I will need more wine!

I know my ancestors are looking at me with faces I can’t tell if are frowned or they are generally ugly. Their wrinkled faces are giving me a look that can only show disgust that their blood runs in my veins. Their minds I am sure are battering with the thoughts of how everything about me is a joke and a waste of their precious time. I have been begging them from 3 am to allow my hole a rest. They spit on my despicable personage and the fat one that has a mouth which looks like the ass of a lizard shouts at me, “a fatal miscalculated blunder to our lineage,” the rest of them nod in agreement.

By now I am perched like a disappearing king. If I make one more visit to the washroom, no one will be able to recognize me again. It’s the meat that makes a person’s face. Once it’s gone, I will be left to explain if I am trying to imitate the skeletons or what is really happening to me.
“What prompts your presence into this territory?” the fat one again, asked, for the fifth time now. He was bustling with some self-importance. The look on his face mocked my deep-seated glow of hope. Seating on that cold toilet seat for two hours humbled my treacherous heart.
“I have come to give atonement for my sins. Here is five kilos of freshly grind flour from the poshomill. The one owned by Wafula. I shall never prepare a meal of chicken and rice. It is sacrilegious. Such obstinate acts shall not be repeated under your watch.”
Eager to please this man, whom I highly doubted to be my real ancestor, because of his pettiness’ I oil his hands with the imondo- gizzard- I can see his greedy mouth dripping saliva. I also hand him the Ritoke Wine-banana- that I was given by my Gusii friends now that busaa from where I come from, can make one go blind. My gifts of atonement shake the knees of the old man Nebuchadnezzar’s style. My groaning’s and pleas for mercies surely descended to his stomach and taste glands.
My strength was restored. The thunder-like rumbles in my stomach cease at once. My hole stops being soar and painful from the excess chilly I had soaked my food with. I swore to my small-self never again to entertain the thought of cooking kienyeji chicken straight from Ebukwala Village with rice. Not after the strenuous journey it had to endure under the makwapa from Machakos Country Bus station. That is and will always be an insult to the Ugali nation. I took a warm shower, wrapped myself in the warm bath robe and poured a glass of wine. As it cascaded down my stomach, I felt what the good book meant by, “a little wine is good for the stomach.” I will surely need more wine after the meal of ugali and chicken.