They say it’s a personality thing, but to me beer is best drunk cold, not warm. Some folks like Tusker, I prefer Guinness any day. Some folks like vodka; I’ll take whisky, dry whisky, bitter, and crisp. Not mixed with soda or lime, or any of those things people call chasers. The only thing that man’s supposed to chase is money, not drinks. But just as I said, it’s all a personality thing. Just the same way that to me the best dog name isn’t Crystal, or Bunny, or any of those weird names you people call your pets these days. To me a dog’s name is Simba, or Rex, or if you run out of names, just settle on Bosco. Though Boscos usually tend to grow into rapist dogs. Either rapists or just flat out boring. Don’t ask how I know, I just know. Just attend any of these village event where dogs come in the evening to feast on the food remnants and you’ll see.
And speaking of events, there’s always that one person that shows up at events drunk. That’s me. Invite me over to a fundraising, yes I’ll fundraise, but I’ll do it drunk. Call me to your baby shower, drunk. Invite me to your wedding, drunk. Office party, drunk. House party, drunk (well, this one here’s basically meant for drunkards so either way I’ll be drunk) Ask me to drop your kid to school, sure as hell I will, just after I’ve downed my last bottle of whisky, or KC Coconut. And if you add me just a little 230 shillings, I’ll pick him up from school in the evening, drunk, on another bottle of KC quarter. That’s me, that’s just my way of getting through the day. And as Lucky Dube once said before those South Africans murdered him, “I’m a slave, just a liquor slave…” And don’t start preaching to me how my liver is probably burning right now, or how alcohol is harmful and I’m slowly killing myself. Heck, I was in a Catholic school for 10 years and I made it out alive. Alcohol doesn’t scare me half as having to attend morning mass daily for 10 years and getting taught about sex by a priest who apparently hasn’t ever had sex.
And to add onto the list of why I ain’t scared of alcohol anymore, I survived 2017. By that I mean the month of October, not the year 2017 coz 2017 ain’t over yet so I can’t say whether I survived or not. October just happened to be my worst month ever in the history of months; I lost my phone, got another one, lost it, got another one, lost it, I lost an election, got another chance, was told to boycott, which I did but still lost the election anyway. Then I got invited to Gilbert’s wedding where I got my ass so drunk I woke up in a stranger’s house (till today I don’t even know how I got there.) You do remember Gilbert, yes? Gilbert is this work buddy, the one that doesn’t contribute money for drinks and argues a lot, a lot about everything. He’s probably even going to start an argument with me after reading this. Nigga just loves to argue. Mostly we usually just let him talk then we sing kumbaya and let him win coz that’s the only way you getting out of an argument with him. But he’s a very wise nigga (comes with old age I hear, the nigga sat for the GCHSE exams during the times of President Moi and lived to tell the story)
Oh, back to his wedding, nigga probably realized that the yoke of dryspell was biting a little over the normal limit so he decided to tie things down with his lovely bride and get his conjugal rights legally, unlike me over here who still has to seduce these city girls with my ugly face and on the rare occasion that I land one, I just go two-three minutes and baam! Black hawk down. Oh, except for this pretty young lass I got the other day, I think I went four rounds or close to that before passing out and snoring like the ugly fuck that I am. Anyway, back to Gilbert, Congratulations buddy! I know I had already congratulated you before on your wedding day but I guess I was drunk by then, so I don’t even know what I said to you in my white borrowed suit. And why am I even writing too much on this wedding? This post isn’t for you, dude. I’m still waiting to watch the wedding video that’s when I’ll know how much I fucked up on that day and have something to say. That’s if I even appear anywhere in the video.
I was talking about my October disasters, right? So after losing two phones and getting another, I broke my arm and had to walk around with a bandage for a week, which was too hard for me. A whole week without jerking off was just too much to bear, imagine that. Then on the day my arm heals and the rest of the country is out voting for the president, I get home only to find that a thief had broken into my place and made away with my stuff.
Then Amina broke up with me the next day. Yeah, I cried a little. I thought of telling mum about it, but she stopped being interested in my relationships the day I got dumped by the village chief’s daughter. Mum’s still mad at me till date for wasting that opportunity, “We’d be rich by now you stupid son,” she keeps telling me. She’d have even slapped me. I think that was even the only time I ever got to convince her into not whooping my ass with her red slippers. Growing up was tough having a dictator-like mother around. I hear kids nowadays have something called ‘dialogue’ with their mums, and if they are to be punished then they are told to go to the special place (which mostly is lock themselves in their rooms as punishment) and think about their actions then they come back with an apology to their mums. For me growing up, that special place meant getting whooped to death. Mum would have even slapped me just for saying I wanted mayonnaise and all these fancy stuff I hear kids these days ask for. Mum could basically whip us for doing anything. But the other week I was told the chief’s daughter is now dating my best friend back at home. Which is good coz he’ll probably ask me to be his best man. I’ve always wanted to be the best man. And judging by the fact that my older brothers are either still single or just flat-out ugly, this might be my only chance of being a best man.
But we’re in December now. The month of festivities and celebrations. To me, it’s just another month. “Christmas is just like any other day,” Dad used to tell me. You see, my dad had a dream. Not like the Martin Luther dream of equal gay rights and shit, but a dream that one day Christmas Day would be treated as any other day where families would just go over their day-to-day activities and every kid would be indoors studying to become someone great like a doctor, pilot, engineer, Uber driver and stuff. So this year probably won’t be different from the others. I’ll probably just spend it indoors, either nursing a massive hangover from the previous night or just indoors nursing my dry spell, staring at my tin of Vaseline and trying to remember the last time I got laid which is a long time back. My testicles probably think I died and they’re just hanging in there waiting for the day I get buried.
Then I’ll go to my local pub, Woodpecker Bar & Lodging, sit by the counter, ask for three shots of whisky, one ounce crème de cassis, a little blackberry liqueur…okay what the fuck is all that? I’ll just tell the bartender to sell me KC Coconut and head back home. Just that. I don’t even know the meaning of crème de cassis and blackberry liqueur.
But before the year ends, I’ll first have to make a toast to four important things:-
- To good times I had in 2017,
- To the equally bad times I had in 2017,
- To all those who kept asking me, “Oya, kwani you stopped writing?” You kept me thinking.
- And a final one to my all-time crushes, Priyanka Chopra and Martha Karua. You’ve been faithful to us all this while