The air hung thick with the scent of grilled meat and secondhand smoke as Silas navigated the throngs of revelers spilling out of The Lion's Roar. It was a Friday night in Lusaka, and the capital city was buzzing with the energy of a weekend about to begin. Silas, clutching a crumpled bill he could barely decipher in the dim streetlight, was feeling the buzz too, but of a different kind.
'The best time to walk home when drinking at a bar,' his friend, a retired policeman named Jeremiah, had once told him, 'is when you can still read your bill clearly.' Silas, usually a man of moderation, had taken this advice to heart, but tonight's 'just one beer' had somehow morphed into a full-blown revelry. Now, staring at the indecipherable scribbles on his tab, he wished he'd stuck to Jeremiah's rule.
The sidewalks were filled with a kaleidoscope of humanity: groups of friends laughing, families returning from their Friday night outings, and, inevitably, the odd intoxicated soul attempting to navigate the world with a slightly confused expression. Silas, with a growing sense of unease, felt himself slowly slipping into their ranks.
He tried to focus on the street signs, their familiar curves and angles taunting him with their stubborn clarity. His apartment was just a few blocks away, a straight shot down Kafue Road. Easy peasy, he told himself, and took a wobbly step forward.
That was the moment the world tilted.
He started to hear music, the kind that echoed in his ears even when it wasn't there. He was certain a flock of pink flamingos had just flown by. And the moon, it seemed, had decided to play hide-and-seek with the streetlights, resulting in a dizzying game of shadow and light that made everything seem both familiar and utterly alien.
Thankfully, his wobbly gait seemed to have caught the attention of a street vendor, a kindly old woman with a smile as warm as her roasted peanuts.
'Lost, my friend?' she asked, her voice like molasses.
Silas, blinking at the woman as if she were a mirage, managed a nod. 'Just... a bit... confused,' he slurred, feeling a surge of embarrassment.
'Follow me, my friend,' she said, her smile widening. 'Just a little bit, then you'll be home.'
With a grateful nod, Silas stumbled along behind her. The woman, surprisingly nimble for her age, steered him clear of stray dogs, potholes, and the occasional drunkard who seemed to think the world was a giant dance floor. It was like watching a mother hen tending to her chicks, Silas thought, except the chick in question was a grown man who couldn't seem to decipher the difference between a streetlight and a fire hydrant.
The walk was a blur, punctuated by the occasional 'Whoa!” and “What is that?” as Silas encountered some bizarre illusion or the other. He wasn't sure if the streetlights were blinking at him or if he was imagining it. He wasn't even sure if he was walking or just floating.
Finally, they arrived at his apartment complex. He thanked the woman profusely, feeling a pang of gratitude for her kindness. He fumbled for his keys, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated. He managed to get the key into the lock, pulled the door open, and collapsed onto the couch with a groan.
Later, the night blurred into the morning, leaving behind a hazy memory of dancing streetlights and a kind old woman with roasted peanuts. When he awoke, the events of the previous night seemed like a fever dream. It was only the discarded taxi receipt in the pocket of his pants, the one with a scrawled message on the back - 'Jeremiah said so!' - that reminded him of his misadventure.
He sent a quick text to Jeremiah: 'I think I owe you one...'
The reply, which came a few seconds later, simply read: 'I told you so!'
Silas chuckled, reaching for the coffee pot. Maybe Jeremiah was right. The best time to walk home after a few drinks was indeed when you can still read your bill clearly. Next time, he thought, he might just stick to Jeremiah's rule. Or not. After all, sometimes the best stories happen when you're a little bit more than just 'slightly confused.'
