I was in Grade 4 when I learned with horror that Pretoria was the capital city of South Africa, and not Johannesburg. I remember the whole class chuckling as Mr Majola and his receding grey hairline explained: this sleeper city of browns and purples was where the presidency sat.
With that in mind, I arrive at my destination. White couches and red velvet ropes line the side of the street. A bulky man in a V-neck stands guard at the door. His black suit is clean and perfectly tailored, but his shoes, full of scuff marks, tell a different story. One of nights spent tossing people out of the club after nights of heavy libation. But the venue is still quiet for now. I wonder as I walk in, if this is what they mean when they say Ayepyep is a lifestyle.
