Having eaten some makongoro plus a couple of boiled Kilimanjaro bananas, I tell myself I have to wash that down with a couple of beers.
One of my New Year resolutions reads that in 2026, I won’t allow myself to be easily lured by any mhudumu who believes she can milk me dry, probably believing I’m as stupid as I may look. They’re making a big mistake!
Like on this other day when I’m at the bar I frequent because the management is, by our standards, quite civilised.
Here, you can make or receive calls as you swallow your beer or enjoy a meal.
Having eaten some makongoro plus a couple of boiled Kilimanjaro bananas, I tell myself I have to wash that down with a couple of beers.
I “beg” the mhudumu nearest to where I’m seated to do the necessary. There aren’t that many patrons during this early evening hour, so the barmaid (call her Clara) has liberally settled at a table near mine and is chatting with me.
I appreciate that.
After I’m done with the first bottle, I give Clara Sh5,000 so that by the time I wipe off the second bottle, she’ll have handed me my Sh1,000 change.
I’m expecting her to walk to the counter and come back with my one thou immediately, but I’m wrong.
She remains on her chair and behaves like she and I have too many things to chat about. Even when she’s called upon to serve other patrons, she comes back to continue with “our” conversation, minus my change!
I can guess what’s in her clever mind: “This mzee is too important to bother about the miserly one, though, so I don’t have to give it or him. Hazihitaji.”
If my guess about her thought is correct, then she doesn’t know me. Hanijui huyu!
After I’m done with my second and last ka-bottle, I stretch my torso, turning it this way and that way while stretching my arms, indicating that I’m now ready to leave.
It’s my assumption that she’ll read my body language and hand over my change. I’m wrong! It means I need to use my mouth to convey the message.
“Sara, I want to leave now,” I say.
“Okay, mzee wangu,” she says, “have a good night.”
“Have a good night too, but how about my change?” I say.
“Oh, sorry, I had forgotten I’ve not given you your change!” she says as she shuffles through her purse supported by a band around her waist.
For the uninformed, it’s in that purse; a mhudumu keeps what’s called “float” in bar lingo.
With the float, which they’re issued with by the akaunta upon reporting to work, a mhudumu can transact business with drinkers without having to deal with the akaunta all the time.
After several shuffles, she pulls out two thousand shillings and says, “Can you give me one thou so that I give you these two thou?”
I tell her I don’t have a one thou note.
“Oh, dear,” she mourns, “What can we do now?”
I know what’s in her mind: “This old bugger will simply say, ‘Just keep the change.’”
She's wrong! I ask her to hand back my five thou, which I shove into my wallet, then pay the four thou I owe her through the bar’s Lipa Namba!
See? When it comes to money matters, don’t try any tricks with a Mwasu (otherwise wrongly referred to as Mpare). You can’t win!
