Pikadili,” my cousin said. “This is not 1950.” She mumbled disapprovingly, planted her walking stick in the ground, rose wobbly to her feet and left the room in protest.