Smoking is a Personal Choice and Should be Respected

Some are addicted to smoking while others enjoy the exhalation just like many enjoy coffee. The tax that smokers pay might be the crunch in global economies, argues Ayub Chege in a treatise on his dalliance with smoking.

When I was growing up, my three-years-senior maternal cousin was my role model. He was the closest to a brother, and my early escapades were often at his behest. My first attempt at waylaying a girl was organised by him, and he was nearby encouraging me on. He was the yardstick I used to mark my growing up. Sadly, he was called to be with Our Father and I hope to meet him again some gland morning when I will fly away. That aside, I still carry his memory first hand like it was my shadow.

But not all about him is rosy to my lapel.

He happened to have been a smoker by the time he turned a teenager, and he liked to swagger about calling himself so. The phrase was like a magnet and girls used to “chicken around” him always, and it was not so bad for me as I lived like the vulture “when the lion feeds.” All in all, it wasn’t a bad life for a beginner.

My departed cousin was a bully when he wanted his way, which was often. But being a teenager with strong hands, his bullish mode often ended at his mouth.

The same mouth that had another unbecoming call of smoking. The mouth that became a vent of abuses when he was “thirsty of a smoke” and there was not “any remaining stump to be continued.” His bravado did not meet his means and he had to “kill” one cig several times to prolong the enjoyment. The practice had discoloured his thumb and forefinger like they were banana fingers. The “banana fingers” were however, much better than his breath after an attempt of sanitising it with onion and lemon and chewing gum after a smoking episode. But the telltale fingers and breath did not stop my cousin’s trips to the front of the church as he was the choir master by default.

The only instance that I saw him dither was being caught red-handed- no – I being caught red-handed with his hoard.

It happened during a memorable Christmas extended family get together thus fouling the festivity even more. The barbeque turned out to be the very last of such extended family bonding missions.

My cousin had secreted his cache of cigarettes in a pocket of one of my shirts. With the initial getting together warming up all, the action had eluded us all. I was in my bedroom with my cousin for long, and my initial plans of a quick buck from him had almost disappeared when he had not made the initial gesture of buying my silence.

When we were called to the barbeque, my cousin was the first out and so I followed as always. But first, I donned a shirt over my t-shirt. As we arrived at the low table, everybody else was already seated. And that included my old man who was a law unto himself, my uncles who always sided with my dad’s strictness, and the aunts who had to keep their peace as sentences were passed. Even my younger siblings and cousins were there too. And my mum was passing the plates about as she readied herself for a prayer.

My cousin sat some distance away from me, but I saw him flinch like he had touched an electric current. But as the prayers were starting, I obediently closed my eyes and bowed my head.

The long prayer ended and the self-service was about to start. But my cousin was casting a severe eye at me, almost threateningly. Little did I read his signs.

The children were the first to the serving table. When it was my turn to, I obliged.

Bent to load my plate, I felt a slight shift in the weight of my pocket. Checking thus, I froze. A cigarette stick was poking from the top of the pocket. I willed it to slide back, but may be that was the signal for the cig to slip out and land into the food container I was about to harvest from.

I shifted back in horror and that was the action the other cigs were waiting for. They slid out of my pocket like logs off a flatbed trailer, and they rolled across the table. Some stopped their play accusingly on the table while a few rolled away to hide in the grass.

Time froze.

I was torn between freeing in shame and fighting for my innocence. But that would have meant bringing out past sins of omission and lies- against what my weekly attendance at Sunday School had been the teaching. I think I must have looked at my cousin, but I doubt I would have seen him through my teary eyes.

My pious mother had turned into a pillar of stone- may be because her pride gravy had been visited by the devilish cigarette. My old man too had gone into rigor mortis. I couldn’t establish whether their shock was at the cigs in their holy house or horror at the condemnation of their very obedient son.

My aunts, too, had been drawn between moving in to save me from the imminent murder or to join my parents in condemning the vice. My uncles, well, may be they knew I was just a victim.

It was a cousin- the younger brother of the owner of the cigs who saved me.

‘How many sweets did Michael give you to hides all those?’ asked the small boy, mouth agape.

And so, it came out that the long time alter boy Michael had been a smoker who had even led his younger brother to sin.

Needless to say, the party was shortened and the programmed overnight stay cancelled. Each family, I bet from mine, needed time apart to set the records and standards right. For me, many days thereafter were spent with frequent reminders of the sinful nature of smoking, and I was almost coerced into making a New Year resolution never to bring cigs to the holy house again.

Michael never told me what happened to him, and I never got a chance to ask my young saviour.

When I walk past a building and see grownups condemned to the cold blistering winds just to partake of their smoking, I wonder who is right and who is wrong. Every time I see a beautiful lady standing alone at the corner of the building taking in the smoke calmly, I almost apologise to her for the inconvenience she has to endure at the hands of nature’s partial rules. But the sight of an ignorant young mother blowing smoke into the face of her young child makes me want to shove the smouldering stump into her foul mouth. What I try not to do is to place blame. My trials with cigarettes did not catch up- I never got the hang of holding the smoke in. I even tried cannabis, but again, the thrill of “moving constellation” never registered. That’s it- some people have it, others don’t. I never got any enjoyment out of my trials, while many are those who really enjoy smoking.

The commercial wars have left many astounded. Health and clean environment campaigners have their point if lung cancer deaths statistics and especially for the secondary smokers are anything to go by. On the other hand, Nicotiana tabacum- that relative of the delicious “chips glorious chips” will not be declared a dangerous plant species that should be eradicated from the face of the earth, considering that the leaves are actually a very viable fresh green vegetable- trust me I have enjoyed a meal of it.

The actual economics of the tobacco war will soon emerge. May be the cancer-related cost on the NHS will be eased and resources will be transferred to other sectors like leukaemia and heroine detoxifications. And then, some of the lung specialists will need to re-train as they will have few cases to attend to. The sales of tobacco products might slump, so might the returns from sub-Saharan Africa tobacco farmers, development of processing plants, multi-sector employment, deliveries, advertising and sponsorships; may be even biomedical research funding into smoking related factors and pharmaceuticals.

Are we, today, paying for reduced expenditures with the smoking bans with the credit crunch and falling banks? Is the “depression” past or is the worst yet to come?

Live and let live is my call. Yes, we non-smokers need the clean air. And yes, public places need to be modify to accommodate those who want to smoke- it is their choice just like it is mine to enjoy a burger. For a fact, they have been paying a tax I can’t bring myself to bear whatsoever.