Immediately after I finished high school, my mum got me a casual job at Kenya Breweries Limited. “It’ll teach you something about money and life,” she said.
My job was simple: monitor a conveyor belt of moving beer bottles, removing any that were poorly filled or clearing jams caused by fallen bottles. The money was great for an 18-year-old, but the hours were brutal.
An hour before we clocked out, the casuals would hide behind crates, quickly chugging beers while keeping an eye out for the supervisor.
I tried drinking beer then, but I never acquired the taste. I hated it instantly; the taste of barley repulsed me. I’d go home smelling of beer, and I’d soak my clothes and scrub myself vigorously in the shower.
Still, I had a great time: making my own money, the camaraderie on the factory floor. I felt like a grown-up, earning my keep. Beer ushered me into manhood, you could say.
Not long ago, I met a friend at Crafty Chameleon and the sight of the stainless-steel brewing tanks stirred a deep sense of nostalgia.
Craft brews its own beers. My pal swears by the Crafty Stout, praising its low percent alcohol content. It was a hot afternoon, and I envied the way he took that first gulp, with the almost animal urgency of someone released from months of confinement.
I loved the sound of satisfaction that followed and the way he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, like a coal miner. I envy beer drinkers—how they can enjoy a beer at noon and return to work. I wouldn’t dare touch whisky at that hour.
Most Fridays, you’ll find him at Crafty Chameleon, enjoying a beer. He loves that he can see his beer being brewed and that he can enjoy it in an outdoorsy space with a great vibe.
