Whiskey tastes better with misery. That’s absolutely correct; you think as you crumple the disposable cup in your right hand. The man sitting opposite you looks up at the sound, but you don’t mind him. You raise your hand to the waitress, another one quickly. She brings you another disposable cup filled with whiskey. You take it and smile. Your surroundings have become blurry, but you know it’s just the drink. Your mind is very alert. You glance at the man from before and nod as if to remind yourself that he’s still there.
You gulp another mouthful of the alcohol and play with it in your mouth before swallowing it. You belch loudly and nod. You’re a real man. You can stomach this bitter thing like a man. You look at the other man again, and a smirk grows on your face. You’re a real man. You take note of his appearance for the first time as if you are looking for anything that makes him a real man. You notice his rings, his primed suit, his shiny shoes, and his gold spectacles. You nod absentmindedly as if you found something that reassured you that you were the only real man.
The other man looks rich, all decked up with expensive shiny things, but he seems unsettled. You notice how he keeps his head down all the time. You know he’s watching you even though he doesn’t seem to, but you interpret it as fear. This man must be a loser, you think. He’s so out of place with his environment. Places like Gemini Hotspot are meant for people of your calibre, not someone as rich as him. You conclude that he’s a fraudster. He must live in a shanty close by but works a menial job on Victoria Island. You think of Victoria Island, and you cannot hold back your laughter.
You crumple the new disposable cup in your hand and throw it beside you again. You raise your hand for another cup and belch again. Victoria Island people are fraudsters, you say aloud. You don’t know who you’re talking to, but it must be said. The sham of a life the Islanders live there must be exposed. You empty the cup of whiskey into your mouth and swallow fast. The liquid burns you, but you fight the urge to frown or show that you’re hurting. When the feeling passes, you straighten your back to continue your tirade against the islanders. You lean into the table so that you feel closer to the other man. You want to talk to him.
He leans away from you, but you don’t mind that. Victoria Island people are fraudsters. I said it. Na me talk am! You wait for a reaction, but the man just looks at you. You can’t place his expression, but you don’t see fear there. Why haven’t you finished that one drink in your hand? You ask him. You’re suddenly attacked by a hiccup, and it makes you laugh. C..can you ima..imagine? You say as you raise your hand for the sixth cup. The waitress comes empty-handed and bends to pick up the discarded cups beside you. You don’t see her, and your hand remains in the air.
You need to drink that like a man, you tell the other man. Misery makes whiskey sweet, I don tell you, free of charge. Drink like a man. You sound like an old man chiding his son, but it doesn’t make you cringe. You turn to look for the waitress since your hand has been up for a while and no cup of whiskey has been placed in it. You see her walking towards you with the cup, and you smile. You take the cup and swallow its content all at once. You crumple the cup and throw it to the ground again. You stop your thoughts for a minute and look to the ground. There is no sound of plastic falling on plastic. You look up at the other man and then the waitress. She avoids your gaze.
You feel how heavy your head is now. Everything seems to be rushing in your head. Your world starts spinning fast, and fast. You want a break. You want it to stop. Your body feels alien and too tight. You want to be free of this sudden attack of emotions. You turn blindly on your seat, bend over, and throw up all the escape you’ve been swallowing. When it’s all out, you feel free but angry. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and look up at the waitress. She retreats. You dey mad? You ask her and wait for an answer. No be me dey ask you something? I no pay you your money? I don owe you before, Nnenna? You ask, and you want to squeeze her neck. If I dey pay you money complete, dey give me everything I demand! You yell and look to your side, but the other man is silent. Annoyingly silent. He is not a man.
You wipe your mouth again and point a finger at the waitress. No try this thing again. In your life, no try am! You say and resume your seat. You raise your hand again, and she puts a new disposable cup, filled with whiskey, in your hands. The night breeze rushes into the bar, carrying with it the stench of the Aridi neighbourhood — poop, urine, rotten foods, dirty bodies. You don’t fight the odour, and you don’t react to it at all. You watch the other man as you drink up the cup’s content. He doesn’t react to the smell at all. I talk am, you murmur to yourself. He must live in the shanties. He has to. Only foreigners react to the smell that is prevalent here. You lean into him again, and he pulls away. This time, you laugh.
Na cup number 1 you still dey, I don quaff ten o. You chuckle and raise your hand for another cup. You rub your hands together as the sound of the waitress’s footsteps approaches. You don’t look at her. You just keep your hand there until you feel the cup. If no be wahala make you drink, why you dey drink my man? Drink that thing like a man. You say, and you mean it. The other man is beginning to irritate you. Who holds a disposable cup that way — placing the cup between your index and thumb like it is a wine glass? The cup is delicate, alright, but that’s the more reason it should be held firmly. Doesn’t he have bones in his finger? You ask yourself.
The other man glances at his wristwatch and looks up at the waitress. He puts the cup down and takes out a slim phone. You hiss. Bongo, bongo, bongo na my friend o, you sing at the top of your voice. You have every intention to irritate him. He is doing the same to you. The man puts his phone down on the table as if getting your message and raises the cup to his mouth again. You watch him, thinking he will swallow it all up, but he sips his drink and returns the cup to the table. You laugh and clap your hands. What a nuisance this man is. You raise your hand for the thirteenth cup and continue singing at the top of your voice. The bars here have no speakers. You’ve become used to drinking bitter liquid in absolute quiet.
Sometimes you drink it with the murmurs of human interaction bursting into your ears, but they annoy you too. So you prefer to stroll down to the bar very late in the night when the others are on their way home. You’d always pay Nnenna a 200% charge of the drinks bought so that she attends to you. Tonight, you pay 500% for that service. You wonder if the other man paid as much as you did to be seated there. You’re ready to pay 1000% as long as she keeps the bar open for you. It is a risk to your life and hers, but misery makes a man mad. The misery that has hit you has made you mad enough to throw everything away on whiskey. You feel the bulge of the bloody handkerchief inside your pocket, and the screams sound so loud in your head now. You pat your pocket. The item is the only evidence you have that the men visited your home last night.
You glance at the man and wonder if he can see your lips twitching. It’s hard being a man. You wonder if the universe ever listens to you. It must be an adamant feminist. You’re convinced that women like that hate men to the death. Why did it have to be you who witnessed their death? Life comes fast at you when you least expect. The room had been quiet and still. Small bodies laid side by side on a small mat and their breaths rose and fell at the same time. You had been looking at them in the darkness.
You remember how you had rushed to the toilet and spent a lot of time there because your bowels were terribly full. You remember strolling out to find your wife’s butchered body sprawled on the bed. Your windows had been broken, and the protective net was torn beyond recognition. Your wife laid there headless and helpless. Why did the universe make you witness that? Why didn’t it change the roles? And the kids, you refuse to remember what was left of them. You had seen the warning. You had seen the red X mark, you had seen everything, but you didn’t believe it. Who would believe that humans had the power to quietly break into a house, kill people at a particular time, and not be caught?
These otherworldly humans were called Badoo. Badoo. Who would believe that these killers were invincible? You did not believe it, and now you are drinking because of it. You had refused to join your neighbours during their overnight watch because the word “Badoo” sounded stupid to you. You gulp down the sixteenth cup and glare at the other man. He does not know your misery. He does not know anything at all. Drink like a man! You yell at him, but he remains calm. It annoys you so much. You jump to your feet, sway, and fall head first towards the man. He shifts his legs, making space for your landing. You try to get on your feet, but the sound of heavy and hurried footsteps outside distracts everyone from you, even you. The other man motions to the waitress who is approaching the light switch to leave it on. You register their scared faces, and you understand why. You lie flat on the ground and listen to the footsteps increase. The sound floods the bar, but the silence fills your heart. You feel extremely tired, and then you remember the whiskey.
You raise your hand for another drink and say Misery makes Whiskey sweet. The other man slaps your hand down and glares at you. You look at him calmly and nod. He may be a man after all. You raise your hand again, and he slaps it down. You look at him, timidly now, and smile. He puts a finger on his lips, telling you to behave properly, to stay quiet, and you smile — a cheeky smile. You see fear in his eyes. You close your eyes and nod. The man knows misery after all, but he is still not a man. He isn’t. Your body relaxes, and soon enough, you dream of your newly-wedded wife who is now late. You no longer know what happens next in this story.
ii
One human reminds you of another and then suddenly derails from the lane of similarity. At first, this defeated man sitting opposite you reminds you of Amanda, but now he’s nothing like her. Now you have to defend her memory against this declining image in front of you. You sigh. His simplicity reminds you of Amanda’s scent. Her hair smelled of shea butter, and it did not nauseate you. He has the scent of shea butter dripping all over him and he wears a bracelet made of tiny sea beads like her.
You watch him crumple the cup each time he finishes the drink in it. You sigh again. His actions and presence draw up inferences in your head, and it is annoying. He keeps repeating the same thing. Drink it like a man. Misery makes whiskey sweet. What the hell is his problem? Does he think you enjoy being in this situation? Does he think you’re a dunce or something? You came out here to reflect and mourn in peace. Why would this annoying man have to stay the night at the bar on this day of all days? What’s his problem? Your skin itches from his presence, and you can do nothing about him. Your mama didn’t bring you up to fight in public. Your only option is to ignore him, but he won’t even let you do that in peace.
You feel terrible to have thought that this man had similarities with Amanda. He is nothing like Amanda. The way he’s carelessly sprawled on the ground, unaware of the danger outside. Can’t he hear the footsteps? Doesn’t he know what they mean? Amanda would never let her guard down. She was so strong and fierce that no man born of another woman could harm her. That’s what you loved about her — her fierceness. And now what? Your whole life with her was a lie. The fierce Amanda got killed by water.
You wonder what you missed. The truth is that Amanda was stubborn. You warned her, pleaded with her. You threatened her. You did everything that you could to convince her to leave the kiosk they lived in. You gave her the keys to a brand new house. You wanted to do anything and everything for her, but her pride always managed to get in the way. What excuse did she always give? I can do this for my family. I want to be the one to buy them a house. So what if you were the one buying it and not her? What difference did it make? Were you not lovers? Are lovers not one? Ah, Amanda was to blame for everything you felt now. She deceived you. She made you believe that she was a fighter, now where was she?
How can a fighter lie defenceless like that? What fighter dies from a mere flood? What stubborn fighter dies with her family by her side? You feel your throat tighten, and you gasp. You always forget to breathe when you think of Amanda. When she was alive, you forgot to breathe because she was too awesome to handle, too beautiful to look at, and too cute to ignore. When you see her, your world stops spinning for a second. When you kiss, you feel like a feather in her arms. She has such an effect on you that you always forget that you’re alive.
The footsteps are so close now, and you want to hug her. It’s crazy that the only thing you can think about in the face of danger is her warm embrace. You want it. You need it. You’d die for it, but she’s gone. She’s gone with all the promises and resolutions. She’s gone with her humour and pride. She has you in such a chokehold that you forget to breathe again. The pounding of fists on the door makes you jump. The waitress glances at you in panic. You falter and ask who’s there by reflex. She shakes her head, putting a finger over her mouth. You glitch. Wait, what?
The knocking becomes louder and your legs grow weak. You slump to the ground beside the other man. Alcohol is bitter, useless and powerful. Why now? The world is spinning around you. You remember your first drowning experience at the beach. Your hands feel heavy like they did then. You’re fighting a mystic being, one that wears your body tonight. How can water become so powerful? How can alcohol become so powerful? The man beside you is right. Misery makes whiskey sweet, because you’d never opt for something so bitter if you were in your right mind.
Your legs refuse to move. You think of Amanda. How much did she struggle? How much did she knock on the door of life? Did she deserve to die? Along with her family? For three long bastard days, you had tried to reach her but the rains were having an intimate session with the network. Nothing went through. Nothing worked. Not even the roads. On top of all that, the media warned of men with handkerchiefs walking around in the thick of midnight. Was she safe? You wanted to know. The news of local vigilantes helping with security did not mollify your fears. You needed her to leave that place. They killed at will, those men.
As you sink, you wish they had been the one to hurt her. Maybe she would have had a chance at survival. Sometimes, what we fear the most is not always as harmful as we paint it. Amanda was strong. She could have won against their cutlasses. She could have made it out alive, and maybe she could’ve finally given in to your desire for them to leave the shanty. Maybe, just maybe. Your head is heavier now. You’re holding it and you can’t feel a thing. Who’s knocking like a mad man at this time of the night? The waitress walks towards the light switch but your mental alarm goes off. The men kill in the dark. The lights should remain on. You tell her to leave it.
They usually come at night to kill and maim. The faceless sham about them may be uncovered if the lights are on. You’d prefer to see the face of the cruel floods that drowned Amanda and her family, but you don’t get what you want anymore. That magic stopped when you turned 18. You feel a streak of headache run through the right side of your head. You sit up and try to hold your head and everything around you begins to spin. The waitress is crouching behind the counter. She looks so scared. Everything is slipping from your hands. Even her presence. What’s going on? You had only sipped your drink. You only had two cups in total. What’s going on?
*
On the cold ground, two grown men will fall asleep from drinking beyond their respective tolerance level. These broken men will not see the vigilante men break into the bar. They will not see the waitress beg for her life while denying to know who they are. They will not see the men drag them away to a dark room. The room will be ice cold like a police cell. They will not know the conversation between the waitress and the vigilante group. The handkerchief in the first man’s pocket will betray him. These broken men will share one destiny when they come around. It’ll be a new unlocked level of misery for both of them, and they’ll get no whiskey.
Merit Chigozie Nwachukwu is a writer. She disturbs the world with her love for music and passion for climate action. She writes her thoughts on the latter in her newsletter The Sun Bearers hosted on substack. She is a freelance creative content/copywriter. Her works have appeared in Arts Lounge, The Muse Journal, and elsewhere. Should you want to connect with her, her handles on all social media platforms are @zimbaybee.