Category: Alcoholics Anonymous

Prisoner To Your Mother

“You can call me orange” read the email.

“Like the fruit or the color?”

“I was told this was where to go if I wanted to talk about my mother”

Oh man. Orange must have the wrong email. But then, I thought, that would be pushing it a little far right? That there is a person out here with an email address so close to mirawuor@gmail.com that I was sent the troubles of another?

“Well she drinks. I mean I do too, but she drinks like a whole lot. For breakfast, for brunch, for a midnight snack”

Ah, my kind of trouble. So I gave her my number and when she Whatsapped me, I thought I would call this story “Orange”. I saved it as Orange. I almost color-coded it as well. Almost changed the wordings from black to orange. But I’m also practicing self-control because I have been too impulsive lately and that has bitten me in the arse a few times.

She told me she was not sure if this is the kind of place she would want her story to go. She said she would have wanted a smaller platform [do you feel my head swelling just a little bit?]. Has she seen a psychiatrist? I asked. She said she was “not comfortable doing this face-to-face”. That this was safer. Nobody would know her. Nobody would judge her. So I said “Let’s talk about your mother” because I don’t know if nobody would know her or judge her here. I am not people’s judge-mentality [this is underlined so maybe I should explain that I mean it as an individual’s ability-to-judge. Somebody tell Merriam Webster to document more words]. Also, lightbulb; I’m sitting here thinking how Judge Mentality has a nice ring to it. There should be a series about a beat up judge who gets hit by space rocks and acquires the ability to use his/her brain to make court rulings. We should be able to see the brainwaves swirling trying to come to said ruling. Seth Rogen could play it, or write most of the lines at least, and obviously Idris Elba should be the bailiff and at the beginning of every episode he would say “Order. Court is in session. The Honorable Judge Mentality will be presiding” and Seth Rogen or Rebel Wilson would come in on a wooden horse.

Orange’s dad, who I am tempted to name Peel, supposedly left her mother when she was born. She clings to little anecdotes that her mother blurted out in her late-night drunken stupors when she forgot the existence of Orange in her life. Her dad was fun. That’s what she texts me. I can’t imagine a fun dad. No one spends time with their dad and comes out of it going, ‘Hey dad, that was fun. We should do this again sometime’. It only borders “fun” if at the end of it he reaches for the wallet. So I think it is because she looks at her father with her mother’s eyes. This seems like a falling road to go down. I am afraid she will start texting how hard his abs were and how his laugh made the hairs on her skin rise. I change the subject back to her mother.

Most girls grow up being told they are beautiful and strong and smart, and that anyone would be lucky to have them in their lives. They are the rays of the sun. Their beliefs are affirmed and the ideas they have are the best thing their mothers have ever heard of. Most girls have it good. Orange was never most girls. She never woke up to the smell of pancakes in the mornings. She had to come home fed or she would have to sleep hungry. She learned to cook just last year and up until she was 10, she thought mothers were not obligated to do anything for their kids.

She says she discerned the difference between a house and a home when she spent an afternoon at a friend’s place. She understood that one could laugh loudly in a home without fear of a condescending remark. Mothers touched their children in homes without flinching. Homes did not have the constant stench of liquor and vomit that could not be scrubbed out even if her fingers bled fire. Homes had onions in the kitchen and a welcome mat at the front door. She found out just how much was missing in her house and she began hating her mother for it.

When she told her mother about this, she was told of how ungrateful a daughter she was. “She said I was a thankless no-good daughter who didn’t even appreciate all that she did for me.” It’s hard writing a story in my head without a tangible subject in mind so at this point I went offline. I needed a break and break-time has always meant something to eat, has it not? The first thing I see in the kitchen is this deformed unhealthy looking orange in the fruit basket and my brain screams EUREKA! I pick it up and this has to either be a rock or the hardest orange to have ever walked the planet. It doesn’t help that I can’t remember when oranges were bought last. This is a forgotten orange. A sad orange. An orange that has seen days when the basket was full of his brothers and sisters and shed so much when sibling after sibling was taken away to face the wrath of the knife. I don’t cut it. Not yet. This orange is my muse. You don’t destroy a muse. You study it, from afar. You place it on a pedestal and watch it, lovingly, as it sits there, unmoving, unflinching, while the words come pouring out of your brain as if the orange was the cork. I see the orange for the first time. I mean really see it. I think Orange and this orange must be related in a life before this. Before this orange was on a tree, a seedling, a seed, manure, trash, a human. So I sit there for what seems to have been an hour, staring at an orange until someone knocks on the door and I wake from my reverie.

“I’ve been looking at an orange,” I text Orange.

“Ha-ha, the fruit or the color?”

By the time most girls were celebrating their sweet sixteens, Orange was trying to tape her breasts into her back because her mother said she was developing too quick for her age and that she was abnormal. “I can’t tell you how many times I wrapped my chest in masking tape so that I could feel normal. I was going to school on an Equity Bank scholarship and I was scared that they would pull me off it if they realized I was not like other kids who got the sponsorship.” I ask her what she means by not being like the other kids. “My mom made me believe I was not deserving of anything nice I had. She made me doubt myself. I doubted my walk, the way I talked, even my body. She made me feel inferior to everyone else, even her. She constantly woke me up at 2.00am to tell me I did not deserve the scholarship. That I should have let someone who needed it more to have it.”

The tempo changed when she finished school. The 2.00am wake up calls became questions. Why did she not have a man? What was she doing to get herself a husband? Was she thinking that she would live with her mother till she got old? She remembers one time when she was coming from those computer classes we do after high school like a ritual and found the door locked. She was sure her mother was in, because it was 3 in the afternoon and she usually did not leave until about 5:30 for when the bars had customers who she would nag to buy her one or two. She knocked twice and heard her mother’s groggy voice inside. “She said that if I ever want to get into her house again, I would come with alcohol as my rent.”

And so for the next three years, Orange bought quarters for her rent. She tried to avoid being known to the liquor store keepers. As soon as one knew her name, she changed to a different store. People called her names. They said she was going to end up like her mother. That she was wasting away. Women snickered when she walked past. Everyone she met commented on how bright a future she had had before she destroyed herself with alcohol.

In 2017, at 23, Orange packed up her clothes and left. She did not say goodbye. She says she did not want her last memory of her mother to be as painful as her life with her.

“What do you remember of her?”

“Well,” [she begins most of her texts with ‘well’] “I definitely remember the smell. Sometimes I am in a matatu and a guy brushes past me and I swear my mother must have clung to him. It haunts me. I feel like I have failed her as a daughter, and for real this time. But that house had no color. It was grey and I hated it. I hated that life.”

I ask her if she would like to see her again. To mend things. To try and get her help. “Well I have done all that. I went back for the eighth time last month. I cleaned her up, got her clean clothes and took her to some rehab in Limuru. She stayed three days then ran away. Again. So how do you help someone who does not want your help?” I look at my orange, then get up to get a knife. “I have tried so much. I cry every time I see her. she looks worse on each visit. I tell myself ‘You know what Orange, you escaped this. You are no longer a prisoner to your mother’, but every time, it feels like she holds something over me. The fact that she stayed with me. She didn’t leave like my father [Peel]. I will forever be grateful to her for that.” I cut into my orange.

She will try again in April.

[Do you have an AA worthy story, send me an email on mirawuor@gmail.com and Let’s talk drink.]

27 minutes

She was the kind of girl he was sure he would never get, and not only because he was years older than her. They were from different worlds. Her father had large farms and his mother had twelve children. It was doomed from the first day they saw each other. Of the twelve, he was fifth, and third among the boys, which made him among the middle children. He could get nothing. Could ask for nothing, and unless he was coughing out blood and shitting himself simultaneously, no attention was given to him.

There is this perception that middle children are disregarded. Nobody pays them any mind. They can drag themselves through the mud with their asses bare and nobody would care. He would leave whenever he wanted, be gone for hours on end and when he was back, no one had missed him. No one had even noticed he was away. Once, when the thirteen of them were in the shamba, he detoured with his older brother to relieve themselves in nearby bushes and his mother threw a fit! she scratched and wailed for her first born son claiming somebody had napped the fruit of her loins and she could have none of it. This was the only time he ever felt missed.

When he finished high school, like many of his peers, he did menial jobs. It was during this time that he met the one person who was ever excited to see him. She looked at him, not through him. He felt seen. She missed him. She sneaked him things she thought he needed. He tasted his first strip of bacon with her, sneaked out through the folds of her tunic. He liked the smell of her. She said she used Fa soap, and gave him a bar. He took baths every day for her, then applied Fa soap on his skin because he liked her on his skin [okay, I made that up]. She talked him up to her father and he was promoted to groundskeeper. His mother was proud. A son with a steady job at a rich man’s was a good son. A son to take notice of. He was taken to driving school and given another task. He would pick up the rich man’s daughter from school every day and bring her straight home. “The ride took twelve minutes to the school, a three-minute wait for her to say goodbye to her friends and another twelve minutes back.” That a person needs a whole three minutes to say goodbye to people you see 5 days a week baffles me. He cherished these minutes. Sometimes he drove there in 10 and drove back slower so he could hear about her day. She could talk about anything; how many math problems she was able to solve, which trees were shedding, who pissed her off in class. She could have talked about the weather and he would have loved the weather.

“Theirs was a different kind of love”, says the person telling me this story. “They had nothing in common. Different generations. Different worlds and yet, they managed to sneak past their parents and be together. There is a thin line between love and madness.”

When she got pregnant, she was fifteen. He was twenty-five. He got a note in his quarters at her father’s compound. She wanted to see him and she had news. She never had news. He had resolved to thinking she made up the things they talked about off the top of her head. She was spontaneous. The note scared him a little. “It was his ‘we-need-to-talk’ note,” she says [Dang it! I had wanted to say that] She told him that she had been feeling weird. Her body felt like it had aliens experimenting on it. He knew, before she said it, that she had missed her period and his first thought was to get away. To talk to someone. “So he told her not to worry. That everything would be fine and they would be fine. Then he went home and cried.”

“He told you this? That he cried?” I ask.

“Well, no. He’s my father, he would never tell me that he cried. Do you know nothing about men?”

“Apparently not.”

His brother found him crying. The same one he went peeing with in the bushes. So her uncle was the one who told her about her father “cleaning his eyes”. Are we together now? Good. The brother prodded and poked and pushed until he stopped just long enough to tell him about the knocked up girl. That she wanted to leave school to be with him. She had said she would follow him wherever he went. She even gave the ‘can’t live without you’ speech. The brothers talked and fought and came to a conclusion. Tell their mother.

“My grandma is one tough cookie. She is the strictest woman I have ever met, and that is to me. I can only imagine what she was like with her own children.” My mind is racing. Strictest? Really? “Yeah, she was so strict.”

Did I say that out loud?

“I hear all these stories from my aunts and uncles…” “The Twelve,” I say, because that tag has been playing in my mind since she said her father had as many siblings. This must have been the kind of family that disagreements happen and it is split into two, sometimes even three, and a mother is asked to pick a group, and if she picks one, the other two will pack up and leave or if she picks the other, the rest get to throw a tantrum. Constructing this sentence alone is giving me a headache, I can’t imagine living it. She shows me a picture of The Twelve, with the oldest uncle on one end and the youngest aunt on the other. They look like a staircase. I hope I didn’t say that out loud. None is taller than the other nor fatter than the next. Also, their resemblance is uncanny. They look like the same person in different stages of height. “My father says the first time he tasted alcohol was the day he had to tell his mother that he had impregnated his boss’s 15 year-old. He claims he had never tasted alcohol before and that that is the only reason that justifies his drinking today. He says my mother turned his life upside down, and that even though he loved her, he was mocked by everyone he went past. They called him the destroyer of homes”

“I thought it was only women who were labelled that.” I learn new things every day.

“My father was. People said he had used traditional medicine on my mother because for such a girl to drop out of school for a man like him, juju had to be involved,” she laughs. It’s a sad laugh. A widow’s laugh. “They call him names, to date. My mother was disowned. Her father said she didn’t deserve her inheritance or his name. She was bent on my father, a man 10 years older than her who had no future other than what he would do the next day.” I ask what Grandma Strictest did. “My uncle talked to her on my father’s behalf. It was tough.” She chased him away that night. He went to the girl and married her, then brought her back home as his wife. They were chased away together. His brother sneaked them back into his simba. The newlyweds slept on a worn mat that night with her new brother-in-law snoring on the bed beside them. “She says she didn’t leave him because she loved him.”

“Why do you think she stayed?”

“Because she didn’t have anywhere else to go. Because she was scared. Terrified even, of what her life had sunk to. She didn’t leave because she had nowhere to go. She would be homeless and pregnant with no one to turn to. You know her father hired a watchman?” she asks. I shake my head that I didn’t because I don’t even know her mother past a selfie she showed me, how would I know her grandfather had hired a watchman? “Yah! He hired some guy to sit by the gate and send her away any time she came back. He told her to go to her destroyer of homes and stay there. She had made her choice.” Some fathers can be mean.

There are love stories that begin with one look across a room. Others begin as tragedies. Some begin when some end and others even start in the middle of another. His love story began when his brother took him to one of those raunchy sheds that men go to blow off steam with cloudy frothing glasses. “My father loves the bottle now. The love he had for my mother changed into something else and stirred up another story that he finds every night at the bottom of the bottle. He drinks himself blind. And every evening, he comes home, soaked in his true love’s perfume and tells us the story, word for word, of how he discovered love in 27 minutes and how it changed him so much that he had to seek solace in alcohol. He says he looks for a feeling he had when he was twenty-five, but it’s been twenty years now. If he was to find something, he should have found it by now. He is broken, and in so many pieces that counting is impractical.” She says her mother cries every night the story is told. Whether she cries for him or herself no one can tell, but the girl’s heart breaks for both of them every day.

I ask her if her parents’ story makes her believe in love any less.

“Father says it exists. But that we should wait until we are sure. I mean, they fought for themselves and had my brother. They were strong enough to have three children. I’m sure they loved each other at some point. I just don’t think I have the strength to go through the pain they go through right now.”

As she leaves. She says something that stays with me for a while. She says that she doesn’t wait for her soulmate. That she will love, and love deeply, because she wants something to hold on to twenty years later when he is sad and she is crying and there is alcohol involved. She says that soulmates do not exist, she looks for compatibility, and that falling in love with someone you are compatible with is easy, the hard part is working through it and working for it.

Have a wonderful Valentine’s, my Lovelies.

The Gates

At 7, you were probably still riding your bike with the training wheels on. At 7 you hold a grudge for 4 minutes and forget about it. You have a favorite princess dress that you will wear any chance people are going out and at 7, a football was your best friend. At age 7, Julian Wagumba was returned to the gates of Nairobi’s New Life Children Center.

He doesn’t remember much about this specific time other than the cologne of his then ex-foster father, a smell that follows him till today. He remembers a call from a social worker he calls Nancy. He was 8. She had found a family that wanted a boy and she had convinced them to take him. They wanted a younger boy but Nancy had talked him up to them. All she wanted from him was that he behaved this time. No more trouble. Was he trouble? I ask. He says he does not remember. I think he was. He says he was happy. He had a family once again. No more bunk beds or mass cooked food.

Julian recalls the gates. Every time he remembers the gates. How they opened to let him in or closed to keep him out. The Kilonzos had a yellow gate with little white arrows at the top. When it opened, he marveled at the lush green lawn. He vowed to be on his best behavior. He was there for five months then he was back at New Lifes gates. “Nobody wants to adopt an eight year-old. All they want are the young ones. You know?” I nod as if I do. “They say the older kids are trouble. They know too much. They will start asking questions soon and they know who aren’t their parents.” By the time he was 10 years old, Julian had to come to terms with the fact that he would never have a family. He convinced himself that no one would ever love him. That he was not the kind of kid that could call a brother for M-pesa or beat up a boy who messed with his sister. He accepted this. Accepted himself. Then he met Uncle Z.

Julian has eyes that hide more than his words reveal. His eyes never dart away when you look at him. He gazes back and you find yourself in a staring conquest that you know from the word go you could never triumph. He looks at the world like he knows secrets hidden from the government. Like he is in cahoots with some alien species that is soon taking over and he can only tell you with his eyes and not his words.

“Where are they?”

“Who?” he asks

“The aliens.”

“What?!”

Tough guy.

“Nothing.”

When he talks about Uncle Z, he first makes you feel like he is talking about an old best friend who drifted apart but still hits him up for some nyama choma in Kitengela. He says that the first time he saw Uncle Z was at right after he came from the Kilonzos. That was not the first time Uncle Z saw him.

What was it like? Going back there when he were sure he wouldnt?

“I’ll admit it wasnt pretty. I hated everyone and everything around me. I spent most days feeling shitty and making sure everyone who talked to me felt the same way. It was not easy, you know. Being the only big kid there, especially when all your friends have families that love them and end up forgetting to come see you like they promised they would.”

He remembers Freddy in particular. When Nancy came for Freddy, they made a pact to be brothers for life. Freddy promised to come every Sunday to see him. His brother. He came once then never again. He forgot about him, just like everyone did. Everyone but Uncle Z. He talks about Freddy with venom on his tongue. I asked him how old Freddy was at the time.

“Does it matter?”

Silence.

“He was 5…or 3.”

Julian met Uncle Z formerly on his way from school when he was 10. He remembers because it was around the time when the sisters at New Life wanted to take him to boarding school. He hated the idea of boarding school, but he loathed the home even more. He remembers a man calling to him. A man who looked familiar and only introduced himself as Uncle Z and who said he was a friend of his parents. Did he know his parents? Yes, a long time ago. Where? When? Uncle Z could not answer. He said that if the home had any idea of the whereabouts of his parents, they would have to give him back. Julian wanted to be given back. Maybe his parents would give him the love that the Kilonzos couldnt.

Uncle Z always had a smell about him that Julian could not place with the naivety of a 10 year-old. It became daily routine that Uncle Z would wait for him at his schools gate and they would walk to New Life together. He longed for those 10 minutes. He lived for them. Soon, he was running errands for Uncle Z and their 10 minute-walk became fifteen, then twenty then an hour. The detours began. Lets take the long way, Uncle Z would say. Pass by a friends. Pick that up, take this there.

Whenever Julian asked about his parents, Uncle Z would brush him off and send him for a pack of cigarettes or a bottle wrapped in newspaper. Most days it was the bottle. Then he asked if Julian was getting any pocket money but the sisters only gave him money enough for his lunch. There was never any need for additional pocket money since he went straight from the home to school and back. The next day Uncle Z was not waiting. Julian stood at the school gates until everyone was out and till it was dark. He cried all the way home. Day after that he saved his lunch money till evening. He got out of class with the bell and waited at the gate. The watchman asked him what the problem was, and, that if he wanted to wait for his father on the bench, instead of standing at the gate, he could. “He’s not my father.” The watchman stared at him in silence.

“Uncle Z is not my father,” he tells me as if I had refuted the claim.

The man said they looked alike. That they had a resemblance only fathers and their sons possess. They even walked the same. Julian says that the walk was because he copied Uncle Zs walk. They did not have the same walk. As he was sitting there, watching his classmates, he spotted Uncle Z and ran to him. Life was good after all.

He told Uncle Z about money as they walked to their after school rendezvous. That he had saved and would keep saving incase Uncle Z was ever in need of money. Uncle Z smiled at him for the very first time. He seemed proud and that made little Julian happy. When the bottle was bought that day, Julian got to sip. Uncle Z said you never buy and not drink. It was an unwritten rule. Julian says he felt his throat melt. He choked on the bottle and almost spilled the contents. He thought he had died. Uncle Z was smiling at him. Who would smile when someone was on their last breath? Youll get better at it. No other word was spoken that evening.

Julian was sure Uncle Z would like it if he could have the bottle and not choke so he began going on solo rehearsal sessions the very next day. He rushed from school during lunch hour and got a wrapped bottle for himself. He felt queasy after a few sips and lay down to rest for a little while. The first thing Julian remembers of waking up after his first real drink is being butt naked. The breeze had made his buttocks numb. It was dark, save for a security light in the distance and he felt he was beginning a new chapter of his life. Your own Garden of Eden, dripping with water of life, I say. I don’t think he gets it.

He ran to the home and told the sisters he had been robbed. He even cried. Those sisters were suckers for tears he says. A little waterworks and they let you go to your room to pray and be on your own. They let him have a lot of alone time and that is what fueled his first few months of drinking. He would come straight from school to the liquor store and to his room. The sisters found empty liquor bottles under his bed when they were cleaning a few months later. He was outside, 11 years old and drunk as a skunk. They prayed for him and he promised to stop. But that is not a promise you make when you are intoxicated. The next time he was busted, he ran away. He went to the Kilonzos but they refused to take him in. They told him that his father was alive and had sent them threats when they had him. “Find your father Julian,” Mr. Kilonzo had said with his hand on his shoulder, like a father would talk to a broken son. The yellow gates closed.

He refuses to talk about who his father is, but I have a feeling I already know.

The streets accepted him at age 16, with the clothes on his back and a jacket that was two sizes too big. He sleeps in pavements and begs from passersby when the sun is out.

“What do you do with the money you get?
He smiles and shows me a bottle wrapped in newspaper.

Alcoholics Anonymous

Alcoholism is a disease. It is characterized by drinking uncontrollably and being preoccupied with alcohol. Everyone I ask about it quickly becomes a child caught stealing sugar from the sugar tin. Talking of they can control their intake, as if their throats come with an alcohol meter and an alarm that goes off “Out of control, Sir. The intake is out of our control”. People who accept the fact that they have the disease seek the help of Alcoholics Anonymous, or, as was the case of Jackson Biko’s Drunk, are forced to go to rehab after dire and life-changing circumstances. The idea of AA is to have its members stay sober and help other alcoholics achieve sobriety.

This is not the fellowship kind of AA.

Drinking is like a rite of passage for some of us. We leave home for campus knowing only water can nourish our souls. Some of us can’t tell when this notion is Jesus’d to become drunken nights and indecent partying. Some started way before leaving the parents’ houses. Some sipped for the first time after a bitter breakup and for some, life happened.

And so I am starting a series called “Alcoholics Anonymous; Teens and Twenties”. I have seen my fair share of drunks the last four years, coupled with kith and kin who enjoy the frequent couple of glasses a night. I have friends who have lived with and dated drunks, have taken care of and bathed them and even shared meals with them. What I have not done is talk to them about their drunkenness. So lets.
I want to know who gave you that first sip. I hear some fathers prefer to give their sons’ the first glass. A father-son moment that they will hold dear. I want to know who gives the girls their first sip. Do moms slip a glass into unsuspecting hands in the kitchens and whisper not to tell your fathers? I want to know if you walked into a bar yourself, or if someone pushed you in. If you were dragged in screaming your lungs out to leave as soon as they let you free, and if you really did leave or decided it wasn’t as appalling as you thought.

Did life happen? Who broke you? What broke you? If something happened to you that forced you to your first sip, tell me about it. I want to know if it was something sad or joyous that gave you the opportunity, or neither. Was a glass just lying unattended on a table at home or did you ask a cousin to get you a ka-quarter during the memorial service of a great grandfather you didn’t even remember?
I want girls who prefer scotch to whiskey and I want to know why. How do you pour scorching scotch down your throat and comment on its sweetness? Girls who say “I only drink this because that’s what I like” and have a better reason than ‘That’s what you like’. How do you speak immediately after that whiskey burns your oesophagus?

Guys who have tried to sleep with girls using alcohol, I want your thoughts as well. If you have tried this, and it has worked. Was it before or after midnight? Was her heart broken or was she playing you for that shot glass? Do you know? I want to know what makes you believe that talking to her will not make her want to get to know you so you need to have her intoxicated first so she may like you. I also want to know of times when it did not really work out as well as you had hoped. What do you think you did wrong that if you had the same girl, on the same table with the same glass, you would do differently and it would all work out for you?

Girls, have you tried to sleep with a guy using alcohol?

I want to talk to people who recognize they suffer from alcoholism and are doing something about it. People who have attended AA meetings and felt better. What parts of yourself did you share in those meetings? Did you talk about an uncle who modelled you in the ways of one for the road or did you just look at how you would turn out and decided to leave the bottle at the bar? I would also like to talk to people who have not and have no plans to seek help, though they know they have a problem with alcohol. People who depend on the daily drink like mass but will do nothing about it because they are comfortable living with their palms soaked in drink.

I’d love to talk to a girl with a drunkard for a father and a boy with a maternal drunk. Were there nights that you thought of running away and leaving them to their misery? Were there nights you actually ran away? I would like to talk to people with siblings that drink. Younger siblings who you can tell nothing to because they are spoilt rotten and older siblings who you cannot tell anything because you are young. I would like to speak to sober men who crave the drink often and sober men who have never thought of drinking. To men with drunkard wives who come home at 3.00am and want hot bathing water and a meal. What’s that like?

I also want to talk to people who are very happy in their drink. Women who only drink expensive wine after work because they can afford it. Women who only date men that drink expensively because that means those men will “take care of them properly”. I want to talk to people who party every night and get to work or school by 8.00 am, and people who can only go clubbing on Friday, rest on Saturday, go to church on Sunday and work on Monday.

AA is an international fellowship that uses a 12-step program of spiritual and character development. This will be a different kind of AA. First, this is no house so there will be no steps. We are not a fellowship, we have not gone international and I am no pastor meaning I know nothing about spiritual development. I know of spirits though, so if you drink them as well, hit me up. This will be a kind of AA where you speak your story to the masses and your say is the final say. We will not interrupt you and say “Aii buana Mango, I was there and that’s not how it happened”. Where we sign no register. Where we charge zero joining fee total and where your name will not be published if anonymity is how you roll. We respect your decisions here. You can share the story you want and keep the ones you are not quite comfortable with. You will be called anything you wish; a color, a city or your favorite thing. Your identity will be in the dark, concealed better that the emperor’s nakedness.

Email me at [mirawuor@gmail.com or WhatsApp at +254729288583. Let’s talk drink.

Cheers to a lovely 2019.