If you take part in such in such debates in bars...stop it!

Last Sunday at about three in the afternoon, I was sitting at a small pub with large TV screens in the neighbourhood. I felt a little empty inside because Sunday is our ‘fun day’ with little Chelsea, but she is with her grandparents for a fortnight (and returns tomorrow, hip hip, hooray, so excited I wonder if I’ll get any sleep tonight).

Anyway, I was seated at this bar counter with a tall brown chap I will call Karanja to my left, and a stout dark fellow I will call Omondi on my right. It was like that Jesus crucifixion scene in Gethsemane.

Anyway, up came a rugby final between Kenya and Fiji, and although I’m not at all a ‘rooj’ fan, I found myself rising to my feet, raising my voice to ‘Go Kenya’ and by the end of that game (which our boys won 30-7), Karanja, Omondi and I were in a group hug, dancing in a circle.

On a whim, I started singing ‘Eee Mungu nguvu yetu ...’ and would you believe it, that little bar in South B came to life as, one and all, we all happily roared out the national anthem, hands on the heart.

I will never forget those 20 minutes of ‘Kenya versus Fiji’ to my dying day – although I very briefly did think of this bearded dude from Fiji called Morgan who loves rugby and whom I met in Indonesia last year. Was he seated in their capital Suva, nine hours ahead of Nairobi time, tears dripping down into his beard as a song called ‘It is midnight in Fiji’ played on the radio?

Anyway, at 3:30 pm, EPL shock underdogs Leicester took on Westham at their King Power Stadium. Karanja is a Liverpool fan and Omondi supports Man U. As every regular reader here knows, I support Chelsea football club. But on Sunday, the three of us were firmly behind Leicester.

We shrieked when the referee gave an unfair penalty against Leicester. We screamed abuse when he sent off Vardy. We cheered like wild Red Indians when Leicester scored a last minute penalty at the King Power. The three of us were fast friends.

Omondi bought a bottle of Jameson. Two sisters, Lillian and Linda, joined our table and Karanja and Omondi tuned them in-between throwing compliments at each other like two true wingmen.

At 9pm, the ladies left and the barman, Edgar, switched the channel from sports to news.

Here was a clip of Jubilee leaders jubilating at the Afraha Stadium in Nakuru and Omondi mentioned something about ‘danse macabre.’ Then Karanja mentioned something about an old friend of Magafuli in France, hunting down ‘dirty, unpatriotic diverted railway line deals’.

Fuelled by whisky and ancient animosities, the two gentlemen’s conversation swiftly degenerated into family paper unprintables. One of them threw the contents of his whisky glass at the other, saying ‘here’s your effing drink, I don’t want it,’ and two chaps who just six hours before had been hugging each other in love of country, like long lost brothers re-united, were now at war over politicians.

I shook my head and hurried out before the melee spread, and resolved to write about the afternoon.

Can you see the folly?

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