MAN IN THE HOOD: I need rehab for my 'mutura' addiction

I have a confession to make. I have been struggling with mutura addiction for months. Every evening before I get to my house, I have to munch on a few pieces.

You should see me when I’m eating. I’ve been told that I look like a boarding school kid eating chicken and chapatti on visiting day - so much excitement.

I usually make a solemn vow to use 20 bob only, but after I have cleared that, I keep asking the seller to add some more. As time slowly passes, 20 bob becomes 30 bob and 30 bob becomes 50 bob.  Before I know it, I have spent 100 bob.

I experience withdrawal symptoms like weakness, lack of concentration, paranoia, irritability, sometimes even dizziness when I go for long periods without mutura.

I FORGET THE WORD NO EXISTS!

I suspect my favourite seller has sensed my addiction and he is using it to boost his profits.

With a friendly but evil smile on his face, he never fails to ask niongezeingine?

Whenever he asks that, I forget that the word no exists in English.

My journey to becoming a mutura junkie started innocently as I was walking in the estate with my friend Jemo one evening. I had never been a fan of the African sausage prior to that.

The only time I tried eating it, my stomach decided to do a steeplechase marathon. The toilet became my habitat for about two days straight so I developed a sense of fear ever since.

That evening though, things were different. The sweet, savoury aroma wafted through the cool evening air. In reaction, my tummy clenched with hunger at the thought of sweet rolls being roasted just a few meters away from us.

My eyes were trained on them. These ones looked different; thick and expertly made. I tried to focus on the other smells in the air, like the earthy smell of cool rain or the mahindi choma but it didn’t work. Once the nose has decided, it has decided.

INTENSE TEMPTATION

When you are being subjected to intense temptation, you sometimes need a reliable friend to pull you out before you sink in transgression.

Unfortunately, Jemo was far from being a reliable friend that day. He seemed to be even more tempted than I was. And just like that, we found ourselves chewing away.

That’s how I became addicted. I have been ‘using’ ever since.

I’ve even gotten emotional about mutura before. I’ve shed tears in the past about them, Lord knows why. You know what they say about a man crying. It’s serious. I once bought takeaway to go eat at home but then when I arrived, I discovered the shopping bag I was carrying was torn.

The neatly wrapped mutura was nowhere to be seen. It had fallen somewhere along the road. It was probably going to be eaten by a dog that had no idea about the awesomeness of that meal.

I was broken. I couldn’t believe it. I struggled to hold back the tears as I stared at the shopping bag in disbelief. How could Lady Luck do this to me?

After that fateful day, I realised, I admit that I needed to check into a rehab facility, if only there was one for such matters.

I did some research in order to find out the exact components of mutura and whether any of them causes addiction. The main components are blood, offal and meat of a lamb, cow or goat.

Meat might actually be the culprit.

But to be honest, I’d rather get tortured than quit meat. Many of us would choose to be punched around by Jack Bauer than boot nyama just because it has one addictive chemical compound. Just one? That one we can manage.

Since I have realised that there is nothing really wrong with me, I’ll make one last attempt to ease myself off mutura slowly, just for the purposes of saving money.

If it doesn’t work, so be it. Of all the addictions that are possible out there, mutura, in all honesty, seems like a rather harmless one to have by comparison to heroine or liquor. I mean, if mutura happens to be your only vice in life, I'd say you're doing just fine.

I have a feeling I’ll be 90-years-old with a walking stick telling young people who are queuing to move aside so that mzee can buy some.