When I shouted “wewe ni wetu! my mother in-law shot me that dagger look reserved for the mad man during village market days in shags
I caused mywife so much aibu ndogo ndogo from drinking inside the car at the parking lot she finally allowed kukata maji indoors.
But there were several prison like conditions as Nimo, my bedmate and resident nagger at home, argued we have a daughter who is not even the size of her petticoat. “Alcohol in the house might make her know boys early, it is how girls turn into women of the night” she warned, outlining condition one as “our daughter should never know what you’re drinking is alcohol”.
This is very tricky. I have to swill my ndogogio in coloured plastic containers or melamine cups. They make booze taste like tea. There is something about drinking from a beer glass, holding its contours as you sip the foam that tilts the world on its axis. From a glass, you can tell the booze is running dangerously low and recheck the stock for replenishing before curfew time.
From a glass, you can see a fly that tried drinking without buying. You can tell the beer is going flat and thus prevent the kind of diarrhea that can have medics parking the ambulance facing your flat enroute to quarantine in Mbagathi Hospital. All because you used coloured containers while drinking flat beer to prevent your daughter from knowing boys early and becoming a ‘woman of the night.’
Sleeping on the sofa also has ways of making one side of the neck feel like a nine-by-nine block was pressed on it
The other condition of indoor drinking is that I am never to display any misguided talents. Like singing Luo circumcision songs off key.
But while a good idea, drinking indoors has its hazards. One is mistaking the fridge for the urinal. Or going to the balcony assuming it’s the bathroom loo and proceeding to pee on the back of the quarrelsome jirani removing clothes from the wash lines on ground floor.
The worst thing is the nagger retiring to bed, leaving me on the long sofa, mouth open, saliva dripping. From there, and having twisted yourself to fit the sofa, you wake up feeling like your ribs have been sliced in two by a power saw. Sleeping on the sofa also has ways of making one side of the neck feel like a nine-by-nine block was pressed on it since Jeso Kristo was nailed on camphor.
Last week mother in-law made a video call and I winked at her
Then you never know when your in-laws will make video calls which find you high like a kite, drinking indoors. Yet, you have not cleared your ruracio since breaking their daughter’s leg and putting her in the family during the 2010 World Cup.
Last week mother in-law made a video call and I came into the picture just as I was breaking that law against exhibiting singing talents off key.
My memory is hazy, but I was told I corrupted that gospel song about showering yourself with water to “najinyunyizia maji….nifurahi milele!” before winking at her and breaking into some dance indicative of someone recovering from morphine overdose.
When I shouted “wewe ni wetu! my mother in-law shot me that dagger look reserved for the mad man during village market days in shags. The nagger has condemned me to marital ‘bubu-game’ ever since…