'BOTTLED' LESSONS

Confessions of a 'Functional Drunk Scholar' :)

The first time I tasted alcohol, I knew without a flicker of doubt that this thing was made for me. I was born for it, built for it, crafted and perfectly moulded for it . It was as if the universe had whispered, “This one…this one will understand the true art of intoxication.”

For starters , let’s set the taste aside for a second . This wasn’t the kind of taste you savor, more like one you survive. It stung oh, it stung as it snaked its fiery way down my throat. That sting hit hard, the kind of burn that makes your face forget how to behave. And that smell? Lord have mercy.
At the time, I was thirteen, just a naïve little soul in grade six. My parents were what I’d call professional party enthusiasts. They didn’t just attend parties; they lived them. Every Friday night, without fail, they’d vanish in a cloud of perfume and laughter, only to crawl back home around 3 a.m. I used to wonder what they found so fascinating about staying out that late, but now that I’ve had a taste of the so-called “life of the party,” I get it. Still, it’s hilarious how the same people who once danced till dawn now call me frantically at 6 p.m. asking,

“Uko wapi? Party gani hiyo hadi saa hii?” Like, excuse me? The hypocrisy is almost poetic.

Sometimes they’d stumble back home with half-finished bottles, the magical elixirs that had fueled their midnight adventures, and attempt to hide them in their room. And I say ‘hide’ with all the sarcasm in the world, because if you’ve ever met a curious teenager, you know we’re basically undercover detectives with zero chill. A bottle peeking out from behind folded clothes? Please. That’s practically an invitation.

Backstory:

Remember those days when African parents would suddenly decide that screen time was the devil and confiscate your phone like they were saving your soul? It was one of those days. My phone had been unfairly imprisoned in their room, and as fate would have it, the moment they left for work, the mission began. Their room, now unguarded, was fair game.
So there I was, rifling through their things like a mini FBI agent on a rescue mission ;operation “Free My Phone.” And just as I was about to give up, something shiny caught my eye. A green bottle top glimmered mischievously from behind the closet. Curiosity mode: activated. I pulled it out like I’d just discovered buried treasure.
There it was—a Glenfiddich 12-Year-Old Single Malt Scotch Whiskey. Elegant. Regal. Mysterious. It practically winked at me.
“Kumbe hii ndio soda ya watu wakubwa,” I thought, half in awe, half in disbelief. And then, as if possessed by a spirit of adventure (or stupidity), another thought crept in , what if I just… tasted it?
And so, I did.
I twisted the cap slowly, the soft pop echoing like a guilty secret. That strong, woody scent hit me instantly, harsh yet intriguing, like the cologne of a dangerous man your mother warned you about. Still, I didn’t back down. I took a sip, just one, and before the burn could even settle, panic rushed in. What if they noticed? What if they counted the drops? (African parents and their sixth sense, you know.) I quickly sealed the bottle and returned it with the precision of a thief in a heist movie checking, rechecking, and adjusting the clothes until everything looked exactly as it had before.

Let’s be honest, a single sip wouldn’t have done much damage anyway. But at thirteen, that tiny taste felt revolutionary. As the liquid slid down my throat, I felt this strange, almost electric euphoria—a warm pulse of excitement blooming in my chest. I wasn’t tipsy, not even close, but there was something magical in that forbidden gulp. It wasn’t just whiskey,it was curiosity, rebellion, and the first wild whisper of freedom.

The second time came right after KCPE , that glorious season when you’re finally free from books, teachers, and endless exams. Freedom, at last. The air itself felt different, like even the wind knew I had no more timetables to follow. I was home, idle, buzzing with energy and curiosity, armed with the dangerous blessing of too much free time.
Days stretched endlessly, and boredom quickly became the devil’s playground. That’s how friendship hangouts became the heartbeat of our days, the one thing everyone seemed to live for. The phrase “Let’s link up” had never sounded sweeter. I mean, studying was officially deleted from my vocabulary. Life was now about vibes. nothing more, nothing less.
At that age, we were still young, still wild with wonder. You know that phase where you suddenly feel like an adult just because school’s over? You start walking differently, talking differently , chest out, confidence up. During our hangouts, there were always a few bottles lying around, mysterious and exciting. Don’t be deceived, these bottles were not meant for casual sipping. We used to do what we proudly called chugging. And when I say chug, I mean CHUG—no gentle sipping, no testing the waters. Just pure, uncalculated bravery in a bottle. The kind where you tilt your head back and pray your ancestors are watching proudly. One unlucky soul ,unanimously chosen ,would be crowned “the victim” and forced to down the drink as the rest of us counted down like spectators at the Olympics.
It was reckless. It was stupid. It was fun.
And when my turn came? Oh, I went all in. I gulped that burning liquid like my entire life depended on it. It wasn’t about the taste anymore but more about glory. The longer you lasted before giving up, the more respect you earned. It was a bizarre competition, but one that made perfect sense to thirteen-year-olds with nothing better to do.
We laughed till our stomachs hurt, danced till our throats went dry, and talked about everything and nothing. Those were moments that felt eternal.

Now, allow me to draw you to the exact moment where i knew i was definitely built for the bottle. Even after all that ,all the drinking and shouting ,I would still find my way back home like a soldier returning from war. And the moment my eyes landed on that gate, boom! Magical sobriety. Just like that.
Ushaiskia the art of maintaining? I was a professional. No smell. No suspicious behaviour. No wobbling. Just calm, composed, angelic me walking in as if I’d spent the whole day revising Mathematics. And guess what? I pulled it off not once, not twice, so many times that even I started respecting my own skills.
It was thrilling, more like playing a chess game with fate. A cat-and-mouse chase where the mouse always won. I perfected that art. And you know what’s funny? I was never caught. Not once. At that age? You have to be proud honestly .

If I’m being honest however , I still don’t know whether my parents were just in deep denial or simply chose peace. Maybe they suspected something but decided to keep quiet. Or maybe ,and this is more likely ,I was just too good at playing saint. See, since time immemorial, I had always been the brains
My assignments? Always done. My room? Spotless. My clothes? Folded with the precision of a boutique display.
You know what that does? It gives your parents too much confidence in you. They start believing you’re incapable of sin. And that, my friend, is where true freedom lies. You begin to thrive under that trust because you know you’re the last person they’d ever suspect of mischief.
So yes — I was their sweet little angel in public, but a certified devil in a sheep’s clothing behind the scenes. (I really hope they never see this, by the way.)
And that’s just always been me — even through high school. Pure perfection . The kind that teachers quoted and parents praised . Always neat and polite ; armed with grades so clean they practically shone . But beneath that angelic glow ? A certified strategist of low-key mischief. A silent operator ,halo in public , heist mentality in private . The kind of soul who prays before sinning and still gets away with it .

Then came University. Oh, campus ,the place they never warn you is equal parts heaven, chaos, and self-discovery. It’s like being handed the keys to your own tiny kingdom: freedom at its finest. No parents, no curfews, no one to ask why you’re eating ugali at 2 a.m. or why your laundry pile now looks like a mountain range. You plan your own day, or at least pretend to “because somehow, 90% of that “plan” ends up being vibes.

And listen, if I ever thought I’d tasted alcohol before, campus was the universe’s way of saying, “Sweetheart, that was just communion.” Here, the real thing hits different. Clubbing till late or sometimes drinking right in the house with the boys. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been “outside” since . You know those nights that start with “just one drink” and somehow end with you giving life advice to strangers at 3 a.m.? Yeah, those. And honestly, I won’t lie it was nothing but fun. Wild, chaotic fun. But beyond the hangovers and the blurry memories, those nights taught me more about life than any textbook ever could.

Maybe alcohol isn’t the villain we make it out to be. Because through liquor, I’ve met some of the most genuine souls ,people who, under dim club lights and bad decisions, say the kindest things. Like those random bathroom encounters with girls touching up their makeup and out of nowhere one goes, “Babe, you’re so beautiful.” And the way she says it? So random, so raw, so sincere you almost want to cry into your lip gloss. Women. They’re each other’s best hype men. They’ll gas you up so hard you start believing you’re the main character in everyone’s story.

And that’s the thing about girlhood. It’s sacred in its own chaotic way. Holding hands through packed crowds so no one gets lost. Taking bathroom trips in pairs , even when only one of you actually needs to go. The whining? Oh, the whining. For the record, girls prefer whining for girls. There’s just something safer, warmer, about moving your waist freely with your girl squad than with a random dude who smells like cheap cologne and heartbreak.

I’ve also seen my friends in their funniest, most unfiltered forms and honestly, drunk people deserve their own comedy show. The way they switch from philosophers to dancers to therapists in minutes is pure art. Shoutout to all of you; you’re chaotic masterpieces.
This liquid has a way of turning strangers into soulmates like it’s a social glue. It softens the edges of even the shyest personalities . One minute you’re awkwardly nursing your drink at a corner and the next you’re at a random table shouting “that’s my song” with people whose names you’ll probably forget by morning but whose laughter and vibes you could never forget . And this is so beautiful . For a couple of hours , everyone forgets the stress, the deadlines and the heartbreaks . We just exist ; loud, free and sometimes a little too honest.

Some of my favorite memories live in such moments . In the golden blur of such nights . The shared laughter, sitting on pavements as we wait for Ubers to take us home, the talks about dreams and all the nonsense in equal measure . The random toasts , “to success” , “to bad decisions”, “to the future”, each one more heartfelt than the last .( I’m almost in tears). There’s a certain magic in how alcohol makes you live in the moment . Time slows, music sounds sweeter , every word and every laugh feels so amplified - like life just decided to turn up the volume .

And through all of it , I’ve learnt that alcohol isn’t even more about the getting drunk. It’s about the experiences it unlocks . The laughter that leaves your ribs aching . The confessions that strengthen friendships . And above all the vulnerability that reminds you that it’s okay not to always have it figured out. Pure gold moments; in the soft haze between tipsiness and truth where you catch a glimpse of yourself - freer, happier, lighter. And there , you realize that maybe it’s not even the drink that’s magical, perhaps it’s just you , finally unguarded enough just to be .

But then there are/ were the bads . The nights that started fun and ended in tears you couldn’t explain. The mornings when you woke up with a heavy head and an even heavier heart, scrolling through your messages like you were decoding a crime scene. The loneliness that crept in despite being surrounded by people. The realization that not everyone you party with is your friend . Some are just temporary passengers on your journey. There were heartbreaks too ,the kind that hit harder than any hangover. The “situationships” that started under fairy lights but ended with you blocking each other on Instagram. The false promises, the ghosting, the unspoken goodbyes. And in between, the academics waited, silent and unforgiving. You’d look at your unread notes and wonder when exactly you lost control . Was it the third night out in a row or that one “nap” that lasted the whole day?

But still, somehow someway you begin to learn . You start finding your rhythm ,the delicate balance between fun and focus, laughter and lessons. You realize that campus isn’t just a phase; it’s a mirror. It reflects who you are when no one’s watching. It tests your boundaries, your morals, your capacity to love and forgive - yourself most of all.

And with time, you start appreciating the little things . A clean room after chaos, a night in after too many outs, the comfort of silence after endless music. You realize that growth doesn’t always announce itself; sometimes it shows up quietly ,when you turn down one more drink, when you choose to study instead of scroll, when you finally say no to the same old mistakes.

Don’t get me wrong though . The chaos will always have its charm. Because years from now, when the assignments and exams fade from memory, it’s the nights you laughed till you cried, the random confessions, the wild adventures, and the people who stood by you through it all that will stick.

Campus isn’t just a place ,it’s a …storm. And somewhere between the hangovers and heartbreaks, you learn how to dance in the rain.