When Nairobi County Environment Chief Geoffrey Mosiria opened his TikTok account one recent evening and spoke about the city’s nightlife, he did not think he was lighting a match. But his words, simple and tinged with nostalgia, quickly set the city abuzz.

“The city centre now feels lifeless at night,” he lamented. “In the past, Nairobians could enjoy a vibrant nightlife within the CBD, but today most entertainment spots are hidden in residential estates, creating conflict with families and security concerns.”

The post struck a nerve. For those who had lived through the glory days of the Nairobi CBD, Mosiria’s words carried the weight of memory. For others, particularly Gen Z, they sounded almost mythical, stories of a Nairobi that never slept, where the city centre pulsed with neon lights and music until dawn.

Back in the late 1990s and early 2000s, the CBD was not the quiet, shuttered stretch it is today once office workers leave. It was alive, electric, and brimming with options. There was Florida 2000—simply “F2” to its devotees—where sweaty dance floors throbbed to the beat of Lingala and hip hop.

There was Mad House, Secrets and Dolce Vita, where the beer was cold and the live bands could keep you swaying until the first matatus of morning started to roll.

Those who had the energy could hop from one spot to the next on foot, knowing taxis and nyama choma vendors would be waiting when hunger struck.

“Nairobi was alive,” remembers DJ Mantix, one of the city’s legendary spinners. “You could hop from one joint to the other without worrying about transport. Whatever music you wanted, it was just a few minutes’ walk away. There was a real sense of community in the nightlife.”

It was not just about clubs, either. Hawkers sold boiled eggs and mutura at street corners, taxi drivers lined up to ferry revellers home, and security, though never perfect, was visible enough that people felt the town was theirs after dark.

“If you weren’t in town on a Friday night, were you even in Nairobi?” he asks with a laugh.

But somewhere along the way, the music stopped. The city centre slowly lost its grip on Nairobi’s nightlife crown.

Security became a growing concern as reports of muggings and phone snatchings mounted, especially after the turbulence of the 2007/08 post-election period.

The streets, once bustling with crowds, became deserted save for the occasional pickpocket or drunkard staggering home.

Meanwhile, Westlands was rising. What began as a handful of bars and restaurants ballooned into a full-blown entertainment hub. Clubs like Klub House, Brew Bistro, and Mercury offered not only music but also secure parking, stylish interiors, and, later, Instagrammable cocktails. Kilimani, Kileleshwa, and Lavington followed suit with Gallana Plaza hosting the famous Club Kizza and B Club, creating a new axis of nightlife that pulled revellers away from Tom Mboya and Kenyatta Avenue.

When Covid-19 struck, it reshaped the world in countless ways, and among the first casualties was the swanky, vibrant lifestyle that thrived on parties and nightlife. In Nairobi's Central Business District, the heartbeat of Kenya’s nocturnal culture, clubs were forced to shut their doors almost overnight.

The closure followed a strict directive from the then-president, Uhuru Kenyatta, as part of the government's emergency response to curb the spread of the virus.

Social venues were required to close by 9 p.m., effectively extinguishing the city’s once-thriving nightlife. By 7 p.m., most entertainment spots had already begun winding down, and by 8:30 p.m., the city would fall eerily silent. The combination of enforced social distancing and a prolonged night curfew brought Kenya’s nightlife to its knees, turning once-bustling streets into ghost towns and silencing the music that had long defined the city's after-hours spirit. More clubs established themselves more in the suburbs and estates.

Ironically, the move to estates and suburbs created fresh headaches. Residents began to complain about thundering speakers rattling their windows at 3 a.m., lawsuits were filed, and entire clubs were forced to shut down. What was meant to be an escape from the CBD’s chaos became a new form of conflict, pitting homeowners against entertainment entrepreneurs.

That is the context Mosiria’s comments landed in. His video sparked a torrent of memories and arguments. In his comment section, nostalgic voices pleaded for a revival.

The debate now stretches far beyond TikTok. Radio talk shows, podcasts, and Twitter (or X) threads are filled with arguments about whether Nairobi should try to reclaim its night from the estates and restore it to the CBD.

“As an active entertainer, I believe in encouraging responsible clubbing. CBD nightlife should be encouraged, supported and regulated, so that when I want to club, I know I have to go to the CBD. These also promote the whole ecosystem involved, transportation inclusive. Having them in our estates has not promoted irresponsible drinking since there are all clubs and wines and spirits all over, which also can translate to other activities (not to prostitution),” says celebrated events MC, James Passi.

The case for a return is compelling. Moving nightlife back downtown could ease tensions in residential areas where noise complaints are a constant source of friction.

“Economically, it could breathe life into a part of the city that dies at sunset, generating jobs for DJs, waiters, boda boda riders, and taxi operators. Urban planners point out that a well-lit, well-patrolled CBD would actually be safer with more foot traffic.

And there is also a cultural argument: the CBD is central, accessible, and symbolic. Reviving its nightlife would reconnect Nairobians to the urban heart of their city,” says John Musian, an events organiser.

But even the dreamers acknowledge the hurdles. Security remains a sticking point. Poor lighting, opportunistic crime, and the shadow of past terror attacks leave many uneasy about lingering downtown after dark. Infrastructure is another issue: parking is scarce, public toilets are virtually non-existent, and public transport dries up after midnight.

Still, it is not an impossible dream. Cities around the world have turned their centres around. London’s Soho, once crime-ridden, became a pedestrian-friendly cultural district. New York’s Times Square, infamous in the 70s for its seediness, is today a global entertainment landmark. Even Kampala has managed to keep its central nightlife alive, mixing street food stalls with clubs close to transport hubs. Nairobi, experts say, could borrow a page from these playbooks—investing in lighting, security, pedestrian spaces, and transport.

Interestingly, the push for a return to the CBD might not come from nostalgic baby boomers but from Gen Z. This is a generation too young to have known F2, but bold enough to see opportunity in downtown Nairobi. They are already hosting rooftop raves, art pop-ups, and underground hip hop shows in the city centre.

Read Also: TSM OPINION: Levelling The Playing Field For Kenyan and African Content Creators

 “We’re not scared of town,” says 22-year-old events curator Tess Nuru. “We’re reclaiming it. The CBD has character. The graffiti, the matatu culture, it’s raw and real.”

For them, nightlife is not just about pounding music. It is about culture, spoken word, graffiti, thrift fashion and live music. They see the CBD as a canvas, not a liability.

 And so Nairobi stands at a crossroads. On one side, the memory of a city centre that danced until dawn, where laughter and music spilt into the streets and everyone felt part of something larger. On the other hand, a reality where suburban clubs and lounges dominate, comfortable but often contentious, safe but perhaps lacking the chaotic soul that defined Nairobi’s nightlife.

Perhaps the answer isn’t about going back in time but moving forward differently. Nairobi doesn’t need to resurrect the past wholesale. It can reimagine the CBD as a cultural district, a blend of clubs, street food, galleries, and performance spaces, designed for a new generation yet rooted in its own history.

Geoffrey Mosiria’s TikTok was less a policy proposal than a provocation. But in voicing what many Nairobians have quietly thought, that the CBD’s silence is unsettling, he may have opened the door to a new conversation. For now, the city centre sleeps, its streets empty save for night guards and stray cats. But perhaps, just perhaps, the music will play again.