A Drunken Spree - Nairobi Edition

There are stories about alcohol that we do not tell people.

We do not talk about the day we found a home at a puddle of mud thinking it was our bed. We do not talk about the day we chips funga-d a babe, only to find our houses EMPTY. Mopped even. Or the confession we make audaciously explaining the factors considered when determining whether or not we will sleep with our prey before stealing their ENTIRE household items... or the pickpockets. We don't.

Interestingly, every drinker has a favorite brand. Some type of poison that depicts pride. I am not sure what instigates this pride. You'll just hear, "I am more of a whiskey guy", "Brandy, nit", "Cognac for me...", "White wine, sweet", or "I love my beers cold". It might be a successful marketing strategy. Like consuming any of the JW beverages makes us one with every success story of the Game of Thrones series. Or a personal preference buttressed by the invincible trait liquor allures.

The thing about alchol is: in one moment you got control. You are epic. You happy. You are downright on top of the world. Then, the very next minute, you lost control. You are chatting up a chair, saying things like, " 'Ssup beautiful?' Or like the lady I met this morning, you trudging these Nairobbery streets with no shoes on, no wallet, no handbag - Invincibly, walking at the middle of the road search of both your home and dignity.

Eeiigghh! Hii Nairobi