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I blame the weathermen.

They predicted a weekend of deluge fit for an ElNino.

Not a single drop fell.

So I had to attend my weekly confession session.

A man has only two confidants in his life;
Jesus and the bartender.

They both know a man in trouble when
they see one.

And they’re both willing to listen when he
talks of anger and depression, tearful
confessions;
Jesus and bartenders hear it all!

Well, they hear things that men dont tell
their wives, sinful secrets that whiskey brings to light.

One man,Jesus, offers comfort from the cross; the other,bartender, only comfort of Whiskey on the rocks

But if you’re at the end of your rope
Either one will serve you, but just one
offers hope…

So I’m driving along, five whiskey doubles in, happy as a lark, feeling rather invincible.

When you are tipsy you never quite think bad things can happen to you,especially such things like motor accidents.

{Caution: DON’T DRINK & DRIVE!!!. This is just my way of spinning off humour!}

You feel like God loves you more than he loves everybody else.

You feel like Jesus specifically died for you on that cross.

You seek solace in the fact that you are a
lost sheep and that God sent someone
with a long staff and a robe to look for
you and until they find you very little is
going to happen to you.

You wallow in this foolish delirium until you take a bend on that road and right there after that ka-bridge you see hazard signs, a police roadblock and cars pulled over on the side of the road and – chillingly -a police van.

You sober up instantly with
the thought – Heck!, 30K police fine!

You think quickly: should I switch off my
headlights and stop and reverse the hell
out of there?

What if they think I’m a thug and they give chase and shoot at me because they don’t know I am just a lost sheep?

So I said, you know what, this is my day.

God wanted it to happen this way.

I can’t help it,even after confessing all my sins to that cute waitress at Klub One.
So I drove towards the roadblock and I hoped and prayed that I didn’t have a tipsy face.

I hoped they would wave me through.

I told God, “God if you let these guys wave me through, I will not touch a tot of whisky for a whole week,till Friday,that is!”

But then this cop raised his hand and I thought “Here we go, a night in the
cooler…who should I call first?”

I pull over onto the shoulder of the road.

I was told that cops can tell you have
been drinking when you can’t just shut
up.

The less you say the better.

But there is always an urge to talk a lot when you have had a few.

You always feel like the world is dying to hear your opinion.

That your voice will reverse climate change.

In a moment of drunken brilliance,I remembered about these lions that have been taking leisurely strolls in downtown Nairobi.

So I wanted to tell the cop, “Officer, wewe
ungefanya nini ungeona simba “Mowhawk” anatembea hapo Westlands, ikielekea hapo Oil Libya? Eh? Simba mwenyewe, sio mbwa, simba, Officer? Risasi ama kuku? Sema Officer, risasi ama kuku?”

{Officer,what would you do if you were in my shoes with all these lions strolling in Nairobi around Oil Libya Petrol station? You would fortify yourself with double whiskey in readiness for a duel with Mowhawk,the Lion,won’t you officer,and buy fried chicken incase the lion is just plain hungry?}

Of course, when you start talking nonsense like that he will know you are drunk because risasi ama kuku doesn’t even make sense to you.

So I rolled down the window and said in
my calmest tone, “Habari,(Hello) Officer?”

He said, “Kila kitu iko sawa(Everything ok)?” I nodded
vigorously like a madman.

He asked me to roll down my back window and he lit the backseat with a torch, looking, perhaps to see if I’m involved in human trafficking or something and I’m carrying a few Chicks in the backseat.

He then asked if I had been drinking and I shook my head and said I was from a
long funeral meeting.

Thankfully, he didn’t ask who died because I would have killed someone close to me right there and then and said,”my ex girlfriend!”.

He said, “Pole”(Sorry) and waved me through.

I couldn’t believe it!

I wanted to climb out of the car and hug
him and tell him that he is a good man
and that God was seeing the good work
he was doing to rid the roads of drunks,
and that he would be rewarded handsomely once the man in a long staff
finds him and he will never have to
stand in the cold again sticking plastic
into anyone’s mouth.

I wanted to offer him a whole Kenchic Fried Chicken that I was taking to Daisy as a peace offering for appearing at her door this late after having promised not to arrive home at the uncivilised hours of the night.

Who said confessions and prayers don’t work for drunks?

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