The first time I tasted alcohol, I was 4 years old.
This was courtesy of my Dad, who at the time was an imbiber of brown liquids. I hated it. I vomited almost immediately. My Mom was livid, and Dad didn’t hear the end of it. Through the magical influence that can only come from a Christian Woman, he would quit alcohol not much later. He has never tasted it since.
The next time I tasted alcohol I must have been about 9 years old. We were on our Annual escape from Town at my Granma’s, deeper in the countryside. This uncle of mine, who sadly would later suffer the inevitable consequences of a life spent drowning in the bottle, had brewed traditional beer. He asked my cousin and I to watch over the broth while he stepped away briefly for an errand.
Our job was to occasionally taste it, ensuring it did not go past a certain threshold of bitterness. My cousin had undertaken this task many times before, so I was assured that I was in good hands. I do not remember much else after a few delicious sips. I am informed that I proceeded to lecture everyone I came across on the deeper questions of life that a 9 year old could conjure up, before I conveniently fell under a tree and went into the deepest sleep I’ve ever had. Through a well orchestrated web of deceit courtesy of my Granma, this fiasco never reached my Mother’s ear.
In retrospect, maybe Mum finding out would have been God sent, because her wrath had a way of driving away the most stubborn of demons, Dad’s drinking habit above being exhibit A.
I would next cross paths with Alcohol in my 3rd year of Campus. Despite the temptations that the City brought my way, I had managed to indulge my love for Music, dancing and good company without feeling drawn to it.
Then the geniuses at East African Breweries had concocted a drink that was partially a Spirit and partially a citrus drink. I was hooked from the first time I tasted it, and it would become my drink of choice until the female species made it their signature drink. The mockery became too much to bear, so I switched over to what was considered more Manly drinks.
I never quite became a heavy drinker, but over the years it became apparent that other pleasures such as partying or Sex were greatly heightened if you were inebriated past a certain degree.
Life was great. I graduated with commendable grades. I got a good job in record time, and the promotions kept coming. I helped my parents shoulder the burden of multiple bank loans and educate my siblings. I eased into a life that entailed hard work, interspersed with indulgence. I attended Church occasionally, and whenever the debauchery went a bit too far, I’d pop into the nearest Confessional and get myself a reset. Then I’d be back like I never left. As far as I was concerned, I was a happy Man.
I would meet my wife at the height of this lifestyle, and unbeknown to me, this was the beginning of the end.
