Everyone has their own different reasons for visiting drinking places, and you would never know just by looking at someone.

You will notice I used "drinking places” as opposed to "bars” and "pubs” and all those other high-sounding formal descriptions for watering holes.

This is simply because I rarely go to the conventional bars and pubs and watering holes like you know them.

If anything, I despise and look down upon your typical "high-end” bar because most of the wait and hospitality staff are usually dense in the head and speaking phony and fake accents seems to be part of their job description.

Whenever I go to the corner shop in my Umudugudu and ask for a Guinness, it is either a cool Guinness or hot Guinness.

However recently I went to a Five-Star Hotel in Kigali and when I asked for bottled water, they had several options: Cold water, hot water, and room temperature water.

I’m sure had I entertained or nagged the waiter a little longer, they would have furnished me with a few more options –like bedroom and sitting room and wash room temperature water.

The other silly thing I can’t stand about the so called multiple star hotels is that they are crooks and day light thieves who don’t want to sell me the drinks I want and in the desired quantities.

Who wants an exorbitantly priced Knowless, or petite Knowless, or petite-petite Knowless, when one can get the real deal –the big, bad and brave Primus?

These people ought to know that some of us know the difference in taste between a big Primus and the Knowless Primus, a big Mutzig and the small one.

Also, big hotels want to try to disprove the obvious fact that Turbo King is Intare Y’ishamba when it comes to beers with substance, hence they don’t stock up on it.

That said, drinking from the neighborhood alimentation and boutique and makeshift Primus branded kabari has not taken away my bar woes, in that I still meet these useless types of people whenever I’m out for my regular dose of Turbo.

The kings and queens of serviettes

This sad lot wants the entire world to believe that drinking of beer can only start when the waitress commandeers a basket-full of serviettes to accompany their miserable Heineken or Skol or whatever poison they ordered. 

They want to ceremoniously clean out the neck, the base and the girth of their bottle as they take measured sips of their drink. They want to decorate their bottle with this white piece of ribbon, so that it looks like a hard-won trophy after a grueling football finale.

The motoring brigade

These big babies will only drink from a bar from where they can clearly see their precious parked car. No, they won’t take chances by going to those big bars or hotels with inconspicuous underground parking. 

They will therefore drink from the boutique or small kabari in their umudugudu or in a noisy ghetto area where people can see and envy them for their ride.

The thirsty brigade

This group leaves their homes and heads to the bar, with the sole intention of tormenting other pub-goers with tales of how thirsty they are, complete with throat-scratching gestures to better illustrate their point. 

And they are proud too. You take pity and offer them a petit Mutzig, and they will scoff at you and tell you that’s beneath them. 

I always take time off to remind this lot of the presence of a thirst-quenching organization called WASAC.