The room was dimly lit with some type of bluish glow that made you feel woozy immediately you entered. It was a nice house; for a bedsitter that is. The kind of house I want to live in while in university. It had tiles on the walls and was occupied by a single bed, another makeshift bed on the floor and a big plasma TV connected to a play station where a game of FIFA was currently running. There were three guys; two on the makeshift bed, one on the real bed. They all seemed completely out of it. Three more were behind me like a chicken being escorted into the cocks’ coop but there I was removing my shoes to enter this man cave. The acrid smell of marijuana stung my nostrils immediately I got in. “This is it,” I muttered under my breath as I proceeded to sit in my allocated space. We were just in time; Mr. Roller (as I will call him) was just beginning to roll a new roll. He did it with the efficiency only obtained through experience. In fact, he didn’t even seem to be aware of what he was doing— he was on the moon dancing with angels. Soon I would join him. He had a tattoo whose shape I couldn’t clearly make out in the dim lighting. In fact I couldn’t make out how he actually looked like. He was in a vest perhaps or was it a tee? The only thing I am sure of is that he didn’t look like he played piano in the church. No, he looked like the type of person your mum sees you with and the next day you are sent to some church camp where they preach to whores the importance of abstinence. It was now my turn. Part of me wanted to scream no and throw away the joint as I scurried out but that was just a part of me, it wasn’t me (or so I told myself). You see there are two types of weed. There is weed and then there is WEED (to say this effectively you have to half close your eyes, imagine you are Wiz Khalifa and then drawl it out with a ghetto accent.) I’m talking about the real Cannabis sativa what we call weed ya Ethiopia and it is on this weed that I was currently on my fourth puff. Back in high school, I was known as the weed pro. The one who everyone turned to look at anytime the word itself was mentioned. I was in the bhangi family or as we were called, madame wa mabhangi. But no weed had ever prepared me for what went down next. To add the cherry on top (more like insult to a wound) I was nursing a tumbler —not really, just a plastic cup—of Legend. I can’t stand any alcohol that smells or has some type of maltish taste…but no,there I was; Miss Pro herself gulp after gulp, puff after puff.
He was sitting behind me, arms around my shoulder pulling me to him. All men are always trying to get into a woman’s pants. Some will try subtly, by making you laugh and pulling the chair for you. Others won’t bother to know your name they’ll just begin to paw you. My instincts told me he was the latter. Earlier, they had shown me a video captioned : ‘How a side nigger is busy f***ing your chick and he knows he won’t put a ring on it’. I’ll leave what it contained to your own dark, sick and perverted imagination. It had been appalling; against everything I stand for. It objectified women and I was about to say so when he looked at me sinisterly, a sly smile on his face and whispered,” Hivo ndio utafanyiwa.” What I was to say got lost somewhere between my brain and realising the full implication of those words. And there he was now, pressing himself close to me and I was already way past woozy. Rape is never far away from a girl’s mind and right then looking at all six inebriated men in the room, I imagined myself being passed from one to the other. I could already feel the beginning of what would be a torrent of tears stinging my eyelids. “Why do we do this to ourselves? What are we looking for in these drugs? Is it happiness? Fun? Acceptance?” I asked myself and that’s when I knew it was time to leave; sober people never ask themselves such stupid questions.
Everything else that happened from there is a blur. I vaguely remember standing outside the flats. Green and 999999 (that is the only way I could recognise them; one had a luminous gray T-shirt and the other had a jacket with a lot of nines on it) arguing whether the sun makes the highness worse or not. I wasn’t interested in their argument. No, I was too busy looking at a Mercedes Benz. In my head, I said, “Look at that Mercedes! Daamn!” But my head and my mouth were no longer part of the same entity. It came out like,”Mercedes Benz! Mercedes Benz! Mercedes Benz! ” That was my last coherent thought.
What I remember: walking, a lot of walking. Switching between hanging on (literally) Green and 99999. At one point I remember sitting down outside a mall and was there a security guard who told us to get inside? After that all I saw were tusker chairs. A lot of puke which up to now I can’t believe came from me. I also remember a sink and a mirror and me staring at my reflection thinking, “Wow!! So this is how I look when I’m high. My eyes are soooo diluted..no that’s for juice. Wait I don’t like diluted juice but this is not about juice….” I also remember a girl with a nose ring. She kept looking at me; her eyes so full of mercy that I could almost imagine how pathetic I looked. At one point my pants started falling off she helped me pull them up. Who said angels can’t have nose rings? Oh! And I also remember telling Green to touch my boob so as to prove that I walk it like I talk it in The Defiant; #braless.
What I don’t remember:
Buying me and Green a ticket. (I’m still a feminist even when I’m drunk. Hurrah!)
Attending the event. I found the stamp on my hand In the morning and I’m like what the hell is this?
I might (notice the use of the word might) or might not have peed on myself. (I’m not sure. I mean are we ever sure of anything? Are we sure that our parents are really our parents or that the earth is round? Are we even sure we exist?)
Agreeing to get a tattoo. (A drunk tattoo really? Could I get more cliché?
How I got home, I don’t even know. Is there a saying like,’ A drunk always find his way home?’ If not what were the sages waiting for?
All in all, I can’t believe I got home unscathed. Either God really really loves me or the wrath he is planning to unleash on me as punishment cannot be issued in death. But above all I’d never have made it were it not for Green and 99999. They are the men that make me hopeful that chivalry is not dead, that gentlemen still exist and who make me believe in angels. So let me make this public apology to them for being such a pathetic drunk/stoner, for making them not enjoy the event because they had to keep close so as to remind me to spread my legs as I puked ( I at one point wondered if I was being told to spread my legs so that I couldn’t soil my jeans with puke or if we were in a completely different scenario that requires leg spreading.) I would also like to make a public thank you for everything they did including tolerating my shit and also a public ‘I know I messed up our first date but could we perhaps have another one?’ A sober one because I have decided to say no to drugs.
That’s my no to drugs ordeal. What’s yours? Please share them on the comments’ box below so that I can read those harrowing ordeals and get motivated to never look back.