Every now and then, you stumble on a cool little nook, tucked up in the hills of Kampala and you’re torn – should I boast to the world about ‘discovering’ it first or should I keep my secret?

Holy Crêpe! Sometimes, it’s tough to kiss and not tell.

Up here, it’s a whole other brand of air. Pure. Distilled. Refined accents float lightly over the breeze, delicious aromas waft from beneathe. The staff rush to roll up the tarpaulin, so that I can be dazed some more by the panorama.

An eclectic mix of Navio’s njogereza, Maurice Kirya and what my ears would describe as British eccentria (there’s one such genre, right?) pump out of a carefully balanced woofer – just loud enough to lift the Sunday afternoon mood two & a half notches.

Parking lot starts to fill up. Girl on the table across gasps and giggles when Jonathan, the waiter, presents her sandwich. They’re generous here. Ladies behind me hunt and peck at the view for roofs they might recognise. They exchange notes on ice cream flavours. Is someone in the corner closing a 45M deal on the phone? The pair in shades shift to get more sun. It’s quite possible I’m the last to learn of this cosy hideout.

I pack up my notebook. It’s time to see more. There’s always more.

Party @The17 rooftop, anyone?