The Bar Stool with Papa Whiskey

When Lucifer peed hot urine in my head, barmaid’s tits

Then kwa umbali, I felt that itching bowel movement that signaled imminent diarrhea

Curfew blues: I later told the doctor, all I could remember at just that point was the frying pan flying from Nimo’s hand towards my mango head.

I woke up to a dry cough, fatigue and my mango head was throbbing like Lucifer was peeing hot urine inside. I tried calling out names like Alice Lakwena and Felicien Kabuga but words got stuck at the sore in the throat. I tried rising up from the long sofa, but my body felt like Lucifer had tried slicing it up with blunt hacksaws.

Dry cough. Fatigue. High fever. Sore throat. Body pain: Was it Corona, Jeso Kristo?

 My heart began racing when I tried smelling the whiskey by my elbow and the nose drew blanks. Then kwa umbali, I felt that itching bowel movement that signaled imminent diarrhea. I rushed to the toilet. I almost throbbed veins out my forehead trying to squeeze out, but nothing.

If I died, a big loss to brewers, burial would be at midnight. No matanga

Half an hour later, Nimo, the resident nagger, whispered through the keyhole “kwani umeanguka kwa choo….ama umeji flush?” I tried responding but words got stuck at the sore in the throat. I thought corona cases were going down and here I was with almost all the symptoms except discoloured skin and fingers.

I began imagining how events would follow: those guys in white body kits and transparent goggles would park their ambulance as neighbours stared out their windows with that woiyee look. I would be dragged into ambulance which would speed off, sirens blaring. Quarantine. Mbagathi Hospital. No alcohol. If I died, a big loss to brewers, burial would be at midnight. No matanga. What would happen to all those people who owe me money that only they and I know?

My dear loving wife, if I die, here are the secrets you should know

I thought of Nimo too: the long-suffering wife, mother of our daughter. Would she remarry, get more children? Maybe Prof at the local would be the lucky dude, God forbid?

Dying with secrets would be a terrible thing as well. I got out of the toilet and called Nimo. My dear loving wife, I started, let me confess. I might have Corona. If I die, here are the secrets you should know. Nimo gave me that look peculiar to women waiting for hot mushene.

I don’t know, up to now how a bar maid’s breast milk tastes like

I began with the lockdown night she caught me at the lodging where we had gone to cut pints with Skonye, the counter girl. I swear, her boobs fell out her bra and the tits just found themselves in my mouth through osmosis. But I never suckled them. I don’t know, up to now how a bar maid’s breast milk tastes like. Does her milk taste like bone soup or Second Generation alcohol? I swear, I don’t know.  

I later told the doctor, all I could remember at just that point was the frying pan flying from Nimo’s hand towards my mango head.

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