THE PUB : Give ‘em beer, or else, you’re ‘dume suruali’
What you need to know:
“It’s good you’ve come, Mzee Muya…I was worried you wouldn’t come,” said Jacque as she rushed to get you a small, warm Serengeti. She knows what you drink.
“Yes, Jacque, what’s up?” you ask, just to be sociable, because you know this kind of welcome in which somebody tells you they’re happy you’ve arrived at the grocery means just one thing: somebody wants a beer from you.
It’s a Saturday and you’re at the counter—as usual. From here you easily take note of what’s going on, who’s coming and who’s leaving. When you arrived here, Jacque the akaunta had shown you lots of respect. She must have an agenda, you told yourself.
“It’s good you’ve come, Mzee Muya…I was worried you wouldn’t come,” said Jacque as she rushed to get you a small, warm Serengeti. She knows what you drink.
“Yes, Jacque, what’s up?” you ask, just to be sociable, because you know this kind of welcome in which somebody tells you they’re happy you’ve arrived at the grocery means just one thing: somebody wants a beer from you.
“I don’t know where you’ve been all these days,” she says. It’s a lie, for you were here two days ago… skipping two days cannot be “all these days” as Jacque is putting it.
In any case, even if you missed reporting here for two weeks, it shouldn’t be her business, for there isn’t anything going on between you and her.
Forget that she’s referring to you as mtu wangu, eti, you’re her person, someone special! A big lie, a PR gimmick, for that’s how she refers to virtually every regular drinker here.
You had ordered just one beer—for yourself, Jacque’s charm notwithstanding. It’s when you asked for another bottle when she said: “Mzee wangu; you mean I won’t drink one too?”
“Well, I haven’t stopped you, Jacque, have I?”
“Ah, you hadn’t instructed that I take one… you know me, Mzee Muya; I’m not like other bar girls.”
“Okay, I instruct you to have one on me, my dear Jacque,” you say, wearing a smile while you’re cursing inwardly. Two thousand five hundred bob is lots of money, yet here you are, giving it away just like that in the form of a beer. It’s the case aptly expressed by taarab queen Shakila’s, “Macho yanacheka, moyo unalia”.
Before long, a lady arrives at the counter, says “hi” to you and then to Jacque. Orders a small “Castro” and proceeds to drink straight from the bottle, the way some men do. She’s not a total stranger here, that doesn’t matter—you continue drinking and reading a newspaper like she isn’t there.
From where you’re seated, you take note of two young women, each occupying her own table. One has before her a bottle of beer that’s half full, while the glass is virtually empty. Clearly, she’s not in a hurry to refill it. Instead, she’s busy, either calling or chatting on her smartphone.
The other lonesome lady is enjoying a bottle of mineral water. It doesn’t look like she’s thirsty, for she’s not in a hurry to finish the half litre of the precious liquid before her. Instead, she is busy on her smartphone.
There’s this other table occupied by five noisy guys. That’s normal during the good part of the month, when virtually everybody has money. It can be tricky when you’re at a table in which everybody has loads of cash—more so the kind of cash that comes only once a month. Noise, boasting, name dropping. Everybody talks at the same time, yet everybody finds it okay, eti, you’re having a conversation! You’re discussing issues.
Meanwhile the two lonesome girls are throwing glances at the table of noisy guys—and the counter. What’s happening with today’s men? This kind of disinterest towards ladies wasn’t there during our days, you say to yourself. It’s like Jacque can read your mind, for at one stage she asks you, “Mzee Muya, it looks like you’re wondering about something, eh?”
“Oh, yeah, I am; how did you know?” you say.
“I can see you looking at those lonely beauties and asking yourself why they are alone, au siyo?”
“I don’t know, but I hear people say JPM has hidden all the money, you men can longer treat us well,” she says.
“Do we have to? Why can’t women buy their own drinks since all human beings are equal?”
“No way! Being a man is not just about wearing trousers, you must buy us things, like you’ll buy me another beer since you’re not dume suruale” she says and bursts out laughing.
She might as well laugh her heart out for that’ll be it; for sure you won’t buy her another beer, even if she calls you names.
