You want to bamba? The death of Subaru boys, and the rise of the 'Big Boy' gang

Not so long ago, Nairobi's tawdry backstreets were terrorized by the Subaru-totting swashbucklers who swore like Irish sailors, partied like Colombian kingpins, drove like Pakistani maniacs and bedded women like Saudi princes.

Everywhere you looked, a Subaru boy made his nauseating presence known - the childishly-loud mufflers, garish tattoos, stripped-down outfits, ostentatious beards, gruff voices, sickening mutilation of street Grammar and the ever-present grip on a bottle of liquor.

They were not the hottest-looking dudes but there was a certain je ne sais quoi about them that made them a hit with the lasses.

Their swagger, pomp and growling exhaust pipes became the dream of every Nairobi girl; the likes that love to party, get whisked to faraway towns, wake up on a strange bed, stare at hotel room ceilings and drink themselves to a maddening stupor.

In the club, they came. Full of their fatuous airs, scanning the whole room as if to sniff out an assassin, their hands thrown across the waist of a blithe, little damsel, fake designer chains banging against their chests, before they sat recklessly, tossing their car key across the table, sighing, gesturing to a waitress for the grandest of orders for a start.

It had to be Hennessy. Or, Johnnie Walker. Black. Or, damn it, any fine Kentucky bourbon. 

If he was a Subaru boy, you'd know. And you'd either frown and wish you could haul them off a bridge or stare and wish you were sitting on their laps.

For a long time, these brazen gasbags were synonymous with Naivasha, or ‘Vasha’- a notorious town known for all things spicy, brash and X-rated.

On a fine Saturday, they'd ring their buddies with the tired street phrase, "You guy, my guy", load up on their Subaru, slide into some flip flops, raid a liqour store, browse their phonebook for an assortment of other peoples’ girls to call, fill up the tank and, like dumb zombies, tear down the highway in satanic speeds, defying all law - scientific and practical.

But as the years went by, girls, and the whole entire world in general, got tired of the gimmicks and the buffoonery displayed by these Subaru urchins and stopped paying them the attention they so desperately craved.

The world (thankfully) soon realized that they weren't even that monied - it was all a loud cinematic show that would, sooner or later, bomb at the box office.

Out with the gung-ho womanizers and in with the 'Big Boys' - a silent constituency of men who don't make a lot of noise, who don't blast up the highway like maniacs, who don't shake up neighborhoods with their drunken late-night arrivals and who are actually married, live in the quieter parts of town and don't drown half a bottle of Beefeater for breakfast.

The 'Big Boy' gang has, slowly but surely, been revolutionizing the Nairobi social scene bringing along a wealth of experience in girl matters, flashing their gilded David Yurman wedding rings, rotund bellies, three-piece suits, Salvatore Ferragamo loafers, Toyota Land Cruisers, nobility, smooth mien and cultured lingo.

Swathed with oligarchical pedigree and filthy lucre, these 'Big Boys' have actual jobs ranging from high-flying lawyers to honchos at some of the highest corporate offices, calling the shots, sitting in corner offices, handling big bucks and sitting in multi-national midday Zoom meetings with their mates in Singapore and uptown Geneva.

Some of them have questionable ways of making their millions (there's talk in town about their dabbles in the 'Wash Wash' underworld) but still, they cut the image, run the show and, somehow, have managed to evade the police dragnet despite the gossipy street talk.

In the club, they prefer to sink into the cushy, white VIP leather seats, surrounded by a bevy of barely-clad damsels, buried under a cloud of shisha smoke, shielded from the rest of the hoi polloi sweating itself across the room as bottles of white Belaire Luxe continue to fill up the table.

And they're smelling good too - 212 VIP Men, Black Orchid by Tom Ford or Allure Sport Extreme.

Around them, beddable college girls act all giddy, puffing away, drowning shots and ripping their throats away to Rema's monster jam 'Calm down.'

Unlike the Subaru boys, the Big Boy gang doesn't cause an unnecessary scene every so often and only stand up when egged on by their little drunk tramps, do an awkward little jig, flash a quick smile to the Snapchat camera pushed in their face, sip some champagne and go back to their seats - and then whip out their phones to whatever browser they were lost in.

And unlike the irksome Subaru boys, this new breed of shot callers don’t leave the club at 6.35am, reeking of stale liqueur, unable to locate their cars at the parking lot, ramming into fences and engaging the bouncers in a shouting match. The ‘Big Boys’ leave at around 2am, sloshed to the core, speaking soft English, fidgeting for their car keys, having to be escorted out by one of their babes and then, in no time, are driving down a rough road that leads to a serene, brightly-lit and tree-lined estate.

Back in the club, they’ve splurged a little over Ksh.60K. And it’s a Wednesday.

“Big boys wako tu sawa. Hawasumbui kama hawa Subaru boys. Na pia hawapiti na madame za wasee. Hukam tu club wametulia, wanakunywa mizinga yao ya nguvu alafu wanaenda kwa mabibi zao. Hakuna drama mob na pia hawachochi saana,” James Kinyua, a city reveler, says.

There’s only one downside though- some carry guns and are not afraid to use them. 

All in all, it’s a new age, there are new vikings in town, ready to be seen but not heard, respected but not worshiped, represent but not hog.

Pick your poison, girl.