At the top of this food chain is Michael Jordan, American actor. Guy is 32 years. In the same WhatsApp group is Chris Evans, 37 and Henry Cavill, 35 years old. All successful and attractive to the fairer gender.
Well, let’s make this a bit practical lest you lynch me for being too Westernic, in the same chat group is Larry Madowo, son of the soil, boy from Siaya, been kicking for 32 years now, accomplished journo, traveling all over, living life to the fullest yet also still single while me and you, sons of peasants, paupers even, with nothing to our name, still using matchboxes in our bedsitters and competing with slayqueens for a slot in a rowdy matatu (nganya) are here busy chasing wind, well, women. Depleting the little resources we have to please an ungrateful kickass hunny who also, has no life if you take away her data bundles and Instagram.
Ok, I’m spilling into someone’s time. Guys, meet Osanya Mahanda. Osanya Mahanda, take the mic.
When a shilling wanders and finds itself in my lonely pockets, I visit my church for a sermon. We are a small congregation of drinkers, holy men and women of the bottle who look up at the spirits on the shelf of the counter and say, ‘bless me oh bloody bottle! Today you’ll exorcise these demons peeing in my mind!’ Later, after a series of serious prayers and preaching, I take my leave, cursing, because in this handshake nation, beer can’t shake hands with your finances and allow you to stagger home singing nationalistic songs.
I’ve been away from the church for so long a time. Let’s say my faith dipped. You know the devil, he turns good men away from good things like binge drinking and turns their blessings into ash. And besides, I’m working towards pointless societal expectations like being a responsible adult courting a dark-skinned dimpled lawyer. I dropped by the church the other day when writing finally delivered a few coins on my doorstep. And boy, kanisaa yetu imebadilika! For most of the congregation, when the going is tough like now, them, the ‘tough’ keep on drinking.
The Bishop and owner of the church, who put an altar foetus in the womb of a cute 22-year old sister of the counter, sorry – altar, had reinstated the preacher who was philandering with his nun into a full-time pastor. Ken, the broke drunk with litres of rich ideas had stumbled upon a lot of Kenyattas in their hundreds of thousands and blew them in holy water and unnecessary luxuries like fried chicken, damsels and pricey cigarettes. Turns out, when billions failed to go down the drain in dams, my fellow congregants had enough cash to endlessly water their throats.
But that’s not the juiciest piece of sad gossip. In every church, fellow holy men and women, you’ll agree, there’s a sister of the cloth who serves the holy brew with utmost belief and faith in redemption from the sin of sobriety and when the Holy Spirit catches you, she’ll let you go home with unpaid sadaka. I just learned that a few miscreants made away with a day sales totaling to a shuffling thousands of shillings. Even in churches, where prayer is a warrior, there are thieves!