Life becomes hell as ‘Mzee’ joins frequent fliers club

The father of my one-and-only woman Bisho Ntongo, Mzee Mageranturubius Robiallac Rutagamba, is a strange old geezer.

Firstly, his middle name is borrowed from a paint brand. I am reliably informed that the Mzee was the first man to have his house painted with Robiallac in the entire Lake Zone and hence the paint name he proudly parades.

His first name is either Greek or Latin, but that is understandable considering that he is a staunch Catholic, and the more complicated one’s name is, the more heaven-bound he is deemed to be.

The last mouthful of a name came from God-knows-where – probably from one of Bisho Ntongo’s ancestors.

The old man has a penchant for flying at least once in a month – at our expenses and pretext of this or that illness.

This has been seriously denting my wallet which never carries enough in it and has never been known to leave the financial ICU.

A couple of years ago, the mzee developed appendicitis (you have heard of appendix, haven’t you?). At first, the rumour had it that his neighbour Ruta had been bewitching him until I showed up.

Had I not showed up, the old man would have died. A quick test at a mission hospital in Katerero proved that he indeed needed an emergency operation. Ferrying across Tanzania a writhing old man was not my idea of helping him – we took a flight from Bukoba to Dar.

I always think that pilots are mad people for flying those objects. After shooting into the air like an arrow, shortly after lifting from an airport, suddenly everything below was blurry – I hate it when pilots experiment with Kamikaze aerobatics.

The poor old man was crossing himself, praying to Holy Mary so loudly that I was a bit embarrassed. Just a few minutes into the air and the junk of the plane was behaving as if it was about to plunge into Lake Victoria.

The old man started screaming, vomiting with fear and was literally wetting his pants – I was even more embarrassed as everyone was staring at us. Twenty minutes and I could see rocks synonymous with Mwanza. Some passengers disembarked. More came in.

We shot into the air and the old man looked pale – like he was dying the next minute. Well, for two hours I was praying to all the gods of Lake Victoria that the old man does not die in my arms.

When we landed in Dar, the old man was relieved, albeit shaken. Despite the tribulations of the first flight, the old man has suddenly fallen in love with aircraft. Even when he suffers from a toothache, he demands an air ticket. I am thinking of how to stop him from denting my pockets!