There is something I need to say… The year was 2003. Kenya had a new president. Hope was in the air. Roads somehow looked brighter. Parents spoke about “a new era” with the same seriousness pastors use when preaching about the New Jerusalem. And somewhere in the middle of all that national optimism, a skinny Form One boy, fresh from joining high school and still figuring high school life, was unknowingly preparing for his first encounter with alcohol. Now, before some theologian with a notebook and a concern for doctrine starts panicking, relax. This is not a celebration of drunkenness. This is anthropology. This is field research. This is a Kenyan coming-of-age story involving chapatis, uncles, suspicious plastic bottles, and very poor decisions.
That same year, by the grace of God and the sacrifice of very determined teachers, I had also joined Mang’u High School, yes, THE Mang’u High School. Currently with a Boeing 737 casually parked where all can see including those on the highway aboard Benjo on their way from Kithimani. Back then, people in the village spoke about Mang’u the way villagers in action movies speak about Area 51 🚀. Half school, half military base, half aviation academy, half government secret project. To be honest, even I was not fully sure what happened there. But because I had joined a “big school,” I suddenly became important at family gatherings and other places. And I get it. It was a prestigious school. But at the end of it in a famous speech by one Tr. Njoroge our geography Tr. he constantly reminded us that one day… the umbrella will be removed.
Anyway, we had gone for one of those legendary family reunions. The kind where goats lose constitutional rights. Aunties supervise sufurias the size of baptism pools. Children run around grassy compounds with untied sweaters. Somewhere in the background, a radio struggles to choose between rhumba and gospel music. But there was always another meeting happening parallel to the official family gathering: the men’s meeting. You would see them disappear in batches leaving the MC looking at the watch and monitoring the sun’s movement uneasily. My uncles. Older cousins. The “big boys.” They would leave looking very normal and return… different. Not sick. Not angry. Just unusually happy. Too happy.
I still remember the image vividly. There was a slight slope from the shopping center leading back home, and these men would descend it shoulder-to-shoulder like a disciplined platoon returning from a successful mission. Spread across the road like an Avengers sequel nobody funded. Laughing loudly. Pointing unnecessarily. Repeating stories that were not funny enough to deserve a second retelling. One would suddenly stop walking just to explain something nobody had asked. Another would slap someone’s shoulder hard enough to dislocate destiny. And all of them had that look. That look of men who had discovered temporary joy in a glass.
As innocent high school boys, we admired it. Not necessarily the alcohol itself, we didn’t even understand it yet, but the atmosphere around it. The brotherhood. The mystery. The “manhood” of it all. They looked fearless. Older. Important. That’s the thing about many vices. They rarely introduce themselves as destruction. They first appear as belonging. Coolness! Trendy…
Eventually evening came. People had eaten enough meat to end medical dreams. Introductions were done. Parents had now entered Phase Two of the gathering: discussing politics, school fees, why sugar had become expensive and how the first year of President Kibaki’s rule was. And somewhere in the shadows of the night, we, the young initiates of bondage, were introduced to alcohol. Ladies and gentlemen… my first drink.
There are names I shall mention today to shame the devil. The first suspect was something called Safari Cane. And for some weird reason I cannot forget the advertisement that was always airing on KBC – The best cane liquor, as smooth as it gets! An entire boatie of it. Let me even ask “did boatie apply to cheap liquors ama hio ni ya 65 years aged Pekee?” To this day, I still don’t know where the “cane” was in that thing. Sugarcane is sweet. This liquid tasted like industrial suffering. It was bitter enough to remove generational joy. It’s like some blue mouthwash I won’t mention whose ice mint flavour is crazy! That’s thing wears and tears even the plastic cap after a few days. Wueh! Then there was another criminal operating in plastic bottles called Vienna… or Verona… or Violence. I cannot remember clearly because trauma affects memory. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. And yet… I continued drinking it. The devil is a liar. It’s crazy how we do disgusting, painful things to please people or to fit in. Yooo!
Human beings are fascinating creatures. God can create a body capable of fighting infections, healing wounds, and producing emotions, then that same body willingly swallows liquid that tastes like battery acid because older cousins said, “Usijali bro… utaizoea.” The lies. The deception. The fellowship of folly.
And slowly, sip after sip, something changed. I became talkative. Now, for context, I already talk too much naturally. But alcohol unlocked premium features. Suddenly I was hosting a TED Talk nobody requested. I told stories. I told more stories. Then I told stories about the stories. And this is where things became dangerous.
You see, because I had just joined Mang’u High School, the family gathering had become an unofficial press conference. Or so my drunken stupor made me think. Everyone had questions. “Is it true there’s an airplane in the school?” ✈️ “Does it actually fly or it’s just parked there for decoration?” “So wewe now… you know how to fly?” “Can students just wake up and decide to become pilots during games time?” 😂 “Do you people wear uniforms or flight suits?” “Have you touched the cockpit?” “Can you land the plane in Kutus if there’s an emergency?” At some point somebody was one follow-up question away from asking me how to get to London from Kenya Airways.
And there I was, slightly intoxicated, unnecessarily confident, and now representing the entire aviation department of Mang’u High School like an underqualified government spokesperson. My storytelling became elite. Suddenly the Scouts camping trip at Ngong Forest sounded like military selection training. Music festivals nazo!!! Couldn’t stop ranting about my girlfriend from Meru from an equally prestigious school. Simple orientation stories became classified operations. School parade became Air Force graduation. I narrated things with the seriousness of a Discovery Channel documentary narrator. “At exactly 0600 hours… we assembled near the field…” 💀
You could not stop me. I explained tents nobody asked about. Campfires. Scout drills. The weather. Probably even the emotional journey of mosquitoes in Ngong Forest. And the worst part about drunkenness is this: the drunk person always thinks he is making perfect sense. In my mind, I was articulate, profound, charismatic. Meanwhile my cousins were simply watching a Form One boy passionately explain aviation concepts he himself did not fully understand. In a slurry voice, probably mixing camping stories with music festival tales.
People were laughing. Some because the stories were entertaining. Others because I was clearly becoming one with the alcohol. But honestly, looking back now, I think many of us were not necessarily chasing alcohol. We were chasing significance. That feeling of finally being seen as “grown.” That moment older people stop calling you “kijana” and start inviting you into adult conversations. Sadly, many young men discover substances long before they discover identity. So the bottle becomes a shortcut to confidence. A temporary badge of belonging. Liquid courage.
But eventually you learn something important: anything that must control you for you to feel bold is probably not freedom. And as I grew older, studied more, listened to more broken stories, buried more people, and watched alcohol quietly sit at the crime scene of ruined destinies, I began understanding something deeper. Alcohol is rarely just alcohol. Sometimes it is loneliness in liquid form. Sometimes it is inherited pain with branding. Sometimes it is insecurity with ice cubes. Sometimes it is celebration that overstayed. And most times… it becomes spiritual bondage disguised as recreation.
The Bible says,
“Because we belong to the day, we must live decent lives for all to see. Don’t participate in the darkness of wild parties and drunkenness, or in sexual promiscuity and immoral living, or in quarreling and jealousy. Instead, clothe yourself with the presence of the Lord Jesus Christ. And don’t let yourself think about ways to indulge your evil desires.”
Romans 13:13-14 NLT
And another verse that perfectly describes some weekends in Nairobi says,
“Don’t be drunk with wine, because that will ruin your life. Instead, be filled with the Holy Spirit, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among yourselves, and making music to the Lord in your hearts.”
Ephesians 5:18-19 NLT
Notice the contrast. One spirit empties you. The other fills you. One removes restraint. The other produces self-control. One makes you loud temporarily. The other transforms you eternally. What’s interesting is, as you see from that verse, drunkenness causes singing, or there is an intresting relationship between drunkenness and singing/ song. One is to the Lord and the other is to other gods that lead to other regrettable decisions which one realised once sobriety kicks in the next morning.
And maybe that is why people chase bottles so passionately. Because every human being is searching for something to fill the silence. Some fill it with alcohol. Some with money. Some with women. Some with applause. Some with endless scrolling on TikTok at 2:14 AM while claiming they are “just checking one video.” But every substitute eventually reveals its emptiness.
And perhaps the funniest thing about my first drinking experience is this: I was trying so hard to act grown… while behaving exactly like a child. That is usually how sin works. It advertises maturity, then slowly reduces people into versions of themselves they barely recognize. Anyway. That’s enough storytelling for today before some cousin remembers that camping story and sues me for emotional damages.
Another story from a man still under construction.
Grace & Peace ✌️