My parents always have an input in everything I do. It comes with the job. Ever since I was young they had a say in the food I ate (mashed pumpkins mixed with terere leaves – yuck). They picked the clothes I wore which happened to be similar to my brother’s. I think as dad was courting mum he might have whispered lovey-dovey things like how sweet their kids would be if they all wore the same outfits; colors to style. Maybe he imagined as siblings we would never complain that any of us was more favored. But, firstborns are always the favorite, and lastborns are always babied. Facts!
I detested having to wear similar garments as my bro. Wearing similar clad meant that everyone would immediately recognize us as siblings — our big ears and face structure definitely played a bigger role in this. There wasn’t any uniqueness, everyone would know we got these clothes from gikomba or Mr. Price (birthdays). I couldn’t go bragging about visiting exquisite places like Dubai and having cool things. That wasn’t “our hood” thing — blue slippers were explicitly for boys and red for girls, ‘Akallas’ were for special occasions before you got robbed by thugs looking for quick bucks. Yet, kids in my private school some kilometers away thought such sandals were only meant for watchmen or their kin. The other thing that pissed me off was the fact that no matter how hard mum and dad tried, the 7-year gap between Joel and I was too big for us to pass off as twins. They could hire a toddler version of Brad Pitt or Denzel and the act would be too cumbersome.
My folks are anti-alcohol. Home is an alcohol-danger zone, the type that has a ‘Beware! Mbwa kali!’ sign invisibly plastered at the gate. The savage dog masked as my mum, Amidst all her prayers and the anointing oil-smeared every time we have a family meeting, if you’re to take a sip, it’s better to have mints in your monthly budget. She’s like a spy, she knows if you have indulged. Naturally, as I was growing up, I thought whiskey and gin were sweat from the devil. Tasting them would have you scorching in hell. It made me judgmental, the kind of kid that could see you doing bad manners and immediately tell on your or nag you with thoughts of how hell suits you. Of course, this negatively impacted my street rep and that meant I was either given the role of the nosy pastor during ‘cha mama cha baba’ or not invited to play at all. Even my aunts thought I’d grow up to be a pastor. They must be shaking their heads.
Then you grow up and your friends mastermind a way to cut off the holy boy crap that’s now an extension of your body part. It dingles as you step judging others for having good times as it refuses to let loose. With friends like mine, they tend to take matters into their own hands. True friends have a convention, if that means shredding your arm, they don’t think twice. It starts with a shot, then another. Your brain buzzes with excitement as you elevate beyond a world you know. Confidence engulfs and grips you, excited for its new host. Decisions like placing your arm on your crush’s lower back, pulling her close, close enough your breaths are one and heartbeats entwine then laying a smooch till she hovers you the rest of the night becomes a no-brainer; you just do it. Before you know it, you’ve become the night’s sponsor.
Women do this to men. They bewitch us. Our brains are no longer our own. She wants a drink, take! She wants a vape, by all means! We go to a private place, lead the way! They must go to a seminar where they learn how to manipulate men; make us forget our monthly calculations. By the end of the night, whiskey is your friend, mother was wrong. So with your hand on the waitress’s waist, you whisper to her to bring another bottle as you pass her a shot of the last sip of the first one.
The next day, every voice seems to be a hammer punching every nerve in your head. The birds are no longer chirping but screeching. You could catch one and watch it scream all the way to Mars. Your eyes would rather remain shut because daylight is dead intent at blinding you. And as if there’s some witchery within the walls, you hear your mother’s voice bellowing you with words; ‘I told you so!’ Wait, even these walls aren’t your own, you don’t remember how you got here or where exactly here is. You’ve lost your wallet and your dignity with it. This must be a curse. You’ve heard of hangovers but this seems like a noose tied along your neck. Maybe, your parents were right, the alcohol doesn’t mix well with our family blood. You swear not to take alcohol again. As you turn on this bed that isn’t your own, you catch a glimpse of the girl from last night and your senses come back. Musee, you could do it one more time.
Like all mothers’ intuition when you’ve licked sugar from the pot, she calls convening everyone for a family meeting. She must have those apps on their phones that track their kids, stalker-alert. That, or this a cruel joke my friends played on me and told her instead of me. We’ve become too old for such pranks guys.