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| Photo/Aljazeera |
It is a place where men and women
rise every morning to solely devote their god-given talents at – take note of
this – being unproductive. On the bright side, these are extreme hobbies of ICU
patients, lunatics, and certain animal species, whom, for lack of a better
word, I’ll call politicians. I was part of this esteemed entourage of people
for one impeccable intellectual reason: to dream-up creative ways of wasting a
surplus commodity in our hands which was TIME.
And for most days, there was
none. We resorted to raising our antennas really high in order to spot a
drunken man or woman, upon which we’d go where he or she is coming from. Sometimes,
when they have not passed out, we’d ask them where an oasis has sprung so we’d
quench our thirsts. One time, through sheer bravery, we braved fierce winds
that blew so hard that it appeared to rain horizontally. In the distance, a
dark sheet of falling rain covered in a meticulous manner from earth to heaven.
And we were heading that direction.
At times we sat perched on raised
grounds, like people suddenly struck by a disease that made everyone hold a
solitary meeting and wonder how he or she would spend his thirty hours
available for the day. During these solemn moments, I actually could feel my
intelligence quotient hurtling down like a Boeing that has been shot down by a
rocket propelled grenade. It wouldn’t have been a nice experience for people
with single digit IQs – the process would feel like a crushing can experiment,
leaving the victim permanently retarded. On medical grounds, however, such a
person makes an excellent voter.
On this part of the hemisphere, illicit
brew is so rampant that it has been determined to be beyond spiritual
redemption. A catholic priest has since urged people to use their heads which
is a brilliant piece of advice ever given considering that the head is where
the mouth is usually located. The priest seemed concerned by the fact that
people are spending their extra daily allotment of hours to come up with ways
of ingesting chang’aa. The only person who has so far been proven to be
innovative is the area chief – he uses the foot. However, his innovation is so
detested that people flee when they see, hear, or feel his presence.
The dens are exclusively manned
by brash and bulky women who have since discovered the scientific reasons of
not giving a s**t. You never want to offend them because they’ll fire a salvo of
insult as if your carbon emission is the leading polluter of the ozone layer. They
quietly move in and out, dishing the precious liquid, sometimes covered with
sooth, with their sniper-like eyes scouting for the next trouble maker. They
make a living this way, undeterred by the threat of arrest, or even death.
As a sign of sharing – but I call
it lack of business acumen – these dens serve a paltry of their brews. There’s
never a surplus in each house. By eight am, you won’t get any busaa in the
entire village. The approach used in busaa is – you blink you miss. Even chang’aa
is available in little quantities. They’d even pack them in medicine bottles to
give someone the illusion that they’ve drunk too much. You move from one den to
another the whole day if you are really motivated to destroy your liver. And
folks here are quite motivated. Based on available evidence, heaven doesn’t
serve these kinds of liquids, and they are determined to make the best of it before
the time comes. Hell, they won’t even go to heaven but that’s not a matter of
immediate concern. Perhaps, the last prayers will charm God into admitting them
to His humble residence.
Perhaps you could be wondering if
there’s any honor in living such a pathetic lifestyle. With enough foresight, you
can see that a majority of these people have already time travelled to 2022,
and they know how they want their lives to be. And this is it: they want to
make one hustler even much richer while they pass on the cherished tradition of
loafing time to their children.
On a serious note, that is not
the way to live. Personally, I learnt that there is no honor in drinking when
you can’t even write about.
***
From the experience, I made a
note to stop drinking.
