My new role as Bisho’s husband after the proposed ‘constitution’
Everyone in my house, including my choir-singing rats and cockroaches, have gone "democrazy" and are demanding a new constitution. I am pretty sure that if I understood cockroach and rat languages, they too would be forcing me to enter into some kind of constitutional deal with them. To give you a picture, what is happening to me is akin to what is happening in the Hallowed House in Dodoma. My MP, Dr Tajiri umbo Kubwa, and his colleagues are in the process of pulling another constitution, and the guys there do not seem to understand or have their own ideas about it. The same is happening to me in Uswaz; everyone is demanding a new constitution. My one-and-only woman, Bisho Ntongo, my little Jenny, Koku the housemaid, Tigre, my lazy dog, cats, and rats all want a new constitution too.
Bisho Ntongo’s version of the constitution reads like this: I shall be required to assist in all house chores. Otherwise, I shall become what Uswahilinites refer to as a "Bushoke." In case you do not know who a Bushoke is, let me clear the air for you. He happens to be a man who has been fed with an overdose of “limbwata” that makes him a zombie. "Mbuzi" in Kiswahili besides meaning a “goat” is a foldable stool with a protruding arm equipped with a lacerated knife for grating coconuts. That shall be my tool of trade in Uswaz, and anything that goes down our throats in the form of food has to be laced with coconut milk under the new constitution. That means I will be fully occupied working on the "mbuzi.”.
That is not as bad. Sample this: I shall be waking up at the crack of dawn, cook breakfast for the entire family, do some laundry, and then go to the office, where I wear out miserable fingers to the bone on the keyboard, writing such stories as you are reading. That is happening because the new constitution stipulates it.The deal goes further. It says that I should never be caught by Bisho Ntongo ogling the women’s derrière, especially that of my favourite amiable barmaid friend Tatu (she has one that turns me on), for that would bring me instant death. In the same constitution, I am expected to submit my pay slip and bank card as soon as my mean boss tosses my measly wages into my bank account.
The number of bottles of frothy Ilala drinks that I take per month will henceforth be monitored. Jenny, on the other hand, must not be seen walking arm-in-arm with the Uswaz bodaboda rider, who has the most “innovative” code of dress. I know that Bisho Ntongo hates him with a passion, but I shudder to think about what I would do to him if the law allowed it. I would be very happy to wring his wicked neck like one does to a wet towel until a qualified doctor certifies that he is cold dead. I am, however, afraid of being sentenced to spend the rest of my miserable life in Segerea or becoming a guest for Hangman. You see, Jenny is a school-going girl, although she knows more adult stuff than Bisho Ntongo and I put together. If the young man does not keep his dirty hands off Jenny, you can be sure that something serious will happen to him. Sorry, I have run out of editorial space…see you next Friday in this tirade!
