A fine sunday morning and I find myself with my friends at the liquor store placing an order on a drink which not even the manufacturers are sure whether it’s a gin vodka or liquor! But who cares anyway …as long as you get wasted..we can worry about the kidneys (or whatever it is the methanol affects) biology was never good..I bet yours ain’t either.

The bottle of booze was first distilled in the 1970s by our neighbors from the south..the Tanzanians.Being made from molasses with an alcohol content of 35%by volume,the drink is barely legal outside east Africa. But what makes its stand out among all other brands is it’s effect..ooh I tell you friend it hits hard..harder than a roll of ganja..and it’s cheap as a hoe ..goes for about two dollars a bottle.

If you’re still somewhere hanging and don’t have a clue of which bottle of booze I’m talking about you should probably just stick to your bottle of Coca-Cola and mineral water because clearly you’re not a drinker or you never give a damn what you pouring into your ousaphagus ..or wherever the drink goes upon consumption..I warned you my biology ain’t good.

I’m speaking of the great KONYAGI.If you’ve tasted the Ugandan waragi you probably have a rough idea of konyagi..I’m told they taste almost similar..I’m yet to confirm that. if I ever set foot in Uganda that will be my first task.

So I smack the bottom of the bottle with my palm and then I head for the bottle top. Ask me why I smacked it and I have no idea..more of a ritual I see drankards do before feasting on any alcoholic drink. I take a sip which leaves a tingly sensation on my tongue ..and I nod to my friends..we’ve got what we wanted. I put the cap back and place the cargo in my jacket’s pocket …”we gonna have a blast after the church service pals.”

10:26 AM

The church is fully packed . All backseats have been occupied so we head for the front seats. You know it’s amazing how life is a crazy bitch because of all people I ,the one in possession of the bottle of booze, had to seat next to the man of God! So I’m there almost chocking myself to death since I cannot risk the lemon scent popping out of my mouth and finding its way to the pastor’s nose.

Now all hell brakes lose when the pastor asks me to hand him his bible which he had forgotten on his chair as he was heading to the altar. I stand and as I pick the holy book I can feel the bottle of booze taking its tall on my jacket’s pocket.


I take each step with caution and I can tell everyone has noticed my peculiar walking style so I decide to normalise just a little bit and that’s where I screw up big time. The nylon material can no longer support the weight being exerted on it by the bottle of konyagi. And as I hand over the bible I can feel the bottle slipping through the crack it had made in my pocket, right through my thigh on to the floor..making small rivelets on the altar carpet ..flowing there for all to see with its shouting scent…

And I could see how the women looked at me with disgust all over their wrinkled faces..the men with eyes full of wrath …but I cannot forget how my fellow drinking pals acted all surprised as if they thought we had bought water at the liquor store. They deserve an Oscar I tell you.

The Weed Run

“ what we get what we smoke weed… we’re just having fun and we don’t care who sees…” Hold it right this part of the sahara you ought to care who sees because if the scent falls on the wrong nose you can as well be looking forward to a ninety-six months jail term . But the song is nice though and if you’ve never heard of it you need to get out of that hell hole you’re living in…I bet even your pastor sings along.

So it’s a fr-high-day morning and I wake up to a bunch of notifications on my phone. Apparently my trusted plug had phoned me a million times but I was busy rolling myself under the multiple layers of blankets and sheets. So I call back and I’m met with an excited voice from the other end of the line.

Now to be honest, y’all need a Frank in your lives,that is if you’re a regular stoner. Frank is one hell of a plug, he never runs out of supplies and his discounts are out of this world. God bless this soul.

So frank manages to coax me to pay him a visit since he’s got some “real stuff” from Machakos where he had been the previous day.

Machakos is a dry surburb within the outskirts of the country’s capital. The place has nothing good to offer except for the good weed and fine ladies who Willingly take off their panties for anything that has a penis. God bless these beautiful souls.

You know the beauty of smoking weed is getting high with a few friends so I holla Brian, the guy who introduced me to the world of cannabis, and we head to Frank’s place.

On reaching, we find everything rolled up and ready to be lighted and what would be a better way to light up the morning than stoning as we take a walk around the quiet estate.

One puff, two puffs and the dogs in the neighbourhood bark their lungs out..but they’re are dogs after all …what can they do?

One step..two steps and a gate opens ..and who has the guts to check whose opening the gate?..not me..not Brian..not even Frank…a quick turn-around and we hasten our feet without having a glimpse of what or who is behind us.

Within moments we find ourselves running for our lives with the roll of ganja pressed between my lips…cursed is me if I let it slip from my mouth.

Long story cut short..when we’re arrive back at Frank’s place we realise Frank’s not with us only for him to show up a couple of minutes later looking all sweaty and his shirt blood-stained with some dents here and there on his face. Y’all don’t need to ask what had happened to him, do you?

And that was the second last time I smoked, the last time was a few days ago when some girl broke my heart to the core and I almost smoked my lungs to death.

Mutura Chronicles

It’s a Friday evening & what’s a better way to kick start your weekend than having a bite or two of the famous delicacy ,that is, the “American sausage” or as the cook of the dish would have called it…mutura.

Mutura is a famous snack in this part of the sahara made from roasted intestines of God knows what animals but it’s very tasty and once you have the first bite you can’t resist the second bite and that’s how you become addicted to it…just like me here.

So I holla my homies and we meet at our favourite joint to have a bite or two to feast the night away & no, the bill’s not on me as much as i am the one calling the shots..the bill is on one Peter Obuhatsa

See even when the whole world’s broke as fuck there’s always that one friend you can bet your life on that they can’t lack a penny or two to spare and in our case this friend happens to be obuhatsa and on this day things were not different.

We headed off to Duncan’s place and had a fare share of the delicious ,mouth-watering roll of intestines . The bill was cleared by our “sponsor” and we went home satisfied. We were regular customers at Duncan’s place and he never disappointed us in terms of quantity..and on this day Obuhatsa went home two -hundred -shillings- less than he had come with.

I reach home take a shower to release the body of its fatigue but upon finishing I find Obuhatsa at our doorstep ( mind you the washrooms and the the rest of the house are on different grounds) all sweaty and by just one glance I could tell he ,if not we, was in great trouble.

The last time we feasted that heavily at Duncan’s place Obuhatsa was admitted at the hospital due to some stomach upsets.

“Maish I’m in a lot of trouble bro..”

“What’s the it the stomach again..”

” No…the two hundred we spent…..I was supposed to buy with it some greens at the grocery store….”

Now tell me how a jobless nigga like me,broke to say the least, is supposed to get a whole two dollars in a time frame of about an hour…life’s truly a bitch sometimes!

The next thing I know is we’re hopping from one grocery store to another begging the sellers to gives us atleast a bundle of kales and mind you, the dust- till- down curfew, set by the government to reduce the spread of the new Corona Virus,is around the corner!

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