IDLERS’ CORNER: My Escape from Nyagenke Suspended Bar That Never Was

By the Idler-in-Chief

I, the Idler-in-Chief, found myself invited by none other than Mzee Katumani for free beer at Nyagenke Suspended Bar and Restaurant.

“Free beer in Njaanuary,” I exclaimed!

My pockets whispered “impossible,” yet my mobile tank; blissfully unaware of economics, cheered, and so I went.

Short in stature, tall in mischief, Mzee Katumani, also known as MK, moves through Nyagenke like a pocket-sized storm, eyes twinkling with schemes that could sink a boat twice his size.

Rumor has it that he earned his nickname not just for his height but for his uncanny ability to look down on trouble without ever needing a ladder.

Sponsored by pride, hunger, and thirst like a fool oblivious to fate, I arrived at Nyagenke Suspended Bar and Restaurant in a matter of minutes.

The joint, I soon realised, was suspended not metaphorically but literally, dangling on a thread between two grand Nyagenke trees, high enough to make even an eagle consider life insurance.

Patrons clung like acrobats with poor life choices, sipping beer as though gravity itself had been excused.

I joined them, thread protesting beneath me as my head grew heavy and my stomach light, while a sinister thought wormed its way into my mind: why this generosity now, and could it be… an execution disguised as hospitality?

Suspicious generosity

Feigning a bathroom break, I attempted to shuffle toward safety, only to find Mzee Katumani following, his eyes saying plainly, “Do not leave!”

Panic set in like an uninvited guest, and I screamed; not a polite Nyagenke scream, but a full-throttle, lungs-on-fire scream, while my hands gripped the thread as though auditioning for the Olympics.

I had the option to let go, and my head would kiss the rocks below with enthusiasm.

The other option was to move forward, but Mzee Katumani’s shadow promised immediate regret.

I dangled mid-air, a tragic comedy of a bespectacled Nyagenkean, beer, and precarious physics.

Somewhere in that vertical theatre, my bladder staged its own rebellion, screaming louder than my mouth.

I considered negotiating with the universe, apologising to my ancestors in advance, even composing my farewell column mid-flight, yet the foolishness of it all remained undeniable.

Then, just as the thread threatened to betray me and my screams hit a high note worthy of Nyagenke legend… I woke up.

It was all a dream: the free beer, the suspended bar, Mzee Katumani’s suspicious eyes, and my terrifying aerial acrobatics, were all nothing but a useless, heart-pounding, imagination-fueled dream.

And yet, my heart thumped, my palms sweated, and my liver still thirsted.

Talk of useless and ‘lessonless’ dreams!

-babahezel@gmail.com