Native Bar.

Creative writing, non-fiction.

2 min readApr 9, 2021
Native Bar, Amoy Street.

Walk along the quiet roads filled with people going home a little further, and you’ll discover life. These places are filled with people and noise. Life is bursting, despite the late nights.

Here lies a little establishment, sprouting in a tiny space in the alley. Head up the narrow stairs, and in a moment you’ll be there.

With upbeat music and outgoing people, the heavy bass of hip hop powers the fast-paced rhythm of this little hide in. With 2 levels to spare, the first level is tucked under their staircase.

In the cozy and comfortable bar, it is filled with smooth movements. People converse about all topics under the sun (although it is busiest at night) and the staff share stories about the conception of their creations. Glasses are passed, filled, topped up. There is no stop to the endless continuity, no chance to take a rest. Their mantra? Keep going.

They pour; they stir. The click-clack of the ice against metal, the little fizz of bubbles. The occasional shouts of who-knows-what. Their movements are swift and gliding, as they keep on keeping on. A couple of choice words are peppered here and there.

All completed with a little snap of the wrist. Completed items are swapped with the remnants, and trays of goods are brought up and down the stairs rather efficiently. If you could walk in their shoes as their feet tap on the stairs, you’d be sure to feel the physical and mental exhaustion they’ve endured to deliver excellence.

And… the drinks are served! Here they come across the bar top and tables, with a circle of thin, papery dried leaf. The swirl of a wrist, of ice against a glass frosting over. The wave of a hand, a sniff. Then, sip and savour.




a collection of thoughts given breath.