― Arthur Schopenhauer)
We are a dying generation. A breed tottering on the brink of losing their heads, hearts, mind and soul. And I am a vexed young man. I know I will die not so early but it will still come swift. A generation that depends on absinthe as their oxygen is a generation that will not make it in the famed vision 2030. And it is there that I belong. Drinking away my future. It can be helped but I prefer the wild risks of early 20s. The gush of the youthful blood keeps propelling me to higher heights whenever I take the risk with the boys. Take for example yester night. Arrived in town at around 8.46 p.m. Snaked our way to the sides of UoN, rolling from street to street like night pimps. No call girl in sight though we were a tad lusty to ogle at one. Bypassed UoN then walked down past Kenya National Theater and KBC head office before stopping at their gated mess. Bribed them as usual.
You see we are not permitted to wet our gills here but what do I say. Kenya is marwa (Ours) and the new dispensation accords us loads of freedoms among them the freedom of movement. Here beer is economical. Tusker goes at sh.85.Guiness and White Cap at sh.95 respectively. Those are the common brands and the league of my dying generation flock here like vultures. We love cheap things. We are still hustling in this whole business they call Life. After entering, one of my boys goes to the counter and orders the first round. I take credit for the first round. We are still sober as staunch Catholic priests. The sobriety makes us feel powerful in this drinking spree. Smartly dressed young men are shouting and tossing their drinks in the air. They are loud and exuberant. At one time, they are arguing over whose drink is the best and another time I can’t make sense of what they are arguing about. Their words are full of incoherence and so I do not bother. There are lots of characters to observe on the ‘stage.’ Some girl in a green hoodie with a matching three quarter and black old skool sneakers chain smokes with utmost ease. I wonder why she is doing that. But it is a dying generation on their pinnacle so what do I say. The pot calling the kettle black or what?
Fellows stagger and make slurring noises as they head to the lavatory to relieve themselves. They greet us. They are happy with the Good Life. Together with my two drinking accomplices, we are seated on stones against a white painted wall. In front of us is the round metallic colonial relic that acts as the bar where teeming revelers buy beer by themselves (It is the norm here) and chatter in high notes. On my extreme far right are where the lady chain smokes and a jamaa in a bright pink tee with a shiny cheap necklace. He has wrapped the lady in a lovely grace and is beckoning her the way a ram does an ewe that needs mating. They are seated on one bench and opposite them is another lady in a black blouse sipping her Tusker in the worst boredom I have witnessed in the recent months of exposing my liver to irreparable damage. I don’t know why she is that bored. May be because a guy is chatting up her girlfriend and yet is not according her any little attention. But the guy seated next to her is even worse. He seems to be lost in a maze of his worries and reflections. We concur may be he is thinking about some impending school fees he is expected to pay next term by the government in our public schools. Or he promised his wife some fancy course, let’s say nursing and now the time is nigh but funds are not forthcoming. His boss is not playing ball as he had promised. He has his right leg on the left leg and gulps his beer as if it will help erase what cannot give him the merriment around.
Two Guinnesses later and I remember I had also climbed the stage to be observed by the new breed of my generation streaming in fresh and composed to entertain their fancies. (To be continued….how we created a ruckus and nearly lost our lives…)
No comments:
Post a Comment