It's hard to explain to people why you aren't drinking. People assume that everybody who comes to the bar should have a drink—that if you're seated amongst drinkers and not drinking, you're some sort of alien, a spy.
Someone is always trying to convince you that you can have whisky with your antibiotics, that doctors are no fun. I am currently nursing my stomach back to good health after a small flare-up from gastritis.
I've been on drugs for the past four weeks or so, which meant that after a brutal week at work, I was dying for a whisky. Perhaps I would have been fine had I been at home, but I was meeting my brother and some friends at Thai Chi on Nairobi’s Manyani Road recently.
Not my first rodeo at Thai Chi. We gathered at the counter. One of my friends, a doctor (behold), was recovering from back surgery and enjoying a cocktail because, in his words, "you treat the body to treat it."
It was a lovely evening, nippy. The bar wasn't too loud, not too full—just how you want a bar to be.
I could have opted for water like a responsible human being, but I didn't feel like being responsible. I wanted to be human, to flow. Besides, the conversation was alive and the mood was relaxed enough for it to feel right to chase it with whisky.
So, I got a double bourbon. It felt like drinking gold. I even closed my eyes as it slid down my body, lighting it up as it went. I listened to hear if my stomach would complain, but it remained mum. I took this to mean it had missed some acid, illicitly.
It drizzled when it got dark, then stopped abruptly. The doctor with the bad back took off with our other friend, leaving my brother and another friend arguing about the economy and tax.
I was having so much fun that I ordered another double. I was ready to pay for my sins the next day. But that reckoning never came, which made it all worthwhile.
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