What a life!  I might sound like I am a happy person the way I write about myself but I am not.  I have referred to myself as a fool, a stupid person and, especially when drunk, a total idiot.  And that’s the sad reality.
You who read what I write will laugh at my antics and maybe even look forward to the next insertion of Njombwinjo at Large in the Sunday Times to read and laugh again without realising you are all these years encountering miserable soul.
It is never fun to wake up in the morningfeeling sore all over the body as if you survived an ancient Jewish or Moslem stoning attack for committing adultery.  They used to stone you to death, you and your partner, if you committed adultery in those yonder days before Jesus came and transformed everything by getting transfixed upon that cross, didn’t they? Yeah, so you wake up feeling that bad, all so thoroughly battered and in pain but can’t remember a thing about how you got into the mess.
Of course there are times when the reason for the sore body is that I got beaten up.  That’s why I wake up in the morning with my face feeling and looking an over-ripe cucumber.  The sad part, like you would feel sad if you were me, is that I struggle to remember whether I was beaten, by who and why.
Of course, in some cases, by close examination of the state of my body, I can tell that I got a beating and it’s also evident when such beating has been precise and thorough.  You see cuts in strategic parts of my face.  You see swollen lips.  You see eyes are that are closed and black, or blood shot.
Sometimes, you see no marks on the body but your ribs feel like they were totally knocked about with a hammer or a pounding stick, then you realize they were probably kicking you over and over in the body after the first punch on your mouth or forehead drew blood or an instant swelling ball while it also simultaneously sent you crashing to the ground.  It’s no good when you fall to the ground during a fist fight.
If you have the ability, of course not in drunken state like I usually am, to avoid falling, don’t fall!  People are either too lazy to pick you up and donate more blows to your head, or they are in a hurry to land whatever they can on you in case you overpower them so going to the ground is bad news!
I have such a beautiful wife, you know, and I hate to see her so sad whenever I show up home in such poor state.  Beaten and battered.  Quite often she cries, more in anger and exasperation than in pity of me.
“Why?  Why AwisiPachikani do you drink like this?” she laments amidst heavy sobs.  “What kind of enjoyment is this that gets you into all sorts of situations where people should do this to you?  Why do you drink knowing it will get some people so upset they want to kill you?”
I often tell myself after such a scene that I will never drink again.  That if I do drink, I will do it from within my home where even if I mess up, no one will get a knobkerrie and smash my head in with it.  But it only works for a short while as I end up right back with the boys and get into all sorts of trouble.
Getting into this state also has its negatives.  I have a regular timetable of sex in my bedroom with Amake Pachikani. Look, she is beautiful and she is my wife so what are you marveling about when I tell you we have regular sex?  Doesn’t it happen in your marriage?  If it doesn’t then maybe you are more miserable than me and should rush and see a counselor!
What bothers me about this getting battered is that it goes on to disturb this sex rotter!  I mean, which woman, no matter how much she loves a man, would want him to press his battered and swollen lips against hers in an amorous smooch?  We don’t kiss people whose lips are swollen, do we?  No.
They look ugly, despicable and detestable.  How can madam permit you to stare at her lovingly when the eyes you are using to stare at her are so red from punches?  And you think it’s ok to want to stare at her romantically and mention her name softly!  It doesn’t happen so I lose out on love and sex when I get beaten up.
The moment I start touching her as a sign of what is on my mind she brushes my hand away roughly.  When I persist, she tells me point blank she is off duty sex wise until I get my face back into the regular shape it was when she accepted to marry me.
“Sex with you in that shapewill feel like adultery,” she argues.
“Come on…” I try to protest and persuade.
“You are hardly recognisable,” she reasons. “This is not Mix Njombwinjo. This is not my husband, my AwisiPachikani.  This is some ghost, some zombie from a horror movie.  No.  I am not letting you touch me.”
Then she turns away, giving me her back.  In fact, whenever I am in such a state she will often get into bed wearing something.  In no time, she will be snoring while I toss and turn in agony, appetite for AmakePachi sky high.  Combine this denial of conjugal rights and the pain from a beating and you realize that my life is not as rosy as people might think.
My boys, the twins, are not the wisest of sons on this earth.  Whereas they are so protective of each other’s security you attack or get attacked by one, they both join forces and clobber you unconscious. We’ve had to pay money to neighbors to prevent them from reporting these rascals from being taken to court and consigned to a reformatory centre or lunatic asylum.
They are so notoriously violent the full extent of what they can do is only seen when they turn on each other. Those kung fu kicks, soccer kicks, head butts, punches, strangle holds, judo throws and so on are so frightening to look at and it takes me and their mother’s concertedcombined efforts to disengage them.  So when they combine their physical resources to panel beat someone’s son who crossed their path, the end result is a battered child in the very state I have been describing of myself after some of my bad drink ups!  And quickly, we must find cash to placate angry parents!  How can I be happy like that?
They are also in the bad habit of laughing at me when I turn up home looking like a veritable scare crow.
“Waliona Pachi li daddy lako mwamenelionekela (Have you seen how your paps is looking like)?” asks Mpachikeni the younger twin. “Balilikita no size kumensonichitumbuwa cha mukomboni (He has been so badly wired his face is a fritter made in the shanties!”
How can a father enjoy life hearing his own beloved sons teasing him like that?  There is so much that isn’t going right in my life writing about it is perhaps some form of relief, respite, so that as you laugh at me, everything might appear ok.  It’s not, I am telling you. This life is actually very totally, completely, absolutely sad!  As Amake Pachi always says, I need serious prayers and deliverance.  Go for it!