My comrades are on drugs. They’re hopped up on ecstasy, hyped by vodka, topped up on Cannabis Sativa, puffing on sheesha and acting like a bunch of marauding dim-wits on a midterm break from the Mathare Institute of the Insanely Profane. It is disgraceful and makes me really furious.
You may want to know why I’m concerned, and I’ll tell you. According to my own uncorroborated research, these campus half-wits are already dangerously low on the brain cell count. Why they would embark on a mission to fry the remaining few brain cells by taking drugs is a question not even Mutahi Ngunyi is in a position to answer.
My old man Grandpa Richard recalls that in the halcyon days, when decency prevailed, comrades only enjoyed a few tipples at the student center to cut loose after a laborious week. Beer was sacrosanct, and a drink was never imbibed on Monday afternoons. Juxtapose this with what is currently the case at our campuses. Students are ever drinking; you’d think they are canvassing for their livers to be named employees of the month. They even drink in-between lectures!
For the skint, cheap spirits are their poisons of choice. I haven’t had a chance to taste Satan’s urine, but I am sure it tastes better than these fatal concoctions that are imbibed by my comrades in the name of enjoyment. Enjoyment my foot!
If you host a party in campus and marijuana does not make an attendance, have you really thrown a party? And unlike in the past when people used to smoke it like chimneys, it is now consumed more discreetly in birthday cakes and cookies. Everyone appears calm, shy and reserved at the beginning of house-parties. But as soon as the birthday cake is cut and passed around to unsuspecting guests, the most asinine and vile revelry unfolds on the floor. The madness that ensues is such that you would be forgiven for thinking you’re at an asylum. Elite bong-toting dope fiends go ahead crown it all by inhaling flavoured sheesha.
A word of advice: If you enter a room and find all its occupants glassy-eyed and grinning like Cheshire cats for no reason, kindly bolt the door behind you and run faster than Rudisha. Chances are that those guys have just popped ecstasy pills, a trend that’s really catching on. Girls, beware of date rape by being extra cautious with your drink, as odds are it might be spiked with Rohypnol enough to bring down an African bush elephant.
My comrades say that they need drugs to escape. Grandpa Richard’s million dollar question is—Escape from what? The fact that you converted a six figure HELB loan to vodka in one weekend? Escape from the fact that you forgot to swallow morning after pills last month? Oh, please! Spare us the malarkey!
Booze is their wine, weed cookies are their sacraments, and the peddler is their priest. All in all, inebriation is their religion.