You enter this bar whose name and address should remain under wraps for commercial reasons. It’s an expansive establishment, with perimeter walls lined with tall and leafy ashok trees.
And you know what? They even have a swimming pool, and as we enter the place in the early evening, there’re quite a number of people having a swim. That, despite the chilly weather that Dar is presently experiencing.
A younger bro, Gerry, who had driven us to this place, says what you’re viewing as a large number of revellers today is nothing compared to what abounds on some other days.
“This place is normally full to the brim, especially on weekends, and patrons eat and drink like there’s no tomorrow...you should make a point of coming here on some weekends,” says Gerry.
I say okay, absentmindedly as I look this way and that way in admiration of the whole place. The wahudumu, who are all in black, are attentive, and the one serving our table keeps coming back to us to check out if we’re comfortable.
We’re soon joined by a young lady, a clansperson of ours with whom we’re set to discuss some crucial family matters.
She’s a modest drinker, but a drinker all the same, so she’s not getting bored as we share views on the numerous matters, some of which are holding our mini-tribe down.
As expected, our lady companion soon excuses herself to go home. She’s raising two young souls aged four and seven, and she doesn’t fully trust her house-help. Well, who does?
She calls the mhudumu and asks for the bill so far.
The mhudumu looks a little shocked and asks, "You mean you’re paying for your drinks...won’t one of these two guts pay for you?”
The reaction of this mhudumu is stereotypical in our society. Women aren’t supposed to part with even a shilling while in the company of men! All she needs to do is to sit coyly at the table and look sweet as men pay, even when she’s a well-paid salariat. And the one taking the most expensive brand.
But this sister of ours is different. She’s not the next-door kind of a lady.
So, she tells the mhudumu, very clearly, that she’s picking the tab.
The bill is something close to 40k, and she settles it fast from her mobile-Pesa account and bids us goodnight.
Now on our own, Gerry and you resort to man-talk; you know what this kandeman is talking about. Au siyo?
Gerry asks you to say what we should eat, but you say he should choose what he believes is best for us. He’s a regular here, isn’t he?
He hails our mhudumu and asks her to summon the kitchen lady, who, upon her arrival, provides a list of what is available in their menu...verbally.
Gerry suggests we should eat roast kondoo, and you say fine.
It's been a long time since you ate sheep meat, and when it comes, you aren’t disappointed. But the bill, when it is placed before us, disappoints—nay, shocks!
You like this place alright, but you dislike the size of their bills.
Your ndugu can continue coming here as much as he wishes, but he shouldn’t drag you along, for you don’t like playing Lady Jaydee’s Yahaya!
