Hanging on with Hannington
Nightlife in Pretoria: My take on Stones Night Club
“With the worst bar service any night reveller can find, Stones is crude, ghettoish and behaves like a thunderous factory mill....”
ot all garbage pits are created equal. In fact some are cleaner than others while others are more inviting and intoxicating. But there is one in Hatfield-a small University of Pretoria called Stones nightclub. And for some reason, this dingy spot, offers the best attraction to any night-owl that is willing and ready to party hard regardless of the age. It’s an all-season’s joint with a blue-room ambiance probably fit for another movie shoot of the Godfather series. It’s popular with varsity students with a big chunk from University of Pretoria while others are from the nearby high-rise slums. Once here, they are mandated to check-in like it’s an extension to one of the faculties. But many others are grown people (like me) who have failed to find the evidence that life is serious. They suffer from Peter Pan Syndrome, so to say! There is something jolly interesting about this faculty of Stones. To begin with; courses are cheap with shooters being the biggest draw card. Other subjects on offer are Pool Table, gold digging and lifting (the art of picking young girls for takeaway!) For those who have never visited this spot, just picture a farm with a pigsty, a pen and a paddock all in one spot. Yes, a game farm with all sorts of animals. Young girls roaming like free-range chickens playing hide and seek from muscular cocks. Then the late night seasonal Serengeti migration across to Zanzu night club begins. With the worst bar service any night reveller can find,
Stones is crude, ghettoish and behaves like a thunderous factory mill. And if you are the kind who derives some meaning in disorganisation, chaos and don’t mind about bad odour, this is your place. Bathrooms are ridiculously busy with Hunters Dry wetting the floor like the Nile River. Most girls there are almost ready to give out their exact phone numbers until you realise the second last digit is deliberately wrong. You go home excited only to later on collapse on your bed trying out all permutations. Also because of the smell of cigarette smoke and bad breath that sits thick in the air, be ready to discard your underwear, belt and socks afterwards. A few girls have confessed to me that with such an environment, it’s futile to put on underwear and one went as far as wearing a disposable nappy. But the government should intervene on the way we are searched at the entrance. Burly smiling men run their thumbs all over our sacred bodies like we are their Al Qaeda wives. Granted a security check is vital especially if you have patrons from West Africa, but we plead for some moderation. I know of a guy who once was asked repeatedly by these bouncers ... ‘’what is this?” He couldn’t explain because there were hotties in the queue. The chap kept mumbling while this bouncer kept hitting his zip. Not until later I saw the bouncer open his fly. Visibly disturbed, he let out “ummh! Gosh! Sorry, I thought it was a gun!” Yes, brother, it’s his gun...that’s why there are girls inside waiting for the massacre. Hannington Kasirye.