Then there are the women. You see them around, aggressively coutured, 10 kilos above in their high heels and all glammed up for a night out. Their hair is Premier League, their faces might pass off for the Championship, but their smiles are firmly Second Division. Their hair has been tortured with stuff Chemical Ali would have been squeamish about using on a Kurd. All of them look the same (and I imagine have the same IQ).

The men all drive hand-me-down Subarus, which they park outside their bedsits. They all hope to trade in the remains of their car for a VW Golf when the Impreza is eventually wrapped around a street light. The bedsits don’t seem to matter much, because all their free time is spent in the pubs and they are usually passed out in the house.

The cars have all the bells and whistles: a side skirt here, neon lights there, perfect to look at but will not move due to the never-ending traffic jam. Cars here aren’t for transport, silly; they are there to remain stationary as a status symbol.

Aspiration and acquisition are the emulsifiers of people living in Nairobi West. The gilded façade maintained by overdrafts and loans. It is the banks, really, that own everything. The place is so perfectly unaware of its inadequacies (no reliable transport, bedrooms no larger than a chicken coop) and without a redeeming quality to its name, perhaps except that the drunks look benign.

The place is too young, too male and too damn aspirational. Nairobi West appeals to many people, but it’s the wrong kind of people. By the time you are 30, you should have moved on and upwards. The problem is that too many men like being stuck in this infantilising hell.