Jackson Biko, is a lover of whisky and people watching. He likes to walk the shadows of the city at dusk, picking conversations of a people spurred by the night and by their drink
I had an argument with a friend of mine while waiting for a burger at Mama Rocks. You know Mama Rocks, right? Come on, you don’t? Oh, then you should because really: mama rocks. If you know the Alchemist Bar in Westlands then you must know Mama Rocks, because they are conjoined. They sell some fantastic burgers! I could drive in the middle of the night from Ngong Road to go get my favourite West African chicken burger called fela supa. It’s a peanut crusted, auya-spiced, chicken breast with crispy lettuce, tomato and a mild chilli coconut mayonnaise. It goes for about Ksh 750 a pop and is worth every last lettuce in it. I have however never had this burger while sober, which says more about my drinking than the burger.
Anyway, so my friend and I are standing outside Mama Rocks waiting for our burgers and we are slightly toasted because we have been knocking back Singletons at Saape Lounge and listening to some slow jams. My pal, who is getting more illiterate after each tot of whisky, starts arguing with me about how the Big Cat Diaries was shot. He is convinced that some of the footage was enhanced by special effects, to which I say “bullshit,” thus kicking off a big tipsy debate.
“TV is about special effects, Biko. Don’t believe that everything you see on there is 100% real,” he keeps repeating. I keep telling him that it was real and that he should stop referring to me as “guy.” I explain to him that the crew had bunked in the African wilderness for months on end, under rain and sun and day and night, as they shot those cats.
“Guy, you are naive,” he tells me.
“You are an eternal cynic, ruined by modern media and alcohol,” I retort.
Then he says that he knows what he is talking about because he studied sociology so I snort and reply: “sure, because they teach you about special effects in sociology.”
He mumbles something about them teaching “lateral thinking,” adding: “something they don’t teach in journalism class.” That pisses me off because he is beginning to sound like those oafs who go around telling everyone which university they attended. Who cares, guy?
So back and forth it goes, with him calling me “guy” and me trying very hard not to push him under Mama Rocks kiosk. We get our burgers, find a bench inside Alchemist where we sit and I continue to entertain this drunk sociologist with lateral thinking until I start feeling a side of my brain dying and my intellect slipping through my shoes. So I leave and drive home, shower and before I switch off the bedside lamp, google: “Lateral thinking.”