One Sunday, last semester: after a week of swallowing antibiotics, the dose ended. I rushed to the wines duka and ordered the most toxic quarter bottle of affordable whisky.
Minutes later, tipsy like a nosy fish, I sauntered to the hostel tunefully whistling wanyaboro wanyaboro wanyaboro, behaving like my bank was otuch, yelling exaggerated goodwill greetings to the janitors and any Dick and Dorothy on the hallway.