Confessions of a dumped guy

I had missed the late Saturday game, thanks to one of those children’s birthdays that are really an excuse for yuppie parents to have tots as their tots eat sweets, blow out candles and run riot between the feet of their folks. Happy Birthday, Zambezi.

Anyway, so Monday at seven pm I’m at a local hotel to catch the repeat. But I was interrupted by the shuffling of feet, the scrape of a stool being dragged next to me on the counter and the husky (yes, whiskey and cigarettes) shout of this guy called Zack.*

Now, Zack is one of those guys called ‘regulars’ at the local. You know that one man, whether it be Tuesday, Thursday or Sunday, if it is sunset, you can put a SportPesa bet on to be at the local dive, regular as a metronome? Zack is that guy.

The thing, though, is that other than being at the local daily, a dangerous thing for any drinker, Zack is also that guy who stays till late, every darn day, clears a bottle of whiskey, and never gets to his home before midnight. Which is bad enough if you are a bachelor. But downright deadly if you are married. And Zack is married. Or was, until recently, as I was about to find out. Zack is that guy who liked to brag about his ‘not being sat on’ manly status. ‘I never go home on the same day that

I leave the house.’ Which was just another way of letting us know he never got to his home before midnight. But on Monday, he was in a pensive mood, and on Lite beer. ‘What happened to the whiskey?’ I teased him. ‘Ama uzee is finally catching up with you?’ ‘Juliet left me because of whiskey, and if I have to shit soda to get her back, I will,’ he said without preamble. ‘Who?’ I was confused.

‘Juliet, the daktari!’ Zack said impatiently. I scanned my rusty but trusty memory. A vague image of a large brown woman with spectacles popped up in my mind. So Zack was married to a doctor, and could still dare drink like a fish? Here sat one brave man. Also, a pretty devastated fellow. Gulping the lite beer, and ordering himself and me another one (as I sighed and gave up on catching the match over his shoulder, I’ll give up soccer for a good story, any given Monday night), Zack went on to tell me his tale of familial woe. Late night fights. The inevitable ‘I can’t do this anymore!’ Exit left!

In Zack’s case, daktari had kicked him out recently, and told him she’d take care of their two tois alone.

Now here was Zack, living in an inexpensive estate hotel, gulping down Lite beers to prepare him for his new future life on Fanta, and fantasising on how he’d win Juliet back once he was ‘shitting soda.’ I wanted to tell him it was probably too late, that he’d be better off focusing on getting his life in order. But he was showing me the picture of a young civil engineer he’d met in the hotel over the weekend, also on the rebound, and whom he’d ‘partaken of’ Saturday night (as I missed the match I was missing now). Lady Engineer had sent him a Monday picture of herself on site, wearing a hard hat, on Instagram ‘What do I tell her?’ I thought of doggerel – (when you wear a hard hat, you make me hard&hawt ;-).

‘Tell her you want to be her interior designer.’ Zack laughed and texted: ‘I’m still in room # 303. Come!’ She didn’t reply. When he tried to call, he got cut off. Another professional gone! It was time to go. As I hugged Zack bye, I looked over his shoulder at the screen.

The game had ended nil/nil. A match worth missing. [email protected]