Flashing lights beam. I’m typing this cooped in a tavern, on the balcony, holding court, regaling the air with talk as we await a football match. It’s a formidable fixture, suffice to say, the bar is brimming. Abutting me to my right is this hip chap in a white cap and tee, an absolute stranger, we bond – over football, of course.

A bird on the table before us beckons at him, he obliges – again – of course. He suffices back, a shot of liquor in hand. He is wary of club girls, he tells me, setting on an anecdote on how he brought over some lassies to his place, got drugged and woke up to the echo ringing in his head and the now empty house too. I’ve heard tales legends of men getting drugged but I have never met an actual victim. Now here I am trying to act normal to this man unraveling his misfortune. I was gobsmacked.

Reggae covers permeate the confines. Let’s broach that a tad; what is it with reggae artists and making covers? I’m starting to think reggae artists are predisposed to covering other works. No, really, reggae covers are ubiquitous.


Partakers chortle. Some slur. Some sit stoic, unyielding to the gods of booze. Some curl into a ball of emotion; the liquor annihilating all the ounces of their masculinity. Some channel their inner dancer, there’s something about alcohol that nudges you to groove, flair is rare. Some have their heads in their palms. It’s a din of ambivalence.

The game afoots.

Image Source; Pinterest

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