Dangers of getting drunk are far too many

Can Themba, one of pioneering African journalists of Apartheid South Africa and a remarkable columnist, captured nicely the perils of being a drinking man in the Soweto of his day.

They did not necessarily lurk in its crime-infested streets nor come in the form of sjabok-wielding white police officers.

In the case of one inebriated miner, the danger that would end his life lay in houses that, to a man in his cups, looked identical.

Staggering home one night after passing by the local shebeen on his way from work, he mistook a house for his and knocked loudly.

“Open, woman,” he shouted supposedly addressing his wife, “and today you must be ready to perform your wifely duties in bed. You have denied me my rights for too long.” Or words to that effect.

The result was that the outraged man of the house, believing that he had finally discovered what had been going on for a long time behind his back, came out armed and dispatched the drunken fellow to the next world.

Many a drinking Kenyan can confess to having at one time or the other made a misjudgment similar to the Soweto man’s if not with the same tragic consequences.

I once did but instead of death, only suffered mild embarrassment and not a little ridicule.

I was living in Buru Buru estate at the time, in one of those self-contained “extensions” at the back of the main house. My humble abode was one of two extensions built in a row, the other one being occupied by a young bachelor with whom I was on nodding terms.

The “extensions” were accessed through a back gate which to me appeared to have a mind of its own.

If I arrived home sober, I would have great problems finding the keyhole and when I did, getting it to turn was one frustrating experience. Not so however if I had passed by the Sitting Room, the name I had given my regular watering hole at the nearby shopping centre (the Bedroom was, well, my real bedroom).

At such times the key would find the keyhole and perform its function with absolute ease.

On the fateful day, I had registered my attendance at ‘he Sitting Room and enjoyed a bit more than my regular intake.

Not surprisingly, key found its unerring way into keyhole and I was soon in bed without incident.

Sometime in the night, I felt pressed for a short call but inexplicably, instead of using the indoors lavatory, I went to the commonly shared one outside.

It was after helping myself that things went horribly wrong, although the full details were only to be known to me after I sobered up the next day.

It so happened that on that day my neighbour had a female guest but had taken her out for a drink, leaving the door to his house unlocked.

My booze-befuddled brain told me that his door was my door and I opened and entered. I dimly felt that something was not right, especially the size and direction of the bed, but being in no condition to nit-pick, I got into bed and was soon snoring away.

When the owner came home accompanied by his guest, he first visited the loo while he asked her to proceed to bed.

I was woken up from deep slumber by a sharp shriek.

“There is a man in your bed, Tom!”

Tom came running and armed with a kitchen knife.

After taking in the situation, it took him quite a while to calm down his woman and explain that the intruder was actually a harmless neighbour who was not quite right in the head.

I have had one or two other experiences that could also fit under what I think of as embarrassing drinking blunders, including the time when I killed and ate a neighbours chicken believing it to be a gift from a girlfriend.

But the telling of those will have to await another day.