STONE COLD HAVEN

“Dear God. All I ask you is to let me live for one more day, and I promise to do whatever you want. Just one more day and I promise I’ll never drink again. I don’t want to die like this”

That was my cousin JQ narrating to us his conversation with his God when he woke up in a sewerage gutter somewhere in Kayole estate. He doesn’t recall how he got there, but we all agreed it had to do with consuming copious amounts of alcohol, though the jury’s still out as to whether it was regulation booze or the kumi kumi variety from Mama Pima.

He vaguely remembers sounds of people and one or two cars passing by, but not much else apart from the realisation that he didn’t want to die. It sounds tragic, but his narration of this near death experience was too hilarious – and JQ was compelled to divulge all after he declined a routine 3rd round of booze as we sat outside a bar in Hurlingham some time back. JQ is not one to turn down a drink, but he was already uneasy about us being there. You see, he’s the sort of chap who’s conscience doesn’t tolerate paying a price for a beer that you can get cheaper elsewhere.

His protest was clearly visible each time the waiter brought a round of drinks and he quickly grabbed the bill before reminding us “majamaa, hizi pombe na weza sakanya 33 bob kule kwa mahindi” (Guys, I can hustle this booze for 33 bob in the maize plantations). At one point, he actually challenged the waiter to clarify whether the figure on the receipt was the actual bill or a phone number.

JQ was the last person I suggested to that he was seeing dead people, something he really couldn’t argue with as that is what he felt when in that filthy gutter. So you can imagine my surprise when while on the concourse of Charing Cross Station in London, a familiar voice shouted to me “Hey – I see dead people”.

Most people around me thought Jamie had lost the plot, but there was no mistaking that husky voice running at me from the direction of platform 6 shouting “you jammy bastard”. The bear hug and the testosterone filled hi-fives confirmed to all and sundry that it was possible that we had indeed seen dead folk.

Talk about a blast from the past. I hadn’t seen Jamie for over 8 years if not more, and he hadn’t changed one bit. It wasn’t long before we were in the nearest pub catching up on the good old days of our mis-spent youth.

You see, the first time we coined the catch phrase of “I see dead people” was some time in the mid 90s. I lived in a close Knit community in a small village in the county better known as the garden of England.

Jamie was the bartender at the local pub which literally became my second home. It wasn’t just because of the booze, the landlord and his family became very good friends of mine, I could have passed for a family member if I wasn’t black. The landlord Nash and I clicked the very first day I walked into the pub as both of us were wearing replica Arsenal shirts, and he pulled a bar stool right next to his and bought me my first drink. Jamie was behind the bar.

Over the 6 or so years that I lived there, we had life changing experiences that I’ll never forget. During Christmas breaks, usually one of the days between Christmas and new year, we had a tradition of getting together all the usual suspects who frequented the pub, and we’d have our very own cultural exchange madness. Each year, every household will be nominated a country, and they would then take the mantle of representing this country in a crazy fun-feast for all participants.

So if you got Germany for example, you would have to cook German food, dress up as Germans would, serve German drinks, etc. If you get Mexico, you had to dress up like Mexicans, hook up some Mexican food and drink, and blast Mexican music when the village madness hit your house and so on.

Everyone would then meet at the pub at 12 noon, have a single drink, before starting a crawl round everyone’s house beginning furthest afield. Everybody would enjoy the delights and booze of one country and after dancing to some obscure music from that country, we would all then file to the next destination for a new experience. Naturally, the lightweights will fall off the cliff or black out somewhere along the way, though nobody really cared as they would be expected to sleep it off in readiness for the last round at the pub. If you think of it, crawling at least 12 to 14 different countries, eating and drinking God knows what, and aiming to be at the pub before 10 pm was quite an expedition.

This one particular year, Nash and his wife didn’t get past the 5th house, which was not unusual, so folks decided to end the party at Jimbo’s house instead of the pub. Hindsight would have brought some perspective to this decision, but I doubt if anyone was compus mentus enough to predict the drama about to unfold.

Jimbo is a Kiwi who was prone to do stupid and dangerous things like luring me into an Australian pub in London on the day that the Wallabies were beaten by the All Blacks and only suicidal folks would walk into an Aussie pub wearing an All Blacks jersey. The smirk on his face while doing this was priceless though, just the sort of thing a crazy Kiwi will never hesitate to do given the opportunity.

The stunt nevertheless got me into a tight spot and my only get out clause was to dance and mime to Alanis Morissette’s Ironic on top of a table with a beer bottle as the microphone. Oh! Don’t you worry, Jimbo and his 14 stone All Black self was on the table next to mine also doing his Ironic routine with the rest of the pub cheering like crazy.

That particular night, I had done well even to make it back to Jimbo’s, though most of the folks by then were the ones who had blacked out earlier and bought themselves a new lease of life. The last thing I remember was playing grab ass with Katie and dancing to Brown Girl in the Rain by Boney M – now that I think of me singing that song in the state I was in, I shudder. I don’t even remember when Marco, my Aussie house mate and partner in crime switched places with Katie and started slow dancing with me. I guess it took me a while to notice that his chest didn’t have the customary C cup cushioning that I had already warmed up to, his prickly stubs of a beard that needed a shave were scraping my face, and his ass wasn’t as supple and rounded as Katie’s was.

There was some cake and snacks being dished around and who was I to refuse some good ol’ fashioned Mexican cuisine. Only problem was that Jimbo and his twisted pals decided to lace the sugar they baked the cake with. I have since taken the 5th when asked what was in that cake, except to ask the inquisitive party – “what is white and can be used to lace other white stuff put in a cake?”, and you quickly get my drift. If this was a practical joke, then no one saw it coming.

My next interaction with the world around me was when Marco and Katie’s dad were carrying me into a taxi. I could still hear voices and it was as if people were talking about me like I was dead. Somebody did insist on asking if I’ll make it and I distinctly recall Marco responding “Darius is OK – he’s just seeing dead people”.

He then turned round to me and tried to get me awake before asking me if I was seeing dead people. I honestly don’t know if they were dead, but I had visions of a familiar room with folks that I thought I knew. Leslie (at least I thought it was though I couldn’t see her face) was at one corner and kneeling down as if praying though she was speaking Gaelic, and I remember wanting to shout to her that it’s OK and that it’s peaceful – she didn’t need to fight it. There was Pauly as usual scrounging around for his last blunt, and swearing that he can’t finish the job until he gets that spliff but what distinctly worried me was that I recalled him stripping the tables and chairs in the pub and using them to build a weird shaped casket. There were other people I didn’t know repeatedly chanting some stuff like “Hamnyo mlengonyo” almost as if they were in a temple and surrounded by smoke filled enclosures and the smoke rising and forming images on the roof.

The cab driver was getting a bit anal and wondering whether I’ll throw up in his taxi and arguing with Marco about who will clean it if I do. Apparently, I then told the cab driver to relax, I wasn’t going to throw up, I was just seeing dead people.

And the catch phrase was born.

Posted on Wednesday, September 9th, 2009 at 8:24 am
Filed underStone Cold Madness.
You can subscribe to get updates of Stone Cold comments to this article by Clicking here. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.