Its month-end again, I am at the verge of madness from msimbaziphobia
Only during the month-ends are at the verge of suffering almost fatal heart attacks, hypertensions, low blood pressures, diabetes and allied diseases found in the medical dictionary. Had Mama known that this what I would result to – an ever broke fellow, she would have let me stay in the comfort of her “stomach” forever and save me the agony.
This weekend, guys will be laughing all the way to bank but to me, it’s a horror and the mere thought of going to the bank to draw almost nothing can easily send me to state of rigor mortis (stiffening by death).
I, like all Uswahilinites am heavily indebted to all and sundry. Rumours have it that my employer, the meanest of all employers, not out of concern but by sheer luck has sent my monthly coins he calls salary to my miserable bank account at establishment called CRDB bank earlier than expected (I am paid on the 45th day of the month).
Instead of rejoicing and singing hallelujah for it, my heart is cringing with intense fear of money called “msimbaziphobia”.
This is a disease that sends you into a depressive mood whenever the paycheck is sent to the bank especially if everyone wants it. I am expecting a knock at my door any time from my uncompromising Labrador of landlady (Labradors are Mzungu dogs known for their ferociousness that can tear a human being to shreds if provoked). She is said to be eagerly waiting to wring my neck to my demise if this time I do not part with serious lakis - her yearly rent rates.
Things could not have been that bad had I not found myself guzzling and lavishly buying beer to all barmaids who as much as winked at me at Mzee Shirima’s drinking hole using money I had borrowed from Shylock Ruteshobya.
Shylock is indeed not Ruteshobya’s baptismal name, lest you mistake. Nay! It is a title just like Dr, Prof and so on -a title for those unlicensed blokes whose profession it to lend stupid spendthrifts like I, money at a whopping fifty percent interest per month.
The landlady is not my biggest problem. Mzee Shirima is also driving me mad. For the last one month, my beer debt has shot through the roof. Mtanenge, the butcher is even more dangerous. Chopping meat with sharp knives and other evil-looking tools is his is job.
He needs no persuasion to convert to “mishkaki” or mince meat anyone who owes him fifty thousand for the meat supplied to my tribe over the past one month. I am not ready to become past tense – to be sent to meet St. Peter at the pearly gate by an irate butcher. What about Jenny’s school fees? Hell would break loose if Sr. Antonio, the headmistress and Bisho’s boss yanked my daughter by the scruff of the neck as she does from the school that Bisho Ntongo “eats” chalk dust. That too is causing me “small death”. Thank God that my remedy lies in the savings that Bisho Ntongo has in an unknown bank account.
