The Night Lacity Taught Me a Lesson in Customer Service (and Change Management)

 

Patrons Enjoying themselves at a Bar. Photo/TripAdvisor. 

Fridays mean freedom for most people — that sacred day when laptops shut early, ties loosen, and everyone suddenly remembers they have social lives. But for me, Fridays are a little different. As a digital economy worker juggling multiple gigs with my inner journalist, I usually spend Friday nights hunched over my laptop, fingers dancing on the keyboard, eyes glued to screens, surviving on caffeine and ambition.

By the time others are clinking glasses, I’m usually in a Zoom meeting trying to sound enthusiastic about “synergizing deliverables” while my soul quietly begs for rest.

Last Friday, however, something unusual happened. I made an exception — and how I wish I hadn’t.

It was a few minutes past 11 p.m., and I had just logged out of a webinar with my boss. My mind was fried, my back stiff, and my motivation long gone. Just as I was about to surrender to the sweet embrace of sleep, my phone buzzed. It was my friend and partner in mild chaos — Milito.

Now, if you know Milito, you know saying “no” to him is like trying to pause a river. The man has a PhD in persuasion. And so, when he asked if I could join him and his friends, I thought, “Why not?” After all, Milito and his crew are not the kind to complain about splitting bills — a rare and noble species in today’s economy.

The Arrival at Lacity

Fast forward, and there I was at Lacity — or perhaps I should say Laxity, considering what was to follow. The music was lively, the crowd cheerful, and the night had promise written all over it.

As the sacred bro code dictates, when you arrive to find your friends already a few drinks in, the next round is automatically on you. No arguments. No democracy. It’s tradition.

So, embracing my duty like a responsible member of the brotherhood, I strolled to the counter and asked the bartender — a lady glued to her phone — for a jug of keg.

She looked up at me with the same energy one might reserve for a mosquito interrupting a nap.

“Unataka nini?” she asked, her tone flat, eyes still half on her screen.

I smiled politely and repeated, “A jug of keg, please.”

Then came the scan — head to toe, judgment included — followed by her curt reply: “Let pesa.”

Now, I’m a man on a budget, not a millionaire, but I had come prepared. I pulled out a crisp 1,000-shilling note, confident this transaction would be smooth. But fate, or rather customer service, had other plans.

“Sina change. Enda utafte ukuje.”

She said it so casually, as if sending customers to look for change was standard operating procedure.

I blinked. Once. Twice. I thought I misheard. Surely, this was a prank. But no — she had already returned to scrolling through her phone, unbothered by my existence.

The Walkout

At that moment, I realized the universe was testing my patience. I could have argued, but dignity is also a currency. So, I walked back to my friends and told them, “Gentlemen, my round will be served — just not in this establishment.”

We left, not angrily, but with the calm resignation of men who had seen enough. As we walked toward another bar, Milito — always the philosopher after two drinks — decided to offer insight.

“Bro,” he said, “she could have just given you the jug and told you to wait for your change. That’s fair. But telling you to go find change yourself? That’s bad manners in 3D.”

And he was right. There are a thousand ways that bartender could have handled that situation, but she chose the one that guarantees customer extinction.

The Real Loser

In truth, I didn’t lose much that night. I found another spot, got served with a smile, and danced away my frustration. The bartender didn’t lose either — come end month, her salary would reflect whether she served ten customers or a hundred.

But the bar owner? That’s where the real tragedy lies. Because when three people — me, Milito, his friend and girlfriend — walk out, that’s roughly three thousand shillings gone to a competitor. Money that could have paid for stock, power bills, or maybe a small award for “Best Customer Service in Makutano.”

The Complaint That Went Nowhere

Being a responsible (and mildly irritated) citizen, I decided to report the incident. I texted the complaint number displayed on the wall, hoping for at least a “Thank you for your feedback.”

Days later, I’m still waiting. Maybe the reply is on its way — in the same change I was told to go look for.

Lessons from Lacity

Look, I get it. Maybe the bartender had a long day. Maybe her float was finished. Maybe she just didn’t care anymore. But here’s the thing — customer service isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being decent. About smiling. About understanding that your job isn’t just to sell drinks, but to sell an experience.

Because in that one moment of apathy, Lacity lost not just a sale, but goodwill — and in business, goodwill is gold.

 Final Word

To the Lacity staff: I’m not after your jobs. Far from it. But if you could take just a short break from your phones and rediscover that ancient craft called hospitality, you might just turn your joint into Makutano’s most loved spot for the mwananchi wa kawaida.

Until then, I’ll keep my 1K notes and my loyalty for bars where service comes with a smile — and where “enda utafte change” isn’t part of the customer experience.

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About the Author

Felix Kinyua is a hardworking digital economy professional and storyteller who finds humour in life’s everyday frustrations. When he’s not juggling gigs and deadlines, he writes about the quirks of modern living with satire, wit, and a touch of truth. His philosophy? Every bad experience is just a good story waiting to be told — preferably over a cold jug of keg that doesn’t come with homework.

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