BAR-TRIOTISM
I am one of those Kenyan’s who believe that after a long, hard week, the only way to unwind is to consume roughly twelve litres of tusker and two goats.
Last week was particularly long and hard and so last weekend, I was on a mission.
Objectives:
- To consume as much alcohol as possible while able to remain standing
- Explore the effects of alcohol on the apparent beauty of women in real-time.
- Create a cocktail with Sambuka, Tequila, Vodka and Tusker.
- Name it.
It was with these glorious thoughts in my mind that I walked into my favourite club last Saturday night.
Scientists and Romans say that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Absolute rot! The shortest distance between two points is actually the path I traveled from the entrance of the club, to the bar. I’m sure I folded space at least twice and used hyperspace to cross the dance-floor.
My man Alex was at the counter. Excellent! I was sure of a line of credit in case my funds run out. Anyway, after exchanging pleasantries with Alex, he promptly handed me my first beer. The first beer is sacred. The bible says that we should offer the first of our fruit to God. I drank the beer with gusto. After all, the thought is what counts. So went the second and the third.
My thirst sated for the moment, I took my fourth beer and poured it into a glass and finally looked round to survey the place for potential mates. I’m a mammal underneath, looking to spread my seed. The beer had given my mind a glow of joy, peace and general camaraderie. Every bastard in the place was my brother; the waiters were demi-gods, walking around bearing rich gifts to some fortunate ass-holes.
I was in this frame of mind when a gentleman sat on a stool next to mine. This is no big deal. Right?
Wrong!
In a place like the club I was, you don’t go and sit next to another man unless the place is packed. We give each other a space of at least one stool. But some people are new, so you give them the benefit of doubt. My mind returned to its previous calm perusal of the vicinity.
The man, after opening his beer, leaned towards me and introduced himself. His name was Waweru.
I was scandalized! In this club, only the whores lean over and introduce themselves. Or, a man leans over and introduces himself to the whore. This mofo was either a whore or thought I was one! Either way, I was NOT interested. I can assure you that an hour’s work was wasted. I was sober. I am not a partaker in what my kid brother insists on referring to as the bitchilization of society. I was about to give this man a piece of my mind when I realized he was leaking somewhere around the eyes.
Damn!
Now this is something I have NEVER been able to handle. Even crying babies give me the willies. Here, a grown man, in a bar full of ladies of negotiable affection, was crying.
My humanity, although deeply wrapped in layers of cynicism, was touched. I asked him what his problem was and if I could help in any way.
He told me that he had just arrived from the States and that he hadn’t even gone home yet. I then informed the gentleman that that was no reason to cry, no matter how bad a wife he has.
"She’s bad, but not that bad." He said. I then explained my incredulity at his behaviour. If not his wife then who? Mother-In-Law?
"No! You wait and listen. I was in a bar in New-York just yesterday. I asked them if they had Tusker and they said yes! Not tusker in a can but the REAL thing! In a bottle!"
After making this pronouncement, the man started bawling like a little child. Under ordinary circumstances I would have fled the scene like after a one-night stand. But, I was touched. So, I stayed. I waited patiently until he had calmed down after which I bought him a beer. He looked at me solemnly and declared that I was a Good Man.
I thanked him and left. Needless to say, Operation Fagia failed. I didn’t name the cocktail because I didn’t have it. All the way home, sober despite my best efforts, I ruminated on Waweru, the man with alcohol induced patriotism and wondered about our once great country. The only thing we are proud of is our beer. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that EABL isn’t even Kenyan.
I could cry, but we DO have good beer.
Last week was particularly long and hard and so last weekend, I was on a mission.
Operation Fagia
Objectives:
- To consume as much alcohol as possible while able to remain standing
- Explore the effects of alcohol on the apparent beauty of women in real-time.
- Create a cocktail with Sambuka, Tequila, Vodka and Tusker.
- Name it.
It was with these glorious thoughts in my mind that I walked into my favourite club last Saturday night.
Scientists and Romans say that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Absolute rot! The shortest distance between two points is actually the path I traveled from the entrance of the club, to the bar. I’m sure I folded space at least twice and used hyperspace to cross the dance-floor.
My man Alex was at the counter. Excellent! I was sure of a line of credit in case my funds run out. Anyway, after exchanging pleasantries with Alex, he promptly handed me my first beer. The first beer is sacred. The bible says that we should offer the first of our fruit to God. I drank the beer with gusto. After all, the thought is what counts. So went the second and the third.
My thirst sated for the moment, I took my fourth beer and poured it into a glass and finally looked round to survey the place for potential mates. I’m a mammal underneath, looking to spread my seed. The beer had given my mind a glow of joy, peace and general camaraderie. Every bastard in the place was my brother; the waiters were demi-gods, walking around bearing rich gifts to some fortunate ass-holes.
I was in this frame of mind when a gentleman sat on a stool next to mine. This is no big deal. Right?
Wrong!
In a place like the club I was, you don’t go and sit next to another man unless the place is packed. We give each other a space of at least one stool. But some people are new, so you give them the benefit of doubt. My mind returned to its previous calm perusal of the vicinity.
The man, after opening his beer, leaned towards me and introduced himself. His name was Waweru.
I was scandalized! In this club, only the whores lean over and introduce themselves. Or, a man leans over and introduces himself to the whore. This mofo was either a whore or thought I was one! Either way, I was NOT interested. I can assure you that an hour’s work was wasted. I was sober. I am not a partaker in what my kid brother insists on referring to as the bitchilization of society. I was about to give this man a piece of my mind when I realized he was leaking somewhere around the eyes.
Damn!
Now this is something I have NEVER been able to handle. Even crying babies give me the willies. Here, a grown man, in a bar full of ladies of negotiable affection, was crying.
My humanity, although deeply wrapped in layers of cynicism, was touched. I asked him what his problem was and if I could help in any way.
He told me that he had just arrived from the States and that he hadn’t even gone home yet. I then informed the gentleman that that was no reason to cry, no matter how bad a wife he has.
"She’s bad, but not that bad." He said. I then explained my incredulity at his behaviour. If not his wife then who? Mother-In-Law?
"No! You wait and listen. I was in a bar in New-York just yesterday. I asked them if they had Tusker and they said yes! Not tusker in a can but the REAL thing! In a bottle!"
After making this pronouncement, the man started bawling like a little child. Under ordinary circumstances I would have fled the scene like after a one-night stand. But, I was touched. So, I stayed. I waited patiently until he had calmed down after which I bought him a beer. He looked at me solemnly and declared that I was a Good Man.
I thanked him and left. Needless to say, Operation Fagia failed. I didn’t name the cocktail because I didn’t have it. All the way home, sober despite my best efforts, I ruminated on Waweru, the man with alcohol induced patriotism and wondered about our once great country. The only thing we are proud of is our beer. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that EABL isn’t even Kenyan.
I could cry, but we DO have good beer.
posted by Sidaki at
8:30 AM
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