Tipsy

Darkness pushed outward from that many corners of the dingy room, devouring the little fingerlings of light being coughed out from blind lanterns splayed across the room. It might have been the numerous flies that fought against the glass walling the fire within it or maybe the glass itself desperately needed to be wiped off the scars it received from long years of service, but the light from the lantern was so little, it might have been none. The lanterns were merely brought into mind the idea that light, in proper amounts, was indeed paramount for vision.
My vision was indeed poor for I stumbled upon makeshift tables devised from old beer crates. Beer crates that would have passed for a piece of creativity by a genius interior decorator but everyone truly knew the financial situation of the owner, a retired teacher rumored to have been conned of his retirement savings and pension by a woman from the city. Wambo was her name. The Financial Usurper I would like to call her. The table I stumbled upon was occupied by drunks. A group of men who drowned the reality that was their wretched lives, guffawing over hollow jokes, fuelled by the liquor lying in bored bottles slouching on the dirty unclean tables before them was seated there. The subject of their conversation filthier than the table they sat at. Debating how the city whores (mapoko) were more beautiful, more satisfying and pleasing unlike their village wives back home.
Their palaver seemed to draw the attention seated from far across the room. She must have been following the conversation from diaspora. She eased past me and went straight to the loudest in the group of the city-whore-supporting group and perched on his lap, draping her arms around his neck that had probably been washed by more alcohol than water. The scent from her Somali perfume still terrorized my nostrils threatening to pull my throat out from the nose. I look back to see her nibbling on this guy’s ear, pleasing… I recognize her as the girl from the church choir, her face painted with layer upon layer of badly done makeup; she almost looked like a wrecked Chinese doll. The makeup did little to hide her homely face but, to a drunk guy whose vision was probably no better than a blind bat’s, she was one of the city girls he was so much infatuated with; beautiful, satisfying and pleasant, better than his wife. If only he could have met my girlfriend.
The smell of brew in that room was enough to make me, probably the only sober person in that establishment, to stagger. I staggered past noisy men, and women plastered in layers of makeup, and tipsy bar attendants, and finally reached my destination; the washroom. It was more of a toilet than a washroom though. A man leading a woman out of the gents stumbled into me. The woman’s blouse was worn frontward back, betraying the sin that they had committed in this unholy establishment. They were both in a hurry as if escaping their guilty actions but the guilt was worn in their faces and they wore it proud, their faces trailing the ground. However, they forgot a vital piece of evidence, a solitary piece of condom, pregnant with white slimy fluid that was overflowing from the tip. It was my first time seeing such and I had the urge to crouch, pick it up and hold it in between my thumb and index finger and prob into this discovery that had the capacity to lock an illegal couple in hell.
I let out my water and walked out of the toilet. I had seen enough. Quickening my steps towards the door I bump into someone. Someone probably drunk. I was about to punch this guy a hard blow that would make his ancestors reel when I noticed the face that looked up to me. It was her beautiful face. My girl. Her face drowned in makeup with her hands intertwined around another drunken onion’s arm. I just felt the need to get drunk. It might have been the numerous flies that fought against the glass walling the fire within it or maybe the glass itself desperately needed to be wiped off the scars it received from long years of service, but the light from the lantern was so little, there might have been none. The lanterns merely brought into mind the idea that light, in proper amounts, was indeed paramount for vision.

My vision was indeed poor for I stumbled upon makeshift tables devised from old beer crates. Beer crates that would have passed for a piece of creativity by a genius interior decorator but everyone truly knew the financial situation of the establiahment’s owner, a retired teacher rumored to have been conned of his retirement savings and pension by a woman from the city. Wambo was her name. The Financial Usurper I would like to think of her. The table I stumbled upon was occupied by a group of drunks. Men who drowned the reality that was their wretched lives, guffawing over hollow jokes, their conversation being fuelled by the liquor lying in bored bottles slouching on the dirty unclean tables before. The subject of their conversation filthier than the table they sat at. Debating on how the city whores (mapoko) were more beautiful, more satisfying and pleasing unlike their village wives back home.

Their palaver seemed to draw the attention of an eavesdropper seated from far across the room. She must have been following the conversation from diaspora. She eased past me and went straight to the loudest in the group of the city-whore-supporting group and perched on his lap, draping her arms around his neck that had probably been washed through by more alcohol than water. The scent from her Somali perfume terrorized my nostrils threatening to pull my throat out from the nose. I look back to see her nibbling on this guy’s ear only to recognize her as the girl from the church choir. Her face was painted with layer upon layer of badly done makeup; she almost looked like a wrecked Chinese doll. The makeup did little to hide her homely face but, to a drunk guy whose vision was probably no better than a blind bat’s, she was one of the city girls he was so much infatuated with; beautiful, satisfying and pleasant, better than his wife. If only he could have met my girlfriend.

The smell of brew in that room was enough to make me, probably the only sober person in that establishment, to stagger. I staggered past noisy men, and women plastered in layers of makeup, and tipsy bar attendants, and finally reached my destination; the washroom. It was more of a toilet than a washroom though. A man leading a woman out of the gents stumbled into me. The woman’s blouse was worn frontward back, betraying the sin that they had committed in this unholy establishment. They were both in a hurry as if escaping their guilty actions but the guilt was worn in their faces and they wore it proud, their faces trailing the ground. However, they forgot a vital piece of evidence, a solitary piece of condom, pregnant with white slimy fluid that was overflowing from the tip. It was my first time seeing such and I had the urge to crouch, pick it up and hold it in between my thumb and index finger and prob into this discovery that had the capacity to lock an illegal couple in hell.

I let out my water and walked out of the toilet. I had seen enough. Quickening my steps towards the door I bump into someone. Someone probably drunk. I was about to punch this guy a hard blow that would make his ancestors reel when I noticed the face that looked up to me. It was her beautiful face. My girl. Her face drowned in makeup with her hands intertwined around another drunken onion’s arm. I only wished to get Drunk.

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