Campus Life; Good Boy Gone Bad: #2-03……..Blame it on the Father!

The rugby players’ idea of celebration was this sort of semi-exclusive bar with Lingala music playing on the background.  There were nine of us including two ladies, Chema and Charlie’s girlfriend. The table was filled with two crates of beer, Chema insisted on taking a soft drink while the only other lady in the group had her exotic brand of Smirnoff vodka stand out from the rest.

As bottles were uncorked in quick succession, the talk centred on the game just played, in which case I made general comments. But it was not just the game that I was having problem on, I was also having a problem consuming the bottles of beer on our table. I had not yet classified myself as a ‘drinker’ since the little amounts of alcohol I consumed were normally during rave sessions where I would take one or two bottles that would keep my dance moves in shape all night.

Having drowned my second bottle, Charlie realized that I was trailing the group, as each was now on their fifth bottle. He knew how to charge me enough so he decided to go for a bet. The talk had now centered on the Manchester United and Manchester City game on the TV. I did not know much about European football, so when I was duped that for every goal Man United scored, I would take two bottles and for every goal Man City scored Charlie would have to take two bottles.

It seemed fair enough as Man City displayed a superb game for a while until when the first goal was scored in the 30^th minute.

“Well, Rain these are for you,” Charlie said as he pop-opened two bottles of beer.

“You don’t have to take them,” Chema said looking worried.

“Don’t worry my dear,” I retorted between mouthfuls. “I can manage.”

My consolation came ten minutes later when United’s goal was equalized; Charlie without hesitation opened two bottles for himself. By half time, the match was still 1-1.  During half time, Charlie took his time to cuddle his girlfriend who had been smoking, throughout the game. The other guys, complained about the analysis of the match by the commentators. We chatted with Chema as I convinced her to taste my beer. When she tasted it, she immediately spat it out.

“Rain, it’s bitter! Yuck,” Chema cried out.

“Well, that’s the first taste, the second one blends with the tongue and everything flows thereafter,” I said. Chema shook her head, as she pouted her lower lip.

Chema’s reaction reminded me of my first alcoholic taste. My father was not saved then, and his love for the bottle had clearly taken up his parental roles. I was about five years old and Mum had asked me to go for him, when my eldest sister had refused to do her homework. I found dad in his favourite pub, sharing a hearty story with his friends. I went and whispered what I had been told.

“Hey, stop whispering! Say it like a man,” my dad grumbled out, clearly drunk. “What are you saying about your mother?”  he asked. A little shaken I told him about mum’s request.

“No, you are my son,” he paused for a while then proudly rubbed on my tiny frame, indicating to his friends how proud he was of his loins. He then continued, “Let your mother deal with her daughter, as for you, you can stay here.” He then pulled me up to his lap, and when I turned his bottle of Whisky to try and look at what was inscribed on it, he opened it up and offered a sip on the bottle top. Immediately the fluid made contact with my tongue, it burned on my tongue; I spat on his shirt and cried out for soda.

When the match resumed, Man united scored two goals in quick succession and four bottles stood in front of me. There were two options, to give up and probably be ridiculed the following day or maintain my ego and drown the four bottles of malt beer in front of me. The four bottles I had taken already were taking control of my senses.

“Let’s go,” Chema announced, clearly seeing that the task ahead was too much for me.

“Why do you want to leave? When he has lots of beer on his table?” Charlie’s girlfriend said the first thing loudly before blowing smoke out of her nostrils.

“Yeah Rain has to complete his part of the bargain,” Charlie said supporting his girlfriend.

Chema had already stood up, but I pulled her to sit down and then reached for my beer. I drenched the first bottle in less than five minutes, as Charlie and company applauded. I was halfway on the sixth bottle when a fight broke out. Before I could grasp what was going on, the alcohol had taken control of not only my brain but also my vision. By the time I blacked out, I saw a lady and a ‘gentleman’ in heated argument.