Drinker’s own brother gives him a black eye

What you need to know:

  • Next to you is an idle barmaid trying to charm a guy who, clearly, has had one too many, and whose state is made more pathetic thanks to a swelling around his left eye that he’s constantly massaging with his left hand.

The “grocery” is sparsely occupied, typical of today’s reality in the wake of the harsh drop in cash flow for a sizeable percentage of the one-time free spending Bongo middleclass.

Next to you is an idle barmaid trying to charm a guy who, clearly, has had one too many, and whose state is made more pathetic thanks to a swelling around his left eye that he’s constantly massaging with his left hand.

At times, he asks the “akaunta” for a cold beer bottle from the freezer which he uses to run over his swollen face, apparently to ease the pain, or maybe, reduce the swelling.

You want to ask him what happened to his eye, but before you do that, he volunteers to tell you.

“Mzee, today’s world has become such a bad place…just imagine, my own brother did this to me…almost knocked my eye out of its socket!” he says.

That must have been a vicious blow, for the swelling is quite big, giving his face the look of someone suffering from a strange disease. “Now tell me son, what did you do to your brother to deserve such a heavy punch? He could have damaged your eye permanently!” you remark.

“Oh, yeah; actually I can’t be sure it will recover fully… I’m likely to end up half blind for the rest of my life, just because of a woman!” he says.

Oh, Lord! So, this is all about fighting over a woman, you wonder silently. But you notice he has a wedding ring on his finger, meaning, he’s a married man. So, where does fighting over a woman come in?

You quickly tell yourself to stop speculating and ask questions. Yeah, for after all, your profession (ha!), is founded on making inquiries and getting answers, which you proceed to publish. Mwanahabari.

“Son,” you say, looking at the drinker who is busy massaging his bulging face with an ice-cold beer bottle, “who is this woman over whom you fought with your brother?”

“Correction, mzee,” he says, “it’s not like we were fighting; he simply punched me because of a woman, and the woman wasn’t even his!”

“Whose woman was it, then?”

“Mine… it was my wife.”

“Oho! You mean you caught your own brother red-handed, in a compromising situation with your wife, and he beat you for it?”

“No! He happened to pass by my place and found me teaching my wife good manners; he tried to intervene and I told him to keep off—my wife is my wife and even if I killed her, it would be none of his business!”

“You said that?”

“Yeah, of course; but he ignored me and as he moved to come between us, I threw a punch at him but I missed since I was a bit drunk; then he threw one at me and it connected here!” he says, pointing to the portion of his face that he’s massaging.

“Sorry, son” you say, much as you don’t mean it, of course.