encounters with Pete and sis

Days change and so do people. Sometimes the guy who talks too much changes and becomes the guy who listens too much. Other times the lady who complains a lot becomes the one who appreciates a lil more. It is no surprise if the one alien to the world of smiley faces becomes an ambassador for one smile a minute program. Well other people love to say people do change or miracles happen, am not other people I just say shit happens. While a good friend of mine sucks up to me everytime I say the phrase, I love believing that they know am right. Truth be told, life is never like we want it to be but that has never been a reason to whine. This messed up life has been more messed up before and it’s cos some people failed to give up on making it better that we have the chance to complain less.

Most of you think this is gonna be a sermon, I hate to disappoint you cos it’s all cos of my sis that I got the audacity to say words that in any other world would never be mine. She is something else and I still can’t believe she’s my sis. While I see the wrong in everyone else she sees the good, and that isn’t in the cliché way. While I fail to compliment her long skirts and baggy blouses she smiles at the image in front of the mirror, an action she punctuates with bible quotes of living for something greater than this world.. So I won’t say i’m not glad she agreed to come and visit me. Magic happens whenever she comes by, say she blows candles of happiness and drives away the demons who keep me hooked on Blue moon, castle and the very occasional Black label. She rebukes them and rarely do my drunken self feel the demons lift away their burdens. I understand miracles happen only to those of us crazy enough to believe. She talks of how my time is coming and blah blah blah. She might not be my favourite sis but I love her alright and for her I would do anything, including accompany her religious self to church every Saturday. Every is a lil bit too much but I would accompany her to church. Am not a church going person, even though deep within religion lives in me. A lil story about why religion has never forsaken me will involve me stating that my Grandpa was a pastor, my dad too became a pastor and since am my dad’s only son, am bound to be one. Going to church on Saturday aint as pretty as going there on Sunday when there are 3 services and a tonne of lonely women waiting for the Lord to meet them up with me and other more messed up guys.That, my friends is the story of how God works in mysterious ways.

If that story teaches us anything it’s that the owner of the sky got a plan for all of us. Life might seem messed up but our God has never stopped doing a good work in you. Unfortunately her life has never been a bed of roses and that is a story I will never tell, at least not today. As much as she carries herself with an aura of undying happiness and confidence, i have trivially succeeded in making her life not so interesting. Last weekend was no different cos while she went ahead cleansing me with the word of God I went ahead and threw a lil house party for my friends. This party isn’t the kind where we have a tonne of purple dressed ladies who put on some net trouser thingys, nope they are way mature. Here we don’t play loud music, we sing the songs we want as soon as we are high enough. Here we play instruments such as guitar and any traditional equipment like orutu and the nyatiti i purloined from my Granddad’s collection. The guests tag along with anything from six packs to weed and occasionally a jug of super fermented porridge and any kind of shit that when mixed with whatever it is other guys have carried will get us high.

So on the aforementioned night we get to play host to weed cake, a jug of something that tastes like piss but gets your head doing circles literally. The kind of thing that would make it hard to pronounce names like Miguna Miguna and if you try too hard you’ll land on Njuguna Njuguna. A couple of party ladies ensure we don’t end up having a banana festival, which is good. All this my time my sis is held up in the room, interceding perhaps offering prayer to the lost souls who haven’t seen the light. Seeing the light is relative as my friend Pete keeps saying, other times it’s the white light one sees before they die. Or maybe it’s that light you wake to after a night consuming Yokozuna. That adds to his numerous one liners that are yet to be verified. He insists he’s the smartest guy from his village and back there the people know he was the best student countrywide in both KCSE and KCPE. He adds that everytime he goes back home he finds it hard explaining to his kinsmen that he doesn’t study in the US or the UK perhaps. He tells of how his granddad was the only doctor in Nyanza and how he was the owner of the only bike in western Kenya. When he’s drunk he says his old man would take a chartered flight to Italy to buy a single pair of shoes. He goes on and on about how he inherits his charm from the old man who apparently was an eloquent English speaker who would be invited to all functions to translate to the many who were not privy to the white man’s tongue.

This turned out to be a blessing in disguise for him as all he had to do to land a lady was to pronounce “Jambo” and all the bare foot sharp breasted adolescent girls ran to him. He speaks fondly how while you he never took part in heinous village school tasks like bringing eggs to school for a science project or fetching firewood for the teacher’s jiko cos the girls would fight it out who would bring some for him. In his village he was hip. This stories normally end up in a sad tone of how things changed when he got to campus and nobody recognised his Granddad and like all common men he had to watch other kids with more famous names get the favours that hitherto were his. He says, with a mischievous smile, that all is not lost cos back in the village his mum is called, “mama engineer.”

This Pete when he’s drunk he gives bible quotes that no regular preacher could come up with. Like all drunks he would quote verses like, “do not drink water alone but sometimes take wine to help with digestion” and other times he’ll go for, “it is good for drunks to take water just to surprise their liver.” And like all his superb sermons this will be punctuated with hiccups that would seem to grow as dawn grows nigh.

The next morning we would wake up to sights of broken beer bottles, a filthy toilet and a naked person here and there. But the greatest of all evidence of this craziness will be the water dispenser in which will be a few litres of beer or keg and sis will ask what happened and Pete would go for, “Amen sister, it’s Jesus who turned all our water into wine”


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