This lady thinks you’re Massawe

I’m at this watering hole I love to hate because the funny-looking kitchen boy, who considers himself the resident deejay, believes loud noise is what woos customers!

The kiti-moto (pig meat) boy happens to be capable of handling the laptop from where pirated music is channeled to loudspeakers mounted at vantage corners of the bar.

Constant complaints from some civilised customers reached the ear of the proprietor, who gave an order that music should be played at low volume. Winnie the akaunta got instructions to enforce the order.

Trouble is, at times Winnie gets too drunk on the job, and that’s when she can be heard ordering the kiti-moto boy to increase the volume "a bit." More so after some temporarily moneyed guys, who have bought her numerous cans of Castro Laiti, complain that the music volume is being played like "we’re in a funeral gathering."

My entrance to the pub had been rather eventful. A bro, accompanied by his son, who’s soon getting married, stopped me as I headed for the counter.

He reminded me of "our agreement" that I, being the senior-most clan elder, Dar Chapter, has been mandated to lead the bride price-paying delegation to "our son’s" prospective parents-in-law.

I say I haven’t forgotten and ask to be allowed to proceed to the counter to not just drink but also go over the day’s paper I’m carrying. Bro says it’s okay and sets me free.

I’m hardly done with my small-sized beer when the bridegroom-to-be walks over to me and, very calmly, tells Winnie, "Give my mzee three."

On a stool that’s a little distance from mine, there’s an old lady—must be in her late 70s—who gets "introduced" to me by the groom-to-be. He had bought her a beer too—a big Safari Lager—before walking away to rejoin his group at the bar entrance.

That had somewhat connected the old lady with me. She said to me: "What part of Moshi do you come from? You must be from Machame... or are you from Kibosho?" I said nothing, and she went on: "You remind me of Massawe, or is it Makundi? I used to be neighbours with the Mremas... blah, blah!"

Clearly, she’s keen on having a conversation with me, but it’s hard. Why, the noise from the speaker near us makes what she’s saying inaudible to me. And then, from what I can hear her say, she’s mostly into name-dropping. Worse still, I know virtually none of the people she’s mentioning.

However, she gives the impression she was a woman of significance in her heyday. A woman of power! You can’t be anything but that when you’re going 80 and you take Safari Lager! Trouble is, I can’t hear her properly, and I also want to be left alone to read my newspaper.

She must have noticed my disillusionment, for she soon ignores me and opts to concentrate on her Safari Lager, which she’s drinking straight from the bottle, trumpet style!