I was in a bar: it was filled with people at the time I came in, I ordered a bottle of beer which later became 8. I think it was star lager.

I woke up to find the bar empty. The empty bottles of beer rattled on the floor as I tried to move my aching legs.

“I have picked your clothes from the dry cleaners,” John Dumelo said to me.

He was standing in front of the school hostel. He held the elastic rope (where we generally hung our clothes) in both hands, and was swinging loosely.  “let me get the phone so we can enter the airplane” I said, walking out. Then I woke up.

I was in a rage. Why in the bloody hell will I be drinking star lager beer? Dream or reality, Beer is crap.

Then it hit me; this must be malaria. Because, look, I know my dreams, okay?

This was on a Friday night. I decided I was going to take myself to the hospital the following day. However, the cares of the world didn’t let me.

Fast forward to Monday morning. Alas, I’d had the exact same dream two nights in a row; Saturday and Sunday nights. And it was pleasant indeed, as is any dream that doesn’t involve my drinking beer.

I was in a place; somewhere in the world. And there, was Barack Obama taking me around, showing me places and introducing me to different people. Hillary Clinton was a quintessential snob. I remember thinking she needed to take a course on how not to be an asshole. Bill was lovely.

I woke up with a big smile on my face each of those times.

Now the big dilemma; to medicate or not to medicate?