How London drunk made me recall Prof Chachage

Evening is jioni in Swahili.

We all know that transition period between light and darkness. There are several words to describe jioni such as dusk and sunset. Machwa, ghurubu and machweo jua are other beautiful ones in Swahili. So melodic. Ghurubu, which I suspect hails from Magharibi (Maghreb in Arabic) to insist the sun gently vanishing into the west skyline.

“Jioni njema” is a splendid Swahili well wisher for a nice evening. Hoping you have a good journey as you go home this evening. Jioni njema, safari njema. And if you were together with us in this London bus, you might be tired, checking your phone, or admiring buildings and trees and other passing vehicles. You could also be with someone else chatting about today’s match, England versus Germany, at the rear of the bus.

“It’s defence. They need to sort that out, otherwise Germany thrashes us like beef meat.”

“Ha ha! It won’t happen. Germany is not the same strong team these days.”

“Never under underestimate the Germans.”

Later, the result was 4-4. Not bad.

Otherwise?

During such moments, such evenings, small things can become wonderful heavens. A toddler laughing with mum. A man happily whistling on the pavement, two ladies, holding hands, giggling. Busy shoppers near the road, one drops a bag, deftly picks it up... life goes on.

Yes, life never stops.

And we are still moving. Stop after stop. Up in front, a couple is arguing. The lady is seated next to a chap in a trilby hat. These hats were once only worn by rich people. Nowadays they are as common as cheap beer or Coca-Cola. Yet still special, trilby. She is in yellow trousers and is holding a Vodka bottle. The “boyfriend” or partner is standing next to them. Totally inebriated.

“Come on, let me have a sip, darling,” he begs.

“Tom, you are teetering over. Enough!”

True. Tom can hardly stand up.

“Just a sip, darling!”

Lady Vodka: “Enough Tom! Go sit down!”

The man in a trilby, who seems like a friend of both, laughs till tears roll down his face.

“Tom, go sit down, mate.”

Tom staggers forward. “I’m going to stop the bus. Driver! Stop this bus, NOW!”

Of course, the driver does not obey drunkards.

Tom lowers his head. Like he is about to retch. Yes. He is going to vomit. We are watching and are apprehensive. Being drunk is one thing. Being loud and rowdy in public is another. But retching?

Everyone is wary. Static. The man is now doubling up. Holding his chest. Turning as red as an East African flaming tree.

“Got your medication, Tom?” Lady Vodka inquires, quietly. Tom remembers. Searches his pockets. Scoops out a tablet. Gulps. Slowly recovers. We don’t know what it is. Mini heart attack? Goes to sit.

Now he is narrating: “See that house. Used to be a pub. Now it’s a library. See that nonsense? I can’t believe it! Turning pubs into libraries? How stupid? We need pub houses not libraries! Bloody useless government.”

So.

As the red London bus meanders, I recall the late brilliant Tanzanian academic, Prof Chachage Seithy Chachage. He once chided the Tanzanian business community in an interview , and asked why more bars were being built instead of libraries. Our people prefer boozing to reading, he insisted. I guess this commuter, Mr T, would love it in Tanzania. He looks like a misfit in London, where the opposite is the case.

We keep roaring.

Two streets later we pass a big park. “Look at that, Stan (his pal in the trilby hat). Stan? Playground? Saturday evening, playing in parks? Back in the day, this will be a party ground. We will be storming out, ready to get smashed. This was...Hey, Stan, you remember 1982? Party. Now its like health and safety first. You get drunk and shout? They call the police. Say, what do they call it?”

Stan: “Anti-social behaviour!”

The three laugh.

We wonder what Prof Chachage would have made of this conversation? He used to come to London often. He was here for the last time in 2005, a few months before he passed away. He would be in the house, and at around 3am one of my children would go to the toilet and then come knocking at my door.

“Why is Uncle Professor not sleeping?”

“He is working,” I would explain.

“But it’s 3am.”

“Yeah, he works all the time. Go back to sleep. Don’t worry about him.”

A few months later, on July 9, 2006, the good prof left us. He was only 51. An excellent example of the work ethic.

I wonder what he would have told this Tom brother about the love of alcohol and libraries and bars and vomit.