After the incident I narrated on day 8. I promised myself that that would be the first and the last day I taste alcohol. I have stayed true to my promise since. And it not because I fight against my impulses, but because the Jameson Sheila bought for me tasted bitter and boring. Some other friends have argued that it was my first time, and that I should give the drink another opportunity to hit me at the right spot. I have had some other chances to sip and maybe even cuddle the bottle but I always lack to see the fun in it. So, I will stick to my Fanta passion, if in the house, or Sprite, if in parties, and enjoy my time.

If it is true that some people are not cut out for alcohol, then am over certain that I top that list. If it is true that a little alcohol boost creativity then I should be somewhere at the bottom of the list. Fortunately, this far my creativity is still powerful, regardless, and I remain a faithful teetotaler. My abstinence is not based on the fact that alcohol does not mix well with my blood, rather it is anchored on my personality. I detest things; alcohol and other substances, people; manipulators and even crushes to an extent, situations; peer pressure and societal opinions, that undermine my logic faculties. I love to be in control of my life, and it is an assurance knowing that I reasoned it out and made my own decisions.

Only once have I met tipsy Dismas. The night Sheila pulled me towards the dance floor at Blue Sharks club and we danced the night away. He was a charmer with an excessively carefree spirit. Although my fundamental courtesy did not change. In the later days, Sheila would joke that there was a point I had stumbled towards a lady I had insisted had a sensual figure and requested, ‘Excuse me Senorita, may I touch your boobs?’  And the lady, also tipsy and in the company of her girls, granted my request. I don’t know how much to rely on Sheila’s account of the incident, since she had been much wasted than I. She claims I even kissed the lady’s cleavage. Something that only the drunkard Dismas from my dreams would dare do to a stranger.

The circumstances that led to making out with Sheila, Felix’s girl, are still ablur to me up to date. I recall patches of it. Felix shouting, Sheila hysterically laughing in my arms at the seats in the dim-lit corner of the club. I was too light-headed to act, or even to think. Felix stormed out. I just sat there, holding uncontrollably shaking Sheila. When I came about, it was dawn and I was at the gate of the club. The chill of Nairobi’s July cold piercing my uncovered flesh. Despite the ugliness of the situation, I have always held dear that night. It was the night I experimented with the extreme of my character. It was the night I discovered the reasons why sober Dismas suits my personality well.

I have nothing against alcoholics. In fact, they are the people I find most interesting to hold a conversation with. Their raw honesty can’t be stressed enough. Subsequently, I hold nothing against standard alcoholic drinks. If one has determined why they want a drink, and they have the means to afford the standard, decently distilled drinks, what will I gain to hoarse my voice in preaching the effects of alcohol to health?  Besides the brewing companies have already taken care of that. However, the people who steal to sustain their drinking and those who resort to illicit brews I hold in lesser regards. Anything smoke, cigars and the likes, I hate with all my heart. No compromise.

©writerdismas  

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