Alcohol Is the Problem

After high school, my sixth job was as a bartender at a small pub in Eastlands.

If you don't know what a pub bartender does, I honestly don't know how to explain it to Gen-Z's. Back then, we didn't have those fancy cocktail shakers and flavored syrups. We had glasses. Real glasses. The kind that got washed in one bucket of water that served the entire night. We poured drinks, collected money, and listened to drunk men confess their deepest secrets.

The pay was three hundred bob per night plus tips.

One Friday, everything changed.

---

That Friday started like any other Friday.

The pub was called "Sunset Bar." Funny name because we never saw the sunset. The windows were painted black so the police couldn't see inside.

I arrived at 6 PM. The owner—a man called Papa John—was already drunk.

"Wewe! Bartender! Lete pombe!"

"Papa, you're not even—"

"I'M THE OWNER! I CAN DRINK!"

"Fine."

I gave him a glass of something brown. He drank it. He ordered another. He drank that too. By 7 PM, he was unconscious behind the counter.

That's when the trouble started.

---

The door burst open.

A woman walked in.

She was tall. Fierce. Wearing a dress that could stop traffic. Her eyes were scanning the room like she was looking for someone to bury.

"WAPI YULE MWANAUME WANGU?"

The pub went silent.

Everyone knew this woman. Her name was Mama Njeri. She was famous for three things:

1. Her husband was a serial cheater.

2. She had a voice that could shatter glass.

3. She was not afraid to use her fists.

"Where is he?" she repeated.

"Who, Mama Njeri?"

"DON'T PLAY WITH ME! WHERE IS MY HUSBAND?"

I had no idea where her husband was. But I knew one thing—he was definitely not at Sunset Bar. Everyone knew not to bring their girlfriend to Sunset Bar. Mama Njeri would find out.

But the drunk men in the pub decided to help.

"I saw him at the other bar!"

"Which other bar?"

"Pale Kwa Ngombe!"

"He's with a woman!"

"SHORT WOMAN! WEARING RED!"

"WITH A BIG—"

"STOP!" I shouted.

Too...