My humble contribution to the rat race leaves me extremely tired and spent, and I see no harm drowning my stress in a bottle of barley, while watching a game of football on TV after a hard day’s work.
To my credit, I prefer watching football in my living room rather than at the local, and this has seen me stocking a few beers and associated concoctions in our fridge.
I know that I am probably polluting my children’s morals by doing this, but hardly would I enjoy watching the beautiful game without a drink in sight.
In any case, I am not the only parent who uses drugs at home.
For instance, some parents smoke cigarettes right in their living rooms.
Others are known to smoke illegal substances, and there are those who openly chew that Meru herb.
Some time last weekend, I treated myself to a drink while watching the beautiful game in my living room, with Tiffany seated next to me.
My team was losing, which called for more swallowing.
Then Tiff whispered: “Daddy, niliona Jimmy akitoa maji yako kwa fridge halafu akaanza kunywa.”
I have been telling Tiffany that what they put in those brown bottles is water. It really surprised me to hear this news, but I acted cool.
I sought to know when she had seen him in the act and learned that he has been doing it for quite a while.
There was more.
“He threatened to beat me up if I ever told you,” Tiffany said, her eyes widening with fear.
Apparently, Jimmy has not only been terrorising my drinks, but has warned his siblings to keep it secret.
I then asked Tiff if she had seen Russell participating in this debauchery.
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“Niliona tu akionja, halafu akakunja sura vibaya sana,” she reported. “Kwani hii maji yako iko na taste mbaya daddy?”
I cleverly ignored the question, but somehow, Tiffany had put me in a collision course with Mama Jimmy.
“See? This is why I object to your keeping these things in the house,” she remarked. Note the use of the word “things.”
She then waxed evangelical.
“You need to stop drinking those things around here. This is Christ’s house.”
She felt that I am to blame, but I argued that Jimmy is the real culprit, seeing that he is consuming alcohol before he is of age.
Worse, he has been doing it behind my back, which qualifies as an act of thievery. I added that in any case, the children should know better than to touch daddy’s drinks, but she was far from impressed.
She remarked that when beer, football and young impressionable minds converge under one roof, there is bound to be trouble.
“Look, these things will completely spoil our children.”
Then, while pointing at my bottle, Tiff added: “Halafu Jimmy huchota maji kwa mfereji anaweka kwa hii chupa.”
Apparently, the boy has been pilfering my drinks and refilling the bottles with water. It sounded quite plausible, seeing that my drink was having no effect on me.
It finally dawned on me that my teenager has developed an enormous thirst for my drinks. I need to catch him baptising my drinks, and I am prepared to sit on this egg till it hatches. In the meantime, I vowed to scout for a safe place to hide my drinks.
I thought of the bedroom, but something told me that even if I hid them under the bed, they would not escape the long arm of the boy. He would easily hunt them down, treat himself to a few sips and baptise the remainder with tap water.
How about the car? Well, as good as that sounds, the comptroller would definitely object to this idea. Also, the temptation to take a sip while I am stuck in the jam would be enormous.
Finally, fearing that my indulgence will probably drive my under-age son deep into alcoholism, I vowed to never store alcohol in the house again.
My living room is a drug-free zone and if I have to imbibe, it will have to be at the local.