You see, we’re Waswahili, a people who can be so unconditionally mindful of you and what’s yours, which is why it’s not surprising to hear someone asking how your chickens are faring if they happen to know you rear chickens!
I enter this popular neighbourhood bar that will remain nameless for safety reasons and find it abuzz with activity, the main one being drinking, of course.
The senior mhudumu, Halima, leads me to the counter, for she knows that’s the place I cherish.
Halima calls me 'kaka', that is, 'brother', even though she’s several years younger than my lastborn that I begot when I was close to 40!
“How is my wifi?” She wants to know if my mama watoto is okay, much as she doesn’t know her at all! I reply that her “sister-in-law” is okay.
You see, we’re Waswahili, a people who can be so unconditionally mindful of you and what’s yours, which is why it’s not surprising to hear someone asking how your chickens are faring if they happen to know you rear chickens!
Halima, attending to me like she believes I can’t express my needs properly on my own, tells the akaunta, “Rose, my brother takes Castro Laiti; please serve him, and he doesn’t want noises because when he’s here he wants peace so he can read his newspapers!”
The account nods and proceeds to do what Halima told her.
The music is now so low, you can even hear the discussions of the five massive guys at the nearby counter-like table. And the massive guys’ table is so full of bottles that you can’t see its surface.
Reminds me of the bad old days when a drinker would buy lots of beer immediately upon entering the bar for fear that stocks might run out any moment soon before he’s drunk. Bia za mgawo era!
One of the massive patrons at the roundish table, you soon realise, is your favourite neighbourhood butcher (call him Mathayo).
I appreciate Mathayo because he’s the only one of his ilk in my part of town who at times sells me meat on credit when, for instance, I find myself virtually penniless after, say, my ATM card has been swallowed up by the ATM machine!
Or when I’ve visited the wakala, only to learn I can’t withdraw any cash because, as it often happens, mtandao umegoma!
Whenever I found Mathayo without companions at some drinking joint, I’d often buy him one. I can’t do that today, for I can see he’s over-served along with his table mates that I soon learn are his fellow butchers.
When one of the butchers summons the mhudumu who’s attending to their table, he asks her why the music volume has been reduced so low, she points at me, and I can hear her say,
“Ni yule mzee pale ameomba.”
I think that’s when Mathayo realises I’m around.
He stands up and walks over to me, and after saluting me with a shikamoo, he gently asks if I can please let the music volume be pushed up a bit higher.
“We meat sellers hardly ever get the time to be together like this and have a drink… And so when we do, we want music with a vibe,” he says.
Well, you agree with him. He says thanks and goes back to his colleagues, but not before ordering Rose to give me two.
If you can’t beat them, join them… more so if they are generous to you.
