I still haven’t cracked the psychology of it. People who walk into a bar, order a soda, and babysit it for 90 minutes just to hate-watch Manchester United play Liverpool FC.
Then, after all that emotional self-harm, they leave clutching their chests; they had survived a minor cardiac event. Surely something stronger in the glass would’ve made the suffering more bearable, or at least more dignified. A little whisky could have softened the trauma. Even science would agree.
The four gentlemen across from me in Arsenal jerseys were prime exhibits of this madness. Loud fellows, all armed with sodas and unnecessary confidence. I was seated on the second floor.
Lacoste, Mbita’s only establishment with genuine bourgeois aspirations, offered a splendid view of Lake Victoria. The breeze drifting off the water was magnificent, a rare, generous thing only interrupted by the Arsenal choir behind me that kept roaring at every misplaced Manchester United pass. Their sodas fizzed with fake courage. I sat there grinning.
The waitress approached my table, opener in hand, “Utakunywa nini?” She asked.
“Double shot of a single malt, please,” I said, with the quiet dignity of a man who knows exactly what he wants. She returned with stout.
“Didn’t she hear me, or did she just not understand?” I pondered. To spare us both the lengthy negotiation, I made peace with a stout.
Moments later, a stranger pulled a chair next to me. I turned and studied him. He was working through one of those tiny, ruthless 300ml flavoured gins that knock out a novice with three sips.
The bottle was nearly empty. By rights, he should have been horizontal. Soon, he started talking about his wife. A woman he’d loved since high school. He loved her warm heart.
He spoke fondly of her, and with the honesty only drunk men possess, admitted he had first fallen for “her bottom-heavy package.” These days, he mostly spends time at Lacoste.
