“So, how did you metamorphose, from the hard liquor advocate, to the beer ambassador that you now are?”
To this question, I rarely reply honest. I will simply tell you that beer is the best drink that the gods have to offer from their holy refrigerators. That malt, hops and water add up to life. That far from Nicola Tesla or even Darwin, Arthur Guinness, the man from St James’ gate is the greatest man to ever walk upon planet Erath and its neighbours. Like an NRM junkie, I will cram stupid and empty supercilious praises down your throat, with little substance.
“Man, you are ‘fake’. Whiskey, waragi are the real things.” The whiskey faithful will say.
Beer is too soft, you say. I will look at you with that sage, all-knowing gaze, size you up, like Ygritte sweeping up a naïve Jon Snow, and deep in the recesses of my mind, I will tell you, slowly, that you know nothing.
Two years ago, still at the business school, I am young and energetic. It is the second year of campus, when adrenalin is highest. You have not dealt with responsibility enough to know its weight and so you blame young age for all the folly. At this stage you can hardly fend for yourself and all your source of income is punctuated by ‘I don’t have money’ or ‘I need a new shoe.’ Then they will know your reserves are empty and willingly fill them for you. The bliss at this age is almost annoying.
So on this fateful day, the preamble to my life changing evening begins. I sit in a half lit room in the hostel basement. It is an extremely uneventful day that I spend day indoors, sharing with a newly found friend of the female species and although we had chatted for long, we had not had much to eat. There is an event to look forward to however. A friend of a friend is celebrating her belated birthdate, the actual one having fallen in the examination period, the hype was pushed forward.
7 p.m. came on tortoise-back but when it finally did, I cantered towards the venue, donning a pair of shorts, brown moccasin-hide shoes and a black shirt. When I reached the venue, the last floor of Betsam hostel, everything was still in low gear. The spirits began to ascend however when two huge speakers were shipped in. Large crates of Romi’s wine followed and we did come short of salivation. More beer came in and the last batch was pair of whiskey cartons. Gilbey’s, Crazy Cock… it was surely the night that the good lord had crafted, we said.
When the festivities began, we could not hold the excitement. The liquor was too much to go to waste so we enlarged our throats and proceeded to guzzle the drinks like at the feast in Canaan when the people realized the miracle worker was in the building.
It was a strange way of drinking however. There was a protocol to be followed, like at a cafeteria. You would pick up a huge disposable glass, proceed to the first station where a scantily dressed young lady would pour a base of the local wine, the second stop would be at the whiskey station, Gilbey’s first and then lastly top up with crazy cock, to make the most repulsive cocktail of all time. Boys are boys however, and campus is campus so we did drink it.
The first stages, I can narrate with clear precision, because it was a clear head that I still had. The music was turned up, and oh boy did we dance. Strange rituals followed, of boys rubbing their crotches against soft feminine bottoms, while the latter bent at an acute angle to create a ramp like figure. About what pleasure we derived from this, I cannot quantify, if at all there was or is any.
About two rooms away, I had a classmate. Female too. We shall call her Janet for the sake of this story. So when the liquor began to work its way to my head, I decided I would pay her a visit. Three trips I did make to that room that night. I found when she had visitors, her boyfriend, Collin, inclusive and the roommate, Anna. So we chatted casually for a while and I left. The second time I came, let them know that liquor was in plenty and it was flowing like ‘sweet pussy,’ to quote the words I said. This time though I was not me. The alter ego had taken place of the usually quiet and meditative me (around strangers that is). So I rumbled on, about how I could have made sweet love to her if she had not been my sister. The icing on the cake though was that Collin (not real name) did not and does not drink. So he starred at me with disgust as I wallowed in my drunken stupor. I remembered a story that Janet had told me once. Anna had had a row with her man and then he had come to see her, a bitter and a fight had ensued, her screaming to the security guards for help. So I looked her in the eye and said,
“Anna, if you don’t stop playing men they will strangle you!” I spent my last year of campus trying to avoid her.
The celebration back in the room was now frenzied. Machemba, a brother of mine usually celebrated for his super natural height got so up in the clouds that he went to the toilet and we do not know whatever he did there. All we know is that water started seeping into the room. On opening the door, we found he had smashed the toilet bowl in half (whether with fist or head, that much we do not know).
The third trip to Janet’s room was just as disastrous. This time I passed out briefly and slumped on the carpet. My bladder filled up and I could feel the unpleasant pressure. I woke up and headed to the bathroom and started to take a leak in the ‘toilet’ only that it was not into the bowl that I directed the stream of my waste… it was the washing basket, full of freshly done laundry.
Cold milk was bought. I became an emergency case and people moved about like a surgery room the moment an accident victim with minutes to live is brought in. They fussed over me, hovered and wondered how or if I was going to make it. I blacked out.
From the sane sources at the scene, I am told several phone calls were made, including one to my best friend, who happened to be home at the time. He could not make it. So he contacted Oj, a giant crony of mine that would take the Undertaker down, given a chance. He hurried to my rescue and carried me like a bride off for the bedding ceremony (I am a Game Of thrones Junkie, don’t look at me like that). Legend has it that at the gate, Oj put me down to look for a boda. I righted myself and staggered to the wall for support. A young man who had just packed a black Mercedes came to sign into the hostel, to see one of his birds probably. It was at this moment that my stomach churned so bad I arched my back and released the murky residues from within, staining the man’s shoes. I cannot claim with much certainty that he did not slap me, that I did not feel it however, that much I can vouch for. They later narrated to me that he had gone back, the young man, his evening thus ruined… and that of the young bird for sure.
The first boda guy that came first could not be compelled to transport me. “I will not carry a corpse,” he exclaimed. “This one is going to die. Look at him.” His conviction was real.
Oj did the magic again. Called his own boda guy that then transported us to hostel. I do not know who paid the fare. Al I know is that I was glad to have reached my bed. So I fell down, like a sack of charcoal and bid adieu to the world… that was 9 pm, on a Tuesday night.
I woke up, past three pm, Wednesday evening and was something less than a walking corpse. I filled up the room with filth for three straight days, powerless and could barely walk. And when I tired of lying on the bed, I slept on the bare floor, till Friday evening.
In that darkness, I prayed to God… to make me well again and I would honour his presence by never drinking again. He did, and unlike other drunkards worldwide, I honoured my promise and I never touch whiskey ever again.
And that my friend, is how I became to be baptized, with malt, hops and water.
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| Of Malt, Hops and Water... |
