MEN'S CORNER: Viroba or no viroba, Joni remains drunk

What you need to know:

Yeah, there’re times a man feels like getting sloshed, yet his wallet is so thin he cannot afford even the Kasichana—the 200mils Konyangi bottle. The Kasichana costs a whole Sh4,000 while the 100mils kiroba of the same brand was only Sh1,200.

The disappearance of the spirits in sachets is messing up economy drinkers, including wa Muyanza who, once in a while, feels like kutoa gesi (drinkers’ nice expression for “getting drunk”).

Yeah, there’re times a man feels like getting sloshed, yet his wallet is so thin he cannot afford even the Kasichana—the 200mils Konyangi bottle. The Kasichana costs a whole Sh4,000 while the 100mils kiroba of the same brand was only Sh1,200.

And there’s the strong belief that, measure by measure (the uniform35% Alc Vol labeling notwithstanding), the sachet’s contents are more potent than those of its bottled cousin.

“They make viroba stronger so that we small people can get drunk quickly and effectively and go home,” Joni, our neighbourhood’s leading drunkard used to say.

However, the guy wasn’t sincere in the bit about “going home after getting drunk”. For, the truth is, Joni would normally drink until he had no money left in his pocket—or when everybody he knew said no to his request for “at least one kiroba”.

It was rare to see this guy sober. It’s like he feared he’d die if he allowed himself to be in a sober state. A case of alcohol dependence syndrome (ADS), maybe?

That is, a condition in which a man becomes virtually helpless when alcohol dries up in their bloodstream. Uneasy, sort of confused, irritable and at times, trembling hands.

Give them at least one beer–or, a kiroba or two—and they’d be okay…type on the keyboard, hold a pen steadily and manage to, say, put their signature on a document.

Our Joni uses every opportunity to express his displeasure towards what he calls “today’s cruel government”.

“Can somebody tell me: if we drink viroba as others drink, Safari, Serengeti, Tusker or some other bottled stuff we can’t afford, why is the government bothered?” you’ve heard him ask Soka, this guy in our neighbourhood who has maintained a regular boozing habit despite the hard times everybody seems to be going through.

Soka is also unhappy over the viroba ban, for he used to partake the sachet stuff now and then when, as he’d put it, feeling lowdown. “There’re times beers don’t tell me anything…I’d take several and feel like I’m drinking pure water,” he’d say while waiting to be served with a kiroba to complement, say, five Safaris he has taken.

However, Soka, unlike Joni, says he understands why the government had to ban viroba.

“There were too many fake viroba all over the country… some of them harmful to drinkers, especially those who don’t eat enough food,” he had explained to Joni.

He also talks of the easy access of viroba, be they genuine of fake.

No serious roadside vendor failed to include a box or two of viroba amongst his wide array of petty merchandize.

The bodaboda guys, would be seen sucking leisurely from sachets of one brand of kiroba or other while waiting for customers! It’s no wonder, road accidents involving motorbike taxis have been topping the Bongo road carnage charts over the years.

Now, you had come to the conclusion Joni had stopped drinking because lately, you’ve been seeing him sober a number of times.

He must have kissed goodbye to booze, thanks to the viroba ban, you’ve said to yourself. But how wrong you were!

Today, as you partake of your usual small Castros at this neighbourhood grocery, Joni saunters in and walks straight to the counter. Says hi to you and the akaunta.

After a few niceties he requests from you at least one. You say okay.

The akaunta gives him a Kisichana, which is what he said he’d take in lieu his beloved “dead and buried” viroba.

A barmaid kindly serves him where he has taken a seat, close to the counter. Your conversation with a fellow drinker is soon interrupted by the barmaid who had served Joni.

Patting you on the shoulder and pointing at the fellow, she says: “Look at your friend!”

The guy, who has taken a little less than half of the contents of the Kisichana, has passed out, his head hanging backwards above the plastic chair’s headrest. “How come he is kaput, yet hasn’t even finished that little bottle?” you say.

“He was far from sober when he arrived here,” says the barmaid, “he drinks some locally made spirits these days.”

Well, well, you tell yourself, it looks like, viroba or no viroba, people will still get drunk—cheaply.