By Kantai Kotikot
“Listen here friend, not all days are sober.”
I have always wanted to start one of my stories with that line. The thought is funny, the thought of sober days and drunk days. The thought that some days are those days that you play sane music like T.I`s “ Dead and gone,” or Imagine Dragons ” Whatever it takes,” and then others play in your mind like Mejja`s ” Shigribadi deng deng deng deng.”
Listen here friend, not all days are sober.
There is a quality to drunk days, the same quality that Maina wa Kinyozi calls ukweli ya ulevi. Drunk days dont happen on Friday evenings, when you have bought your kaquarter Chrome and are relaxing at the bar with akina King( whose real name is Kingori) or the band of boys who keep the bar as their second loves, right after the bottle. No, it is not so. It doesnt happen on Mondays either, when you turn up to the office in a nice suit after a harrowing world war with Thika Road jam, no. Monday is officially a hangover day on all our calendars, pale. It can’t be drunk. The day cant be drunk when you are trying to be sober.
Let me tell you. No? You are not drank yet? The worst drank day is Sunday. Yes. Sunday? The day of the church. The day when your wife dresses in African print and walks to church, most of the time leaving you alone in the house. The church is more often a woman`s house, and that is the gospel according to your Saturdays.. You want to argue? Sit down. I am the one pigaing the story here.
I have a history with Sundays. They are the days when everyone is drunk from yesterday. They are the days you wake up with a strange person in your bed, or you wake up in a strange bed in a strange room with a strange person, and you can’t remember how you got into that bed. Or cant recall how you got into that person-pun intended. Goes without saying that most of the times you are naked, your member is balancing limply on its own, on your thighs. You were drunk, the drink showed you the way, and your lower head obliged. Sundays are a drunk day.
Listen here friend, not all days of the week are sober.
Sundays are like matatus. It is the unruly day of the week. It rushes, and it stops. It speeds to Monday. The sun rises up and sets before you have had your prayer. Sunday is in a hurry. It is so drunk that it can’t stand its sight long enough.
Oh, you can have a drink another drink on me. Listen.
See, Sunday is also the day to lose everything. The day good people die. It is the day we shout hallelujah in church, the pastor collects tithe, the gospel is preached, and it is the day good people decide to meet the lord.
See, on this day, the, lords might be drunk too. Si we said that the sound of worship, inebriates them? Didn’t we? Yes, the voices of beautiful ladies in African wear singing the strange ” Nara ekelemoo” does confuse them a bit. Don’t you agree? And that is just when good human beings leave us for higher beings. Perhaps they choose their times right, because then the angels at the gate won’t be too sharp-eyed to see them sneak into heaven.
But it’s not just that. It’s also the day we lose people, to being drunk. Good people. People like Michael. You knew Michael? You didn’t? Oh no.
See, there are days when he would get drunk, drunk just a little to stagger his way home, with a bottle on his hands. Yes, the usual drunk that makes you call a police officer an idiot, or slap the person who opens the door for you. That’s a usual kind of drunk, you and I know that drunk. The law calls it drunk and disorderly.Its always around us. It’s the drunk that makes you loose your phone and you won’t remember ever losing. It’s the happy drunk. It’s like Saturday. It’s just drunk. Nothing much, just drunk.
But Sundays were not those days. No, Sundays were sacred. On Sundays he would get as drunk as he could be. He would drink everything that he could. He would mix them, in the hope that the cocktail in his stomach would kill him. Sundays were sacred. But on this Sunday, he didn’t get drunk. He didn’t drink the usual gallons of keg at the pub. No. He swam in it, and he drowned, way before he could get home.
And that’s exactly what happened. He drank what he could drink. He drank the dry ones, and the wet ones. When the waiters tried to stop him, he shifted bars. You and I know that no one shifts bars in the day. That’s an activity reserved for the night. But he was wanted to drink, and drink he did. Until his feet couldn’t touch the ground again and the gates of heaven beckoned his soul. That’s the kind of drunk he wanted, the Sunday drunk.
When he had had his fill, as all us walevis do every once a while, he left. He lifted one foot and none would go. They stayed there, on the ground, jesting him. But he was a man of will. The legs could not treat him as Sundays treat him. He summoned up the demons in him, and he forced the legs to move. And just when he walked out, the doors opened as if they were the gates of heaven, and a speeding car took him to heaven.
He had drunk with Sunday. His Sunday had got him drank. Even after he went to heaven, the day staggered on. The other drunks drank on. You and I came and sat in this bar, on these two tall stools.
Listen pal, not all days are sober days. On some, don’t dare drink. They are drank.
Very few people get the unique chance to have a name with some musicality to it-and Kantai Kotikot is such a man.And just like his unique name,he has a unique talent-the ability to see mundane everyday events with fresh eyes.This is aptly demonstrated in this story that infuses dry bar room humour-like Hemingways-and a commentary on the brevity of life.
Kantai describes himself as a hard on Maasai man.After going through his blog,I realized that he has a hard on for writing.The blog drips with fresh talent-and a fresh turn of phrase.You can follow his interesting blog at www.kantaidrips.com.