POSH IS A TREE

Octopus Balls are not it!

And now that that’s settled, let’s begin.

If I have anyone take me on a Java-type date once more, I am shooting them in the foot.

Am I the only one who thinks our definiton of “posh” is all warped?

Everyone wants to go out and post a photo of an à la carte meal at an expensive Italian restaurant that will feed them special starch coated in special cheese, with two ounces of protein and a sliver of sauce.

For ambience, of course.

The room will be photographed extensively: high ceilings, expensive chandeliers, calibrated lighting, some unique piece of furniture that looks like it cost more than my first car.

The participants will be dressed accordingly. A dress from Mango. Shoes flown in from Rome? Who knows.

All for a two, maybe three-hour experience.

Otieno will then leave the restaurant, pass by his local joint and grab a quick plate of chapo beans. Wangechi will go home, warm the pilau from yesterday and take it down with a perfectly ripe avocado (because it is her lucky day. A perfect avocado isn’t an everyday occurrence).

Because after dropping ten thousand bob on dinner, they’re both still hungry.

She’ll love her homemade meal. She won’t post it. It’s not posh.

And though they may never admit it, that 10k food wasn’t even that good.

Kwanza nyama iko wapi surely? Ten thousand for spaghetti.

But they’ll never say it.

The next morning, we’ll wake up to curated, gorgeous photos of the experience.

Flamboyant. Uppity. Elite. Status.

We’ll slide through the Instagram carousel, oohing and aahing at the imagery, thinking: Wow. They’re really living.

And somewhere, someone will look at that post and wonder why their own life doesn’t look like that.

It’s interesting – and a little sad – what we’ve decided constitutes the good life.

“Save the date – 12 September! I must take you somewhere,” let’s call her Kris, a friend of mine, texts me.

“Saved!” I respond enthusiastically. Excited to be anywhere but staring at this glowing rectangle that has slowly become my second landlord.

September 12 arrives. It’s a pretty day. Sunny. Blue skies. Perfect weather to be outside.

I throw on a cute outfit and off we go.

As we arrive at the destination, it becomes evident: this is a thing. A whole world I know nothing of.

The parking lot is filled to the brim. We find somewhere to tuck the Peugeot and walk towards the beautiful canopy entrance.

There are so many trees.

God, I love what trees do to a place. We all do. Have you noticed that one thing all the places we consider posh have in common is trees?

Kilimani, Kileleshwa – all used to be gloriously leafy. Now, in many parts, they’re basically an expensive pipeline of apartments, construction and traffic.

Meanwhile, Karen. Loresho. Runda. Kitusuru. You name it.

Trees.

Therefore: posh.

You disagree? Fight me in the comments. 🙂

But first, gimme a tree to hug.

And speaking of hugging trees, the great and beloved Wangarĩ Maathai comes to mind.

Which reminds me –

Too Early for Birds: Wangarĩ Maathai Edition (Shawry for Trees) is staging its high-demand rerun from September 25 to September 27, 2026, at C.U. Shah Jain Bhavan in Loresho, Nairobi.

Come. Let’s learn something about our heritage.

Anyway. The ground is cold, almost wet. The soil is red. The air is cool. The blue sky is barely visible through the sea of trees.

Already, I’m in love.

Everything about this promises to deliver.

As we approach the entrance, we’re engulfed by a buzz.

There’s something in the air.

It’s bursting with life.

“What is this place?!” I ask, giddy and bubbling over with excitement.

It’s an open-air market.

Before you think Gikomba and Muthurwa – oh God no, come back.

It’s open-air, but fresh. Clean. Green. Beautifully chaotic.

We walk slowly past the various vendors.

The first thing I see is jackfruit.

You know jackfruit?

That massive green fruit you could never possibly finish alone or with your ancestors. Sweet yellow flesh. A seed inside. We taste some, love it. They slice it up and pack it for us to take home.

Next, the butter lady.

Body butters. All organic.

She takes some from her sample and applies it to the back of our palms. We instinctively bring it closer to our nostrils for the ultimate test and approval.

Immediate win.

It smells like home and feels even better than it smells.

She launches into an explanation of how it’s made, how fully organic it is – as is everything here, apparently – and how you can use it from hair to toenails.

The next stall has stickers. Stickers!

The next has jewellery. Truly unique pieces.

The next has naughty cards. (You just have to go see for yourself.)

We stop. Look around. Pick something up. Marvel. Repeat.

“What is this place, Kris?!”

I ask again, eyes wide, like a kid in a toy store.

“Karen Farmer’s Market,” she finally responds.

“Uuuuuuuuuuuuu…” I respond, now informed but too distracted to say more.

There’s so much to see.

And as always, I want to see everything.

But we’re starving.

So we do what any reasonable people would do and temporarily abandon all the awesomeness for food.

First stop: dumplings.

They’re made right there.

Pork. Chicken. Vegetarian.

Steamed, fried, pan-fried.

Pick your poison.

We choose chilli-soy sauce because, obviously, life is better when it’s spicy.

As we wait, we spot a liquor vendor. It’s Kevo!

We’ve met him before.

We ask him to surprise us with a cocktail.

He does. It’s killer. Contents unknown.

Whatever that man put in that glass, he knows his work.

There may or may not have been some shots added for the plot.

The dumplings arrive.

We stand at a rustic table surrounded by green: trees, wooden vendor stalls, blue sky, cool air and the unmistakable buzz of people having a good time.

And the dumplings?

Divine.

Little pieces of happiness wrapped in a pouch.

And then it just keeps going.

Pulled pork sandwiches.

Congolese sausages and mshikaki.

Roast chicken. Roast pork. Mbuzi choma.

For the salad lovers: a mishmash of greens, olives, chutneys, cheese and everything that makes eating leaves feel less like punishment.

And the desserts?

Dear Lord, orgasmic.

Perfectly acceptable calories.

Because if you’re going to ingest calories in the form of unhealthy desserts, they had better be worth it.

Except these ones come with the promise of health.

No sugar. Gluten-free. Eggless.

I mean, what more do you want from a dessert?

Enter Truphena, Our cookie dealer.

She bakes the kind of cookies that transport you into space. You float. You levitate.

And no, not those kinds of cookies.

And because I cannot simply eat a good cookie and go home, I ask if I can volunteer and bake with her on her next baking adventure.

She agrees.

I’m thrilled.

Beyond the food, there’s cultural wear, jewellery, oils, body products.

All sorts of beautiful things you didn’t know you needed until you saw them.

Good food. Good people. Great vybes.

And did I mention the trees?

Lots and lots of trees.

So posh.

We don’t leave until long after the sun has retired.

Stomachs and hearts full.

And isn’t that the point?

Maybe the good life isn’t always a beautifully plated meal in a room designed to make you feel like you’ve made it.

Maybe sometimes it’s dumplings eaten standing under a tree.

A cocktail you can’t quite identify.

A stranger who becomes a friend.

A piece of jewellery you didn’t plan to buy.

Staying to watch the sun go down because nobody wants to leave.

A symphony of flavours, people, stories and little discoveries.

Maybe that’s posh.

So if you haven’t been, drop Java.

Take your girl.

Take your man.

Take your mum.

Take yourself.

Just don’t touch the Octopus Balls.

This story also lives on Substack. Read it there ↗

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