Commercial break! From the archives. A drink to die for

It’s late in the afternoon, our hero here has been running his skinny legs off in the hood with other little brats in the hot sun. He rocks in home thirsty. He knows he can only quench his thirst with the waters from kanjo. (This was way before maji of nai became mud of nai. Hakukuwa na keringet hizo enzi. Kwanza mwenyewe sidhani alikuwa amezaliwa)

So anyway, chemical formula H20 is the only thing available. Juice (Treetop or otherwise) never existed in our house. We only saw that coloured commodity when we went a-visiting or when visitors came home (I never needed to be told twice this statement “modo, run and buy juice”).

I walk in and check the fridge. Don’t know why. I already know all I’ll find is nothing more than bags upon bags of boiled githeri waiting to be unleashed for the next 15 suppers and lunches. I also know I’ll find the occasional nyake and fathe’s soup in a twisted old juice plastic bottle (compe ya Treetop). Twisted, because my fathe had this habit of putting hot soup in jerricans and replacing the cap before it can cool. Of course, laws of physics would apply much to the chagrin of my mum. (Hizi juice bottle lakini zilikuwa zinatoka wapi? SHUVAAA NA NDEVEEE! [remember this homie?] Hmm!)

As I lazily browse through the contents of the fridge I notice another juice bottle. This one isn’t twisted (like Wambui’s, a chick of mtaani mzushi, knickers) and like the one next to it with fathe’s liquid gold. In fact the contents don’t even look anything like soup.

Could it be? Oh boy, it is.

JUICE!

My heart beats at 144 beats per half second in excitement. I close the fridge door quickly and open again sloooooowly, thinking perhaps I saw my own things. I breath hard. I open the door. Heavenly music plays. A glow of light (it’s only the fridge-light, lakini…) YES, it’s still there.

I listen for any movement. Nothing stirs. I know mathe is upstairs asleep so I must be quick. If I’m busted, I’ll be caned close to high heaven with a stick I’ll be forced to go get myself.

I quickly dump the NCC waters in my glass.

James Bond music checks in.

I open the door stealthily. Sean Connery eat that. I grab the juice bottle, carefully, like in those movies with jewel thieves. I open the cap. Pssst! I cough to mask the noise. Palms are sweating. I listen for noises. Nothing. I then proceed to put a generous share of juice in my glass. I replace cap. (Cut me some slack. I was still a toi and anyway I was behaving like James Bond’s villains who never think far, I didn’t think the level would be noticed. Who cared? So long as nimekunywa juo. I’ll be beaten while happy)

I return the bottle pale pale. I even wipe away the fingerprints (CSI Nairobi, eat shit).

I then bound outside and for five seconds admire the drink in my hand. Any second longer and you never know who will pop in.

I smack my lips.

I then proceed to take the hugest sip (if I’m busted at least I’ll have onjad like half)

Here I am readying my taste buds for the sweet sensation that is about to follo__

WHAT THE FUCK! (ok, I didn’t say “fuck” coz those days it was punishable by death with the cane/belt)

PTUUUUUUUUUU!

I spat out that s**t faster than I had gulped it. What crap is this?

I then remember my mathe’s words. (I’ll translate coz not everyone will understand the tongue spoken…mother tongue…hehe)

“No one should touch my mwarubaini drink.”

It repeats itself in my head.

“No one should touch my mwarubaini drink.”

“No one should touch my mwarubaini drink.”

“No one should touch my mwarubaini drink.”

My mathe had the night before boiled some mwarubaini (neem) leaves given to her (by some herbalist) because of her sickness and her well-being. Goodness gracious.

YEEECH!

My head spins but I can’t faint (it’s a health-drink)

I wash my mouth with water. Nothing. Soap. A bit of hope. OMO. Now that removed all the madoadoa.

THAT, was the worst drink I had ever tasted in MY LIFE! YEECH!

Wachana na kina sijui drink gani mnaita health drink, that one could kill anything creepy, crawly and unwanted in your body. One sip, kwisha.

I was through with taking coloured drinks not served at neighbours’ houses or in the presence of visitors.