This will be short, I’m a stammerer so whenever I’m mad, I speak less. That is self explanatory. Ooh, I detest lies therefore I won’t sit here and pretend that I’m happy and all. Meaning, no niceties henceforth like introductions, pleasantries and shit like that. It is Saturday for the rest of you earthlings but for Arsenal fans, it’s ‘Match Day’. After doing laundry, yes I do my own laundry, I spent the rest of the day whiling around, waiting for 6.p.m. In between, I just remember chatting (not really, arguing is the correct term) with Sophia.
Let’s get to the real deal already. It’s 6.23 and I arrive at our favorite spot to catch the game – I’m late. Normally, the front table is always preserved for us (Arsenal fans) since, well, we changed the rules last year when we were on top of the table and insisted that its only right for us to sit on the front table as well.. Initially, Man United fans enjoyed this luxury. You can argue that we should stop occupying this particular table because we are no longer at the top but we can hear non of that because we still believe we are going to win the League. Arsenal supporters are dimwitly optimists. When I get to the club today, one seat has already been occupied by a lady, that title however does not in anyway fit her. I will explain. She is wearing a tight-hugging pink t shirt that doubles as her skirt, a black legging and condom shoes. On a second look, I notice that she has those big chunky earrings and a disgustingly ugly weave, which ironically fits on her egg-shaped head. Her ass is overflowing from the chair. On the table, she has one bottle of Guinness kubwa and a half a litre of Coke soda, both already opened.
My cousin is already sited, a chair a way from her. This only means that poor Holly must sit next to Miss bad-weave-condom-shoes. I adamantly sink on my chair and raise my head up, to watch the already underway match. It is shitty from the first look. My cuz is not imbibing anything yet, I on the other hand is not in a mood to drink. That is after my Amarula creation experiment, I promised myself to take a break from drinking. The waiter comes and my cuz whispers something on his ears and a few minutes later, he returns with a bottle of Smirnoff. I murmur something like dear sweet baby Jesus, let me overcome this temptation that Satan is presenting to me right now. Baby Jesus must be asleep because the next thing I know is, I have a glassful of liquor in front of me.
The game is not promising at all. Giroud is doing his best; playing shitty, missing shots and falling all over the pitch. I contemplate avoiding this drink as that may at least please God and grant us a win. Apart from the irritating game, I have to deal with another issue, Miss big booty has to visit the ladies after every fucking 5 minutes! So after five minutes, my whole visage is eclipsed in her overflowing booty as she passes by my seat. To make it worse, she moves in slow motion. The half time whistle blows just when an Arsenal striker is about to score, I curse the ref and go for my glass of poison. Just before I can reach it, Miss Condom shoes is again on my face, she wants to pass. Luckily this time, she is dragging along her glass and two bottles. I’m about to breath a sigh of release at the thought of having some peace henceforth, when I feel something cold pouring on my pants. Before I know it, the 3/4 full Smirnoff bottle is on the floor, in pieces. Our two glasses are spinning on the table as the liquor is flooding on my pair of shorts.
I just sit there and watch her leave without even a slightest sign of remorse. Now you understand why I refused to call her a lady? It is not rocket science to apologize if you spill someones drink in a club. Even if you are planning to pay for it, just be courteous and say, hey sorry, that was an accident. Well, this woman staggers her way to the back of the club, which I later learnt was some VIP section of sort. If you are privy to club scenes, you know what happens when ones’ liquor is spilled. Being modest, we inquire from the club owner the rules of his club since he saw the lady clearly spilling our drink. His advice is, wait I ask her. Fifteen minutes later, the second half is underway, yet no sign of us getting our drink. It is time to act.
I walk majestically to the back side of the club and behold, six pot-bellied old men are sited around a table, with the hoe at the furthest end. I weigh in on my options and ready myself for whatever. My gangstar self is up for task. I slowly approach the table and say something like, “msichana, wajua kwamba umemwaga pombe ya yeyote ulikotoka?“. All eyes, and pot bellies are now on me. I feel like Tupac. She doesn’t answer immediately and I survey the table just to know what first to pick when shit gets ugly, coz it’s about to. Funnily, it is the ugliest Shrek among them who lifts his hoarse voice to demand the price of the liquor. I gather all my willpower to refrain my fists from punching someone real hard. I don’t answer, instead, I leave and come back with the waiter who tells them the price and they signal him to replace our spilled drink. Just then, the lady opens her stinking mouth to yap that she only spilled two-half glassfuls! My cousin is around to drag me away before it gets nasty. On my way to the table, Stoke City scores. Things can’t really get any worse.
Ten minutes later, our liquor has not been replaced. I walk to the counter and inquire. The waiter rudely responds that I should go sit my ass down and be patient. He lost me at patience. Honestly, I ooze patience in every letter of that word. First, I support Arsenal, ask any fan out there and they will tell you just how much patience you must have to be an Arsenal supporter. 8 years of patience to be exact! Secondly, I only date light skins and I don’t have to explain this to anyone. We all know that for your simple ‘good morning’ text to be replied to, you gotta wait for two weeks and that is if you are lucky. Otherwise, the text will be to remind you that there is an event they need to attend and you being their ‘babe’, should pay. Last and most importantly, I wait for five, five fucking long seconds every time I wanna watch something on YouTube. If the above don’t convince you how patient I am, Jesus save you. The whistle blows and the game ends. Arsenal lose and our liquor is yet to be replaced.
I get off my chair and amble outside the club, heading home. In Kenya, it is called “accept and move on”. That is when it finally hits me that I have matured. Holly, of all people, walks away from the scene where he has been wronged, without a bizarre fight? Now I am right to call myself a real man; all you wife materials should start sending applications and resumes. On the flip side, I just qualified for an inclusion in the Diaper Mentality so I hope Boniface Mwangi should be coming for my pictures real soon.
On other interesting news, the beautiful and savvy
@its_lello will be posting an article tomorrow, and every other Friday, so be on the look out. She has a great insight that you shouldn’t miss out on.