Every Friday without fail, the office group, which excludes the boss, starts buzzing.

“FOM?”

If you work in corporate, you know exactly what that means. Formation. A plan. A plan not to go home. A plan to celebrate surviving another week. Beyoncé said, “Okay ladies, now let’s get in formation.” Nairobi corporate people heard that and made it a weekly calendar event.

And honestly, who am I to judge?

In this Kasongo economy, where everything except our salaries seems to be increasing, perhaps we have earned that drink. Between taxes, rent, fuel prices, impossible traffic, unemployment, corruption that makes you wonder whether honesty is just a hobby, and the general state of the country, people are tired. Not lazy, tired.

Then there are the battles nobody sees. Trying to survive Nairobi life. Adulting, which, by the way, tastes like bitter herbs. Wondering why you’re 35, still single and every family gathering has become a fertility and marriage conference. Trying to look like you have it together when your bank account is quietly planning your funeral.

People are carrying things. Heavy things.

So, yes, people decompress. And the easiest, most socially available way to do it is alcohol.

Now before the drinkers come for me, let me say this: Alcohol is not entirely bad. A glass of wine with friends? A beer after work? A whisky while catching up with old friends? Fine.

The problem has never really been the drink, it is not knowing where the drink ends and the foolishness begins.

Let me tell you something about drunk and disorderly people. Everything about them becomes, for lack of a better word, distasteful.

Suddenly the fare money you had carefully saved doesn’t seem like such a big deal anymore.

You’ll be there shouting, “Guys, everyone is drinking on me,” as if you hadn’t literally borrowed fare yesterday. Then someone says, “Another for the road. Then another says, “YOLO!” Then another genius suggests, “Si we changa one more bottle?” Barely has anyone ever said, “Let’s changa for an investment portfolio.” It’s always another bottle.

I also pray, sincerely, that you had eaten before you started drinking. Because if you didn’t, Nairobi is about to humble you. Your alcohol tolerance will introduce itself properly. You’ll commit. You’ll become loud. You’ll become everybody’s problem. You’ll dance with people you don’t know. You’ll hug strangers, dance on them, you’ll tell secrets that were supposed to die with you. You’ll call your ex, whom you haven’t spoken to in six years.

Why are you calling him, Sister Mary? Do you like suffering?

You’ll send paragraphs. Delete them. Send voice notes. Cry. Confess love. Confess hate. Promise marriage. Resign from jobs you still need. Start businesses you have no capital for.

By morning, you’ll have no recollection of any of it. Alcohol is a confidence lender with impossible interest rates. It gives you courage it collects back with embarrassment. But among all these stinky behaviours, there is one that stops being funny: Driving under the influence.

Leave your car at home. Take an Uber. Call a friend. Sleep over. Hand over the keys. Do whatever you have to do. Just don’t drink and drive, and may your enjoyment never become somebody else’s obituary. May your Friday never become another family’s worst day. Because the true cost of alcohol is almost never paid that night. It is paid the following morning.

You wake up with your mouth tasting like you chewed a tyre. Your head is splitting. Your stomach is negotiating with your life. You’re checking your M-Pesa statements like you’re auditing fraud. You’re apologising before you’ve even established what exactly you’re apologising for. You’ll be asking your friends what happened yesterday and that question alone should worry you. God forbid you wake up in a stranger’s house or a police cell or a hospital bed or worse, never wake up at all.

If your drinking regularly makes you dislike yourself, pause. If sober you cannot defend drunk you, pause. If every weekend comes with apologies, missing money, broken relationships, risky decisions or stories beginning with, “I don’t even know how that happened,” then perhaps it’s time for an adult conversation with yourself, not with your drinking buddies.

Because maybe the problem isn’t that you drink. Maybe it’s that alcohol has become your only coping mechanism.

But the thing is, life has so much more to offer. Save some of that money. Send it to your grandmother upcountry, who hasn’t eaten meat in three weeks. Buy your mother shopping. Learn a new hobby. Go hiking. Read a book. Visit a friend without needing a bottle between you. Discover who you are when you are fully sober.

Saturday doesn’t have to be a recovery day. It can actually be a living day. So by all means, get in formation this Friday if you must, just don’t lose yourself in it.

And whatever you do, don’t drink and drive. Some bills are settled with money. Others are settled with lives.