It was late when the doorbell rang. I was sprawled on the chair, living my most epicurean lifestyle. I was doom-scrolling, switching between TikTok and Instagram reels, destroying whatever little of my attention span I have left. When the doorbell rang, I sprang up, immediately annoyed because who visits someone on Sunday at 9-something pm? Off I went to the door, my mouth pouting, a stern “Unataka nini ?” lazily hanging on my tongue.
This is where I make Tr Elizabeth, my teacher of English, proud. No sooner had I opened the door than (hehe), I was accosted by three burly gentlemen of leisure. It was my neighbour, K—, with two of his friends, W— and E—. In his hands, he had devil’s piss from Scotland, with a waspish waist and a long neck. That neck said, “Shot moja tu .”
K— looked like he couldn’t have been happier to see me. He extended his hand. Was I busy? I wasn’t. Could I come out for a shot or two? I could. So I did.
Why they, okay we, were drinking on a Sunday, who knows? And who cares? This is what the Mau Mau fought for. Those who say things say misery loves company, so we went downstairs, picked S—, the resident cool chic. She saw the drink; I don’t think she saw us at all. We said, “Unado ?” She said, “Niko tu .” Was she busy? She wasn’t. Could she come out for a shot or two? She could. She did. But she had someone in the house. He was in shorts. And in a beaten green T-shirt. I have known S— for two years, but I have never met this man. We called him over anyway. Who he was, who knows? And who cares?
E— asks if the whiskey has gotten stronger, as he makes a burning motion on his chest. K— says he, E—, has just gotten weaker. We laugh at E— but maybe we should be worried that K— is now a functioning alcoholic. I can’t have any more either, I say, and I am declared weak. “Mnyonge !” So I have one more shot, which sets my throat on fire, and I squirm so hard I am sure S— will never see me as a prospect, if ever she did. Whatever.
A man must know his limits. Suspicious that this drink was made in Kawangware’s enterprising distilleries, K— fishes out the KRA App, scans the drink and shows us it’s legit. Yeah right. As if anyone here trusts the government to police itself.
O—, our neighbour from upstairs joins us. He’d heard the noise as he was out picking a call. You know the drill. He says he isn’t busy. He says mamaa is in the house. He can’t stay for too long. We say, yeah yeah, piga shot. He puts up all the resistance of a bead curtain before S—, ever the charmer, says, “Moja tu .” I don’t care if you are a monk or a priest, when S— speaks in that little-girl Lugandan accent, even Adam would have eaten one more apple. I know I would.
Except K—, all of us work from home or are in a hybrid working system. Oh, and S—'s man too. He is an engineer with one of the telcos. The whiskey’s out by the way, so K— asks if he should bring another. I nod in concurrence, but by no account should I be mistaken for a yes man. I just remembered what my university professors used to tell me: “It don’t make no difference how well you cheza twisti if everybody else is dancing the chakacha.” Besides, it’s not like I was paying for anything. I was just here to escape the so-called matrix.
W— says he is splitting rent with his girl, to test her loyalty, because, “Unless she is carrying my child, I owe her nothing.” K— disagrees. He pays for everything in his house, from rent to recreation. He even gives his girlfriend an allowance, whom, by the way, he stays with. E— says as long as he is not married, he has no qualms living off women. I like E—'s philosophy a little better, which should not tell you anything about how I lead my life.
S— says she doesn’t mind a man who can clean and cook and still hold it down at work. O— also lives with his girl, but he pays all the manly stuff, and she takes care of the kitchen. S— wants to know what the manly stuff is. O— says anything that is not in the kitchen. S— wants to know if any of us would marry a girl who can clean like a woman, work like a man, but also drink like a man.
“Are you talking about yourself?” K— asks. “Those are three different women,” E— says.
Me, I do not have an open mind on many things. Low expectations, I tell them, is the answer to life.
The conversation gets a little too serious, so we run around it by raising the tumblers. We just wanted to hang out for a bit, but that ended up with alcohol as the centre attraction. I don’t even think I have ever hung out with my neighbours without a drink present. I don’t think we would have anything to talk about, or even know how to talk to each other. You do not have to celebrate these facts to take them seriously.
By the time I got back home, I just wanted to scroll through TikTok and find a manosphere influencer to give me a pep talk that everything’s going to be all right, or perhaps explain why an engineer can pull off shorts in this weather. A fresh answer to life, really, because a crude map beats no map.
