Every village has a known bhang smoker who has done something beyond imagination.
In my village, the smoker once arrived home, puffed three roles down his throat, ordered his wife to cook ugali the size of a football. He ate all of it. He was so full that he couldn’t move, so he crawled and slept on the floor, next to the bed.
When his enzymes managed to digest the ugali and distribute the energy around his body, the man woke up at 2.am, climbed his bed, then his wife. He must have then remembered the dowry he paid and how his tough inlaws squeezed his pockets, because, what he did to his wife from 2 to 6.am, is a story we shall retell till 2080. Today the man stays alone, while his wife, who ran away from him, has dedicated her whole life to the church.