The ancient grapevine has it that mermaids were beautiful sea creatures that sang beautiful songs to lure sailors into ferocious rocks. One too many men succumbed to this beautiful trap and lives were lost. A few lived to tell the tale, but their words were rumblings of a mad man. As sane only as our country’s miscellaneous expenditure budget.
Ciku is my mermaid. Actually,she is my barmaid but to me its one and the same thing. I will never understand why every watering hole has a barmaid by the name of Ciku. They are usually voluptuous, light skinned and can male you feel like the male version of Rihanna – the only guy in the world. Her words are nothing short of sweet and she will be the reason you will end up on a Tuesday evening smartly drunk and cutting more water with friends.
Ciku will whisper sweet nothings in your ear and bend over suggestively as she pours a drink for the man in front of you. This display of posterior extravagance stirs up emotions that might have been previously dormant. She will walk away swaying her hips and look over her shoulder as if to ask “Are you watching?” She will coyly – smile this middle aged school girl.
Ciku does not care where you work or how many zeros are in your bank account before the decimal point. No, she is sincere. Her heavy accent will not deter her from asking how your day was, her stained teeth will not blemish her smile and she will even take a seat next you, sip from the same bottle and share a few laughs.
Ciku does not care if you have a ring on your finger or if the only ring you have is the one on your key holder. In her eyes you are whatever you want to be. Even when the brew carries you and you end up spilling drinks on the table, Ciku will not scold you. She will take her time lean forward expose her massive cleavage and slowly wipe the mess you made. She will look into your eyes and ask if she should get you another one.
Ciku with a warm heart will ask you “Baridi?” When you make your order and will even scowl if the weather isn’t favorable for a cold drink. She doesn’t want you getting sick. How caring, right? Behind her warm nature is a sinister motive. Ciku lives off your sweat, she makes the hole your home. You know what they say about home? East or west…
But Ciku is a monster! Her hands hardened by carrying cold bottles to and fro from the counter will slap you into your senses should you confess in drunken stupor that you cannot foot the bill. Her sweet words will melt into bitter curses, unprintable words will be hurled at you with the fury of horny hornets. She will shame you right in front of your peers and she will jeer until tears cascade harder than Neymar’s back breaking fall!
She will hold you by the collar like a scorned lover and pin you to the wall as if she wants to make passionate love. Ciku will demand her dues and caress your empty pockets ravaging for redemption. If she finds it she will straighten you up. Tenderly talk you into another drink with a stern warning and walk away sashaying her voluptuous posterior letting your eyes savor every last bit of it.
When you wake up in the morning and your head is biting and you realize a four month ban wasn’t enough on Luis Suarez your wallet is empty and your phone is missing you do not blame Ciku. She is an angel, one that you have to go visit again in the evening. So you make do, take a few painkillers head to the bank to cancel your atm and apply for a new one. Who needs a phone anyway? Ciku never gives out her number. So you survive without one, in fact its easier. You cannot lose a phone you don’t have. Ciku will be my ruin her sweet song the theme to my disastrous end. But like all great men I will seize the moment and maybe a huge chunk of Ciku’s derrière and blame it on the booze! Carpe Diem!
p.s Most bars have a maid by the name of ciku pronounced as shikoo or Jane. This is something I need to look into.