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My internal organs are aflame. Oh! Not every part, even though it feels so. It very well seems like embers are shoved down my throat or pushed through the other, not-too-clean opening into my stomach.
In my pain, I can't help but remember sermons from Uncle Wills, my childhood Sunday school teacher, who must have reminded us a million times that sinners will burn in hell. "Alcoholics, robbers,... will burn in hell," he'd assert, steepling his fingers, his deadpan expression blending with his generous height to create an air of authority around him.
This might just be what hell is—the organs in my chest and stomach region are being roasted for the sin they committed. For all I know, this hangover is hellish.
Don't get it wrong; I'm not exactly an alcoholic. As a matter of fact, I've lived in soberness all through my three decades on earth, of course, with a few cheat days here and there.
I'm walking down a less-busy street to inspect a new flat I'll be sharing with a friend, Danny. A huge black Toyota SUV cruises past me and makes a stop. A huge, dark-bearded young man, whose looks clearly complement the car, looks out from the driver seat and excitedly screams, "Efo," while beckoning on me with his head.
I don't have to go closer to know where this fellow knows me from. He could only be my high school friend. "Efo," the word he screams, is like a code name, reserved strictly for the initiated. Only those I fraternised with while in high school called me that. Looking closer, I also echo his high school sobriquet, "Mekus."
Interestingly, Mekus isn't just a random high school mate, but someone I did hang out with on multiple occasions after graduating from high school. But the struggles of adulthood got the better of us. We migrated to different states and countries and eventually lost contact. It's been close to ten years since we last met.
"Bro! How could you recognise me that fast?" I ask.
"You're my man; I'll know you even in the dark." He answers.
Without much hesitation, I hop into the front passenger seat.
"Where are you going?" he asks.
"I want to see a friend along the road." I answer.
"I'm driving you to my house. It's just over there; he points his hands forward." He says.
He drives me to a nicely painted duplex. "I stay here," he says in his usual loud tone.
I look around, admiring the elegant and serene environment. He ushers me into his parlour. The parlour's decor is a perfect blend of African traditional styling and contemporary styling.
While doing a bit of catching up over a bottle of gin in the parlour, he calls another of our high school friends, Padla, who's an offshore worker. Padla is in town, but only for a brief period of time. On learning of my coincidental meeting with Mekus, he requested that we fix a quick feast in one of the lounges around.
Mekus drives me to the lounge to meet Padla, sitting on a table decorated with assorted drinks and meals.
I sacrificed my soberness and entertained myself with drinks and meals, laughing out loudly when one person brought up funny high school memories and nodding to the slow music that was blasting through the speakers.
The sudden feast is over, and everyone is euphoric and nostalgic. Mekus drives me to meet Danny, my new flatmate, who was already growing tired waiting for me.
My new flat is magnificent. After checking the rooms, kitchen, and toilet, I collapsed on the bed with a heavenly feeling, only to wake up in hell.
