Creative Nonfiction in The Ink Well: Prompt #27

Since I was 16 years old, culminating my last school year at the Liceo Antonio José de Sucre, in Cumaná-Venezuela, I made friends with three classmates, who liked to smoke cigarettes. Since at that stage I was defining myself as an adult, I suggested that they teach me to smoke. At the beginning I choked on cigarette smoke, but in a short time I even learned to inhale it. We would invite each other to study at my house where I lived with my mother and my four siblings. When we were preparing the study material, we would smoke behind my mother's back.

If you are a bit familiar with Nigeria's social culture you might know that Naija jollof rice is the queen of the party. Any occasion without it will seem incomplete no matter what other food items were on the menu. It is a kind of food loved by everyone and endorsed by a majority of the partygoers. So, when you are thinking of organizing that party, it might be the first on your menu.

The accountant paid everyone in cash. Our bags held bulky brown envelopes. We were ecstatic. A staff member immediately declared, "Lunch is on me, guys!" He made a call to a restaurant we often visited and packed lunch was delivered to the office. It was like a mini party that afternoon.

Then it hit. Vodka never really tastes like anything on the lips or on the mouth, but when it goes down it burns and hot pepper vodka burns even more. I was a little dizzy and sweating more. Then I ran to the toilet. I stayed there for what seemed like eternity. My other roommate Collin stayed with me. There was a loud porcelain echo humming from the porcelain goddess and ringing through my head.