A few weeks ago, a Swedish girl invited me out to a bar with her friends.
The bar was in Kampala’s industrial district, on top of a warehouse. When I climbed the stairs to the rooftop, I saw a scene out of East London or Brooklyn. There were countless young people drinking cocktails under the faint stars, electronic music blaring in the background.
At first, I enjoyed myself. I had a few G&Ts, smoked a few cigarettes (don’t tell my parents), and danced with a handsome, blue-eyed French guy.
Then I bumped into Will (not his name but let’s go with it), a guy I had been on a few dates with.
Our first date had gone well – I was amazed by how much we had in common. He spoke Spanish, worked in marketing, and loved to snowboard. When he texted me to say he had a really nice time, I