I’ve missed you Lakech, taking solace only in the hope that perhaps wherever you are now, you have found as much peace, love and happiness as this world allows.
Wait, Lakech, do you still identify with the name? You would never change your name would you? Thinking fondly how you did smile from ear to ear whenever Baba called you. Do you remember him? Baba? I doubt you would. You were only six when you last saw the old man, may his soul rest in peace!
But I still remember your little delicate fingers, your gagged laughter and the light in your eyes. Light that never dimmed even when Mama and Baba contracted the disease and died within days as we watched helplessly, oblivious of the turmoil that lay ahead. They said it was a miracle we were not infected. Medics termed it unusual immunity among so many other gibberish. Whatever the case we did survive, but not each other.

I know some might consider my gesture pathetic, the last crazy rumbling of a dying man as Dr. Rakish here seem to think. He’s building an argument on how fear of my coming end is compelling my brain to conjure you (my imaginations) into existence. I dismiss him with a laugh. He doesn’t believe that you really exist, just like he never believed my wife and I were married for 25 years before she passed on. My daughter believes though. She has always been a daughter after my own heart after all.
It is to her that I’m entrusting this letter. Along with a photograph of six year old you and ten year old me. The only piece of you that has stayed with me this 40 years past. I’ve made here promise to never rest till this letter gets to you. I named her after you, you know. Lakech. Though she prefers Laky or Lucky. She is all love and light this one. Just like you were sister.

Do you ever miss me? Do you sometimes jerk awake in the middle of the night, the feeling of hollowness, emptiness hovering over you like a messenger of doom. Like a vital part of you is missing. An important piece of harmonious whole. Because this has been my life this past 40 years. The memory of you biting me like an angry cobra. And the hole in my heart, I’m ashamed to admit, not even my only daughter- your namesake has been able to fill. It is the hope I’ve lived for, perhaps a delusion that mine eyes shall not close till I see you again sister. And with perspicaciousness perhaps compelled by death I now understand Baba’s words- when it is hope, it can not be false.

Lakech, do I pour myself to you in melancholic tone? Does my words bring you sorrow? I do not want your last memory of me to be of sadness or gloom. Because then this letter would become obsolete, meaningless. Having failed to serve its only purpose; to give you closure and therefore bring you comfort. To give me closure too and a peaceful death. After all this turmoil in cruelty of this world, I should say I deserve some peace in death.

And so, I’ll spare you all the gore horrendous details surrounding our parents death, the destruction this disease brought upon our already crumpling economy. Laying to waste everything it came by. Annihilating rich families and dynasties long profiting from poor families like our own- who bytheway, were not spared either. It was a state of utter disarray, anarchy unleashed upon the land. Our parents death would be the onset of millions of deaths that would follow. No one was rich enough, powerful enough or smart enough to stop this scourge.

You must have read in African history books and journals how our country allowed this microscopic enemy to take such kind of toll on us. Medical funds from WHO disappeared in fat sweaty hands of daft maggots we allowed to lead us, such gaucherie. Our borders left open to foreigners all the while knowing that doing so was putting us into greater risks.

Do you know that of the total number of deaths recorded a quarter can not be credited to the disease? Yeah, a whole whooping quarter thanks to our proud brothers and sisters in uniform. Enforcing total lockdown indeed. Well, our vigilant police enforced even a lot more than we had burgained for. Results? Vandalized homes. Buttons allowed to run freely on folks with nothing but hunger growls in their bellies. And when that wasn’t enough, they opened fire, fancying the smell of blood and open skulls.

Perhaps then you would confirm what you’ve always known. That you were born in an unfeeling nation. Among a people inured to evil and taking sadistic pleasure in suffering and loss of life.

Eventually we did win. Humanity always finds a way to survive, see? Remember the flood in Biblical times? God became so angry he let his anger drown all of humanity. Noah and his family survived. The same happened to Lot’s family when God was raining down fire upon the filthy Sodom and Gomorrah. We too survived, in a crumpled nation nonetheless.
And from scratch I managed to build a little life for myself, sister. I’m sure Baba would be proud. I can only hope you did too, in the land far across the seas.

My fingers are growing weary from this incessant dribbling of the pen. I should end this letter now. Dr Rakesh says too much strain is no good. I can do with much work, I tell him, seeing that I’m about to rest forever.

One last thing before I conclude. You should know the day that American nurse adopted you and flew you to the US remains the darkest day of my life. And yet I couldn’t help but rejoice at your escape of this suffering, your promise of happiness. Apart of me hated myself for the pain I underwent. It was selfish to want to have you share in my turmoil, sit beside me as we watch this country burn. Such an oxymoron, right?

So, now, sister, my heart is as light as a feather. May this letter bring you to me before I breathe the last of this mortal breadth, and if you should find me gone, do not cry for me sister. Because I would have left a piece of me, in this writings. May this letter comfort you in ways I couldn’t. And may it always remain an evidence of our existence as siblings. I send you all my love, Lakech. Goodbye.

Yours Forever,
Okel

Writer: Tonny Ogwa

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Was I too inspired by my ancestors to write some holly book, I swear upon my father’s beard that verse would have been my Genesis 1:1. Too bad the only inspiration I’ve ever got is to rant ceaselessly about my trivial rove upon the face of this planet. But I can say this; the only thing more vile than a Campus secretary, is a secretary from another Campus.

It doesn’t matter if she (yes, they’re always a she, why lie?) Is a secretary to the Vice Chancellor, secretary to head of department or the secretary to your class rep, these sadistic relatives of Hitler are a pain in the ass. Touts might be the rudest people you know, right? Perhaps closely followed by nurses and Mpesa girls, right? Of course you’d think that because your village refused to send you to University. If they did, you would hold a different opinion.

But my village sold cows, lots of cows to send me to the university. And here I have witnessed and been subjected to tones of injustices perpetrated by secretaries. I’ve seen a secretary reduce a comrade’s confidence to a mere speck of dust on her feet. I’ve seen comrades stripped off their self worth as if their self is worth only a lower-class Kenyan opinion. And I have experienced even worse.

I remember this time as a first year. Free and fresh. Fresh as keg (keg is always fresh bwana). My intestines were yet to meet the contamination that is chapo madondo. And even a single molecule of alkanol, any alkanol, was still only too foreign to the walls of my liver. So on this day I walked to the dean’s office with a bunch of papers on my hand. These papers were supposed to be my ticket out of poverty. Poverty that my family had inflicted upon me without my permission.

These first time helb application forms on my hand were devoid only of one thing, the Dean of students’ approval. And then I would become what I am meant to be; the richest man in my village, first of my name, heir of my father and husband of all widows.

Let’s just say things didn’t turn out exactly as I had imagined. The secretary’s door was ajar, I walked in and there she was in one of those feminist t-shirts branded, I’M A RAY OF SUNSHINE. She looked at me and I’ve never felt so reduced in my life. You know the way someone looks at you from the top of their thick rimmed spectacles and you can’t help but get the feeling that you might not have been the winning sperm as your highschool motivational speaker had so ceremoniously said? That’s exactly what transpired.

Apparently I was supposed to have knocked before entering her office and she considered it absolute rudeness that I didn’t knock on the air when I found the door wide open. She asked for my name probably to determine the source of my rudeness.

“I’m Village Rover son of…”, Before I could finish, I was cut short with, “come back next time and knock then I’ll help you”, and she didn’t even try to be sweet about it.

Let’s just say if the university did not suspend me then, I doubt I’ll ever be suspended in my entire Campus life. And madam secretary was a ray of sunshine indeed. Just a hot, burning, relentless ray of sunshine.

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No where else is as religious as this raunchy town sheathing in heat and smell of fish. Every quarter mile is either a church or a mosque or both since these folks are taking no chances with this heaven-going thing. Their desire to knock on the celestial doors is indomitable. If Jesus is not the way then surely it must be Mohammed. Either way they’re partaking of the free wine in heaven come rain come what?

Yet as holly as this town pretends to be, she still cannot escape her less dignified stories. Stories of careless sex life and patched land that grows little to no food. Stories of teenage drug abuse and water hyacinth chocking life out of the holly waters of Nam Lolwe. Stories of HIV/ Aids scourge, rising teenage pregnancies and the benign spirits of Nyawawa. If you don’t know Nyawawa that’s your own problem. How can you be breathing our free air all this time and still not know Nyawawa? Return our air bas.

Nyawawa are believed to be spirits of the dead residing somewhere in the lake. No one really knows exactly where it’s in the lake these spirits reside. Okey, some people claim to know but, you know, you can’t take anybody’s word for anything here. Now these spirits sometimes get bored just being there in the lake frightening fish. So they swim or fly or whatever- to the shore to frighten humans because it’s obviously more fun frightening humans to fish isn’t it?

These dead guys from the lake make their annual visits to kendubay within the months of July, August and September. I don’t know how people know exactly when they come but everyone knows when they are here. Who wouldn’t? Nyawawa are such attention whores they make sure everyone and everything knows when they’re around. Everything. Even dogs. When they make their grand entrance it’s with a whoosh. And the air becomes thick. And it gets chilly. Then the night becomes super dark. Soon you’ll start hearing weird voices. Voices calling to their children. Voices seeking direction. Voices bantering. Invisible voices. Voices. Voices.
“Otieno my child is remaining”.
“Anyango open for me the door”
“Atipa wait for me”
These voices, along with guttural laughter.

If you don’t want Nyawawa to kill you or do something worse like turning you mad or turning you into a dog or a cat, then you’ll have to join the rest of the villagers in hitting metals. Not drums, metals. Anything metallic; spoons, sufurias… just anything that can produce a ting ting sound. Supposedly this scares the spirits away. You must also not eat cold food because Nyawawa would sense your cold body and assume you’re a dead person and take you with them. And no one in kendubay wants to be taken by Nyawawa. So whenever Nyawawa make themselves the unwelcomed guests, there’s ceaseless hitting of metals till they leave.

Kendubay doesn’t like Nyawawa but they’ve learned to live with them. Just like they’ve learned to live with their rogue motorbikers. Jobodaboda. Famed for their fertility and conjugal prowess. They impregnate teenage girls like it’s their solemn duty to do so. And the way they ride those motorbikes, the ghost rider would be jealous.

Also, bodaboda guys of kendu bay do not want to see you in town. You’ll get to town and even before you can even settle on some basic formalities like whistle at the first fitbird you’ve notice, the same guy who just brought you a while ago would be back drolling with, “let’s go home”. And then he’ll be joined by another. And another. And another. All with the insatiable desire to take you back home. Let’s go home. Let’s go home. Because kendubay however murky is home. And what did they say about home?

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“Our sister has lived a good life. She’ll now know rest”, the pastor, solemn, intones.
You twitch your nose in disagreement because every bit of that sentence is an outright lie! Atieno hasn’t known any rest in death or she wouldn’t be sweating so profusely in that ugly casket. And a good life? What good life? She lived no good life. No, Actually, she lived no life. You know it. The flies hovering over her casket knows it. The pastor himself can attest to never ever receive any tithe from her so he too knows it. Hell yeah! Everyone knows it.

But that is not any of your fault, is it?

Or is it your fault that she was born out of wedlock to your mother’s sister who couldn’t even live long enough to take care of her bastard daughter? No. And when your do-goody mother brought her to your house, you were only too happy to have someone clean after you. She was so lucky she had someone to clean after. If you guys weren’t the perfect christians that you still are, Atieno would be out in the streets scavenging with her ilk.

But she lived with you guys. She did not become your sister, but she ate your food. And she went to your school, at least for sometime. Atieno was daft, she was glib, which wasn’t surprising seeing what she was. A bastard. Bastards aren’t supposed to be intellectually capable, are they? But you, not cumbered by ridiculous tasks such as cleaning, digging, cooking and every other adjective relating to Atieno, you became an academic meteorite. Passing those exams with your powerful mighty mind.

And then one day she commited the worst form of atrocity possible under the sun. Atieno swallowed a child. What a demented fool! How could she be heavy with child. You were in class seven then and you were outraged. It was annoying enough that a boy, any boy should even look at her twice. But she’d gone ahead and got pregnant with one! She, with her ancient dresses. No boy had ever paid any attention to you. And yet you were her better. You observed her protruding belly with ire. You were angry, and you were jealous. Your parents raged on and on about her ungratefulness and her appetite for swallowing children. Your father (God rest his soul) was particularly eerily silent over the whole fiasco. He seemed only too eager to avoid locking eyes with Atieno. So much unlike him.

Atieno had to abort that thing, your mother demanded ( God rest her soul too). One bastard was bad enough, but two! Even you with your grade E in math knows that two is more than one. She had to abort. It was decided. Your father agreed. It was the only time he ever opined to anything since Atieno swallowed a child. But Atieno. She just sat there like a stone. Her face, an emotionless mask. So removed from it all. It was like she was there but not physically there. Like she was an invisible spirit hovering about silently. Watching. Observing. Existing only in her realm.

And then she left. Not in the normal way people leave. She did not pack her bags and bid y’all a see-you-soon. Your mother did not throw her out, telling her to go find another home. No. One morning you woke up and she was just gone. Like she never existed in the first place. Like she’d never been nothing real, just a dream all along. A dream that you were finally waking up from that morning. A dream that your father seemed to have woken up from rejuvenated. Vibrant even.

Even today twenty two years later. Seated among other mourners, a part of you still believe it’s all a dream. A dream that has a boy with a very familiar face eulogizing Atieno. He’s an exact younger copy of someone you once knew and loved. Someone, someone who is, who is, who is…. your father! He looks exactly like your father.

“My mother taught me how to be strong”, this boy visibly in his early twenties is saying.
“My only grief is that she’ll never taste the strength of my arms like I did hers. I often thought of my mother as being a half goddess a half hell”. The crowd laughs. You laugh too.
“She gave me the only thing strong enough to help me ride atop the chariots of life; a good education. To that I’ll be forever grateful, because my mother wore strength and darkness equally and well.”
You have no idea how right you are! You want to shout but your mouth won’t open. You want to stand and applaud but something has just locked your knees.

This boy’s eyes swells in tears. You notice how those eyes looks exactly like your father. And then his gaze is transfixed at you. And you feel those eyes, your father’s eyes boring into you, reading from your soul. And yet they’re so kind, so loving. And then his face begins to blur. Now you can’t see him clearly. That’s when you realize you’ve been crying too. Because this is not a dream. Atieno was never a dream. She was a half goddess a half hell.

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But life is indeed fickle. It’s the briefest of moments we spend with our loved ones before their lives are ripped away, on their own volition or not. And then we’re left with nothing.
The ache in our wounded souls would always be a constant reminder, that in the end we’re left infinitely and utterly alone.

Loosing a person you love to suicide remains perhaps the most illogical of death. An illness, an accident, any natural couse of death, you can explain or at least try to find some logic. Maybe It was fated. They fought the good fight and bowed at the last call. God or whoever you worship decided to call them home.

But there’s no closure in suicide. Only heart wrenching question after question. Pessimistic self evaluation. Doubts. And seething emotional turmoil. Did the deceased not think you were worthy enough of their company upon this life’s way? Couldn’t they find just one reason to live, even if that reason is you. How selfish could they be? Choosing death, all the while knowing the kind of emotional torture they would be plunging you into.

Perhaps if everyone was a politician, there would be no suicide cases. A politician lives with absolute certainty of tomorrow. Right now every politician is sure they will be there next year. “Come next elections I’m clinching that seat!” Such optimistic existence.
Unfortunately, politics is not airborne. And life battles are very real. Maybe, just maybe, not everyone is built to withstand the storms that buffet their brief lives. Not everyone can master enough grit, or have the right perspective to keep gripping at life’s tail.

But again, how selfish, narcissistic can we be to assume people, however much we may love them owes us their lives? Because we may live with them and not know their battles. We may laugh with them and not be able to fight with them. Looks can be deceiving. People out here aren’t as strong as they portray themselves to be.

I lost someone dear to suicide. And I keep telling myself he has known peace now, but even that, still doesn’t make me feel better. Yes, he was one of the kindest people I know. He was so kind he couldn’t hurt the proverbial fly, how he managed to fatally hurt himself is a question I would wish to ask his creator. He smiled often. And he had this thick guffaw laugh. He laughed like he knew why Baba wants Reggea to continue.

Today I want us to start talking more and openly about mental health. I want us to talk about depression and suicide but not in hushed voices. No. We need to start talking about these things as boldly as Baba talks about BBI.

And to you who is clouded and shrouded in uncertainty, I’ll say this, “it may never be perfect, but it will always get better. Breath. Reach out. Learn to seek joy simple things; the rising sun, a beautiful flower, waterfall, the moon. Keep fighting. Keep striving to find peace. And own it.”
And while at it, endeavour to make others happy. Because then, you will be happy yourself.

You matter.

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We definitely know what we are in for. And we’re thrilled for the ride.

But then the film cuts to a bright, almost saturated scene. And all the suspense flies out the window. Because from the moment we meet the beautiful Game of Thrones star, Nathalie Emanuel’s character all happy and bubbly, we pretty much know how this is going to end. A horror film is just as great as its ability to hold our suspense like a suppressed fart. And sadly, this one failed big time.

But it’s not all bad.

Just a moment before we get to the good. Picture this; a black person upon the invitation of a white relation visits a remote, old, yet obscenely wealthy white resident. The reception is grand. The black person is treated like an exotic bird. There’s even subtle but innocent racism like curious touches of hair. Amidst a sea of whiteness, the black person starts noticing weird oddities, some of which they share on the phone with their best friend, also black and with witty clapbacks. Soon, all hell is let loose when the black person discovers they’ve all along been sitting duck awaiting dinner, and they have to fight for their lives.

Sounds familiar? Yes! Of course, it does! This is the plot of Jordan Peele’s 2017 horror dramedy Get Out. It’s a pity every horror film since then has attempted to mirror Get Out in one way or the other, and The Invitation is very guilty.

Co-written and directed by Jessica M. Thompson, The Invitation follows Nathalie Emanuel’s character, Evie who through an online DNA test discovers she has a long-lost English family. A cousin invites her to attend a wedding in the English countryside only to discover that the wedding is for her and an ancient blood-thirsty vampire, and her newfound family are not what they seemed. The aftermath is as horrifying and as bloody as it gets.

Nathalie Emanuel as Evelyn delivers a natural performance and is gracious and effortless with her character. Her chemistry with Thomas Doherty (Walter) is so real, almost palpable. And Doherty does a solid job selling his character. With all the mysterious, charming yet broody characterization, Doherty actually makes us feel like he’s indeed centuries old.

The director does a terrific job with the cinematography. The visuals are so good they almost make up for the poor writing. I say almost because nothing can really make up for poor writing. Which is the biggest problem with this film.

The writing loses its suspense early on and fails terribly at maintaining the tension. In a scene in the mid-film, a character says to Evie who is in a house with fortified doors, “It’s not safe in the dark”. Like the writers feel the need to remind the audience that they should be scared.

For the most part of the film, the director relies too heavily on cheap jump scares to keep us on the edge. The jump scares don’t work because they are neither earned nor sincere. Also on the writing part, the attempt to balance comedy and horror like in Get Out flops because the setup is just too dark for the jokes to work.

The reference to the Dracula story introduces a horde of tropes that completely kills the plot and gives us a less satisfying end.

The Invitation begins with a great premise, keeps us hooked for me most part but ultimately fails at maintaining the tension. Otherwise, it’s a very entertaining film.

 I give it a 3 out of 5 rating.

The post The Invitation (2022): A Horror Thriller Without the Thrill appeared first on .

It’s unwholesome, deplorable, and delicious as a forbidden… well, anything.

Django Unchained is Spaghetti Western love story following a recently freed slave, Django Freeman (Jamie Foxx) who trains under his messiah, a German bounty hunter Dr. King Schultz (Christoph Waltz) with the ultimate goal of reuniting with his long lost wife (Kerry Washington)

It’s a Tarantino film so obviously the visuals are spectacular, the dialogues are long and delightful and the violence, well, as gruesomely exciting and as graphically deplorable as they can possibly be.

From Kill Bill trilogy, Pulp Fiction, and Inglorious Basterds, we already know Tarantino is one of the greatest directors to ever do it. But in Django Unchained, the Film maestro proves that his writing prowess is unmatched.

This time Tarantino maintains a linear narrative, only occasionally darting to Spaghetti flashbacks. Compared to his previous work, the plot is rather simple which further serves to heighten the stakes.

Our two protagonists, Django and Dr. Schultz meet earlier on in the opening scenes. Dr. Schultz, in a scintillating display of murder, frees our hero, and the director works hard to establish a kinship between these two otherwise different men.

Now if you thought Christoph Waltz was brilliant in Inglorious Basterds, here he dazzles. He more than deserved the Oscars he got. Jamie Foxx plays the lead with such brazen swagger you fall in love with him from the get-go. And Leonardo DiCaprio, damn! Why do they keep snubbing this dude for the Oscars? What a performance! What an actor!

The director himself makes a cameo, first as part of a rather comic entourage on a mission to teach “the nigger” a lesson. Of course, he is masked but Tarantino has the most recognizable voice even when he is “acting”. His second appearance is as a member of a slaver gang who meets a ghastly end.

And while the director received no nomination for his acting, he bagged an Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay in addition to several other accolades the film received.

Django Unchained is bold, bloody, and stylistically daring, and in my opinion, remains the best film Tarantino has ever written.

The post Django Unchained (2012) Review: Tarantino’s Blood-Soaked Revenge Epic appeared first on .

Based on Jordan Belfort’s 2007 memoir of the same name, the story revolves around Leonardo DiCaprio’s character Jordan Belfort, an audacious, cunning, and highlife man who quickly rises over the crowded desks of a Wall Street brokerage firm to start his own firm together with his trusted lieutenant, the hilariously deplorable Jonah Hill and a merry band of hoodlum brokers.

This money-depraved menagerie makes a fortune defrauding wealthy investors out of millions. However, while DiCaprio’s character and his cronies ravel in a hedonistic life of sex, drugs, and thrills, various security forces close in on his empire of excess.

The film starts like most of Scorsese’s often do; a voice-over through a sequence of mini and freeze frames. Of course, Scorsese from the onset, throws morals to the wind as we open to DiCaprio sniffing cocaine off a naked woman’s butt.

And while not appearing on the screen, the director makes a cameo appearance in voiceovers. Fast into the opening sequence, we are introduced to the usual Scorsese leading lady – blonde, ethereal, wearing white, and of course, the shot is in slow motion, an obvious nod to director Alfred Hitchcock.

In this film, the leading lady is Margot Robbie and she’s as flawlessly gorgeous as only Margot Robbie can be. The director opts for a nonlinear plot structure, starting us off at the peak of DiCaprio’s wealth, greed, and debauchery before seamlessly slipping us off to a more linear narrative.

Mathew McConaughey is barely in this film for five minutes but damn, he is so cool and suave and plays his character with such swagger you wish the director would have kept him much longer.

DiCaprio has got so many great roles under his belt, but at this point in his career, I doubt he would ever outdo the sleazy and narcissistic Jordan Belfort.

Jonah Hill definitely played the role of his career, and his odd humor alongside the chemistry he has with DiCaprio is what carries this film. Margot Robbie in her breakout role is breathtaking.Though I feel like her a little too much nudity might have shadowed her performance a bit.

And the pacing is pretty good for a film nearly 3 hours long. Never a dull moment.

The post The Wolf of Wall Street (2013) Review: Still Great 10 Years Later appeared first on .

The joint is packed with familiar and not-so-familiar faces. The chief Whiskey connoisseur, my mate Brad, fills a glass with Best Whiskey and pushes it my way. No chaser. He knows I prefer my whiskey neat. It’s the only thing we have in common besides our love for capes. Our whole friendship is actually built solely on neat Best Whiskey, and caps.

Remove those two things from the table and he will just be a guy I happen to know.

Now Best Whiskey isn’t just called Best because that’s the brand’s name. I mean, it’s the brand’s name but the drink lives up to its name. It’s the best in all the ways a drink should be, and more. Rough around the ages yet smooth at its essence. Just like everything good in this life.

It may not be as aged as Midusa, your grandmother’s cat, but you can trust it to taste as mature as you want it to be.

Which means you can sip it while wiggling on the dance floor to the latest gengeton tune. Or sitting cross-legged on one of those high stools in the club; listening to Samba Mapangala’s spring-water voice sing, “Nalinga Virunga sherry tolanga virunga.”

And when the moment demands it, you will hold your Jaber’s delicately graceful hand. You will take a sip of Best Whiskey, and stare deep into her eyes, noticing all the different colors and shades you’d never seen before because nothing offers as much clarity as a sip of Best Whiskey.

And on the day you finally go on your knees, promising to love her more than you love your liver, she will be staring at a proposal ring at the bottom of the Best Whiskey glass she just emptied.

And she will break into tears, meeting you halfway in a momentous kiss; a celebration of promise, growth, love, and truth. Because that’s what Best Whisky does. It celebrates the moments that matter.

But at this Thika joint, I’m on my 6th glass when this girl joins our table, carrying a whole unopened bottle of Best Whiskey. She takes the seat next to mine, and I notice she is almost as elegant as the bottle she is carrying.

“Marie,” she says, extending her arm for a handshake.

I hesitate for a moment. Almost scared I could break her delicate-looking hand. And when I eventually shake it, it’s soft and smooth, like Best Whiskey going down my throat.

“Wiseman,” I introduce myself. She laughs and her laughter sends butterflies down my stomach.

“Care for shots, Wiseman?”

Now, at this moment, not even a stampeding elephant could stop me from agreeing to this crazy idea of having shots with this mami even after downing six glasses already.

To cut a rather long story short, Marie and I had shots. Lots of shots. And the last thing I remember was everyone shouting “Shot! Shot! Shot!” And me wondering why clouds were hanging so low that I could touch and make shapes with them. Shapes of Best Whiskey.

And then I woke up on Victor’s coach, Sunday 3 PM. Now I should have woken with a splintering headache, sore throat, and my ancestors shaking their heads in disappointment. But no. That’s not how Best Whisky rolls.

Victor says someone recorded me blackening out and made memes out of it. Now should you happen to see such a meme of me in a compromising state, and you think it’s funny. Just remember memes are the comedy of lesser minds. Take all the offense you want, sucker!

Oh, and Marie has just texted me. I don’t remember giving her my number but apparently, I did.

She wants to meet next weekend to “apologize for knocking me out on the drinking table.” But I surmise that’s just her way of asking me for a date.

Yeah, folks, nothing brings people together like a glass (es) of Best Whisky. But don’t take my word for it, try a shot for yourself and enjoy the Best moments while your lungs still hold breathe.

The post Knocked Off the Table appeared first on .

And then you get to second year and you slowly start to make sense of the world around you. Hidden truths are revealed to you, like the fact that you can eat elsewhere other than the mess. And that the liberary was built to shelter books, not humans.
In second year you’ll meet Mathayo. He is cool. He clads in the latest mbogi genge approved outfits and wears a cool stage name. He keeps dreads but that’s not all, he also walks around with a sleek laptop and not because he is IT, no. He is a Campus DJ. He may not own a deejaying deck but he has got virtual DJ app installed on his sleek laptop. So he gets invitations to every campus bash, party, beguiling revelling comrades with his unique skills.

The sight of Mathayo would inspire you a great deal. You would look at him and see what the universe meant you to be. So you’ll seek his acquaintance, and he’ll guide you in his ways. Polish you. Before long you’ll be dripping too, with dreads and a cool stage name like DJ Tornado de Sniper or DJ Bullet 254. Finally, you’ve found your place in the order of things. Except for one thing. A sleek laptop like Mathayo’s. So you’ll call home to your clansmen to convince them on how pivotal a laptop is for the quantum physics unit you’re taking for your Degree in CRE.

Your old man, believing you’re reincarnated from the smartest of his ancestors, will oblige to sell his prized bull, the one named after your thick- fingered pompous assed MP. And you’ll have a laptop, finally becoming the fully fledged DJ you were always meant to be.

So the cycle continues year after year with more Comrades become DJs as even more villages lose their prized bulls.

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