These Congolese fellows can be home wreckers
A FEW weeks ago I stumbled home at that hour when the cocks are still deliberating whether to wake up and make the usual noise or continue sleeping for a few more minutes.
It was at that time that is usually called the ‘Nicodemus Hour’, which is the time that the fellow called Nicodemus went to see Jesus Christ, or in other words, it is called the ‘ungodly hour’.
I returned home at that time because earlier in the day I had received a call from a friend of mine who owns his own private company in Nairobi, and he told me that he wanted us to meet for a drink.
It had been almost six years since the last time we met, and to be honest I was looking forward to meeting the fellow, because apart from being good company, the fellow knows how to keep the bar maids busy when he is loaded.
We met at a certain bar in Mwenge and I found him in the company of three other fellows who looked as if they did not have any quarrel with money, in other words they looked like people who are used to playing around with money.
It was around 6 pm when I arrived at the bar, and after the usual greetings and catching up on lost time, the fellows embarked on their mission of making sure I drowned in cold, frothy liquid.
There was a certain band which was playing and by the time I was swallowing my 10th bottle, I was on the stage like a veteran musician belting out oldie after oldie, which earned me about 10 more bottles from amused revellers.
By the time I was ready to leave, I had completely forgotten whether I came with my car or public means, as I struggled to remember where I lived, because my brain was swimming in frothy substance.
It was a miracle but I managed to reach home, although as much as I tried to recall later how I reached my home, my mind hit a dead end.
When I entered the bedroom, I found Mama Boyi asleep (although I was not sure whether she was genuinely sleeping or she wanted me to believe that she was asleep), but when I stumbled on the fan and sent it crashing on the floor, she sat up in bed and out of nowhere I saw that she was holding something which resembled her favourite weapon, the greasy frying pan.
I managed to locate the light switch and turned on the lights, and I came face to face with the angry mother of my clan, and I could swear I heard her growling like an angry bulldog.
I was not in any position to defend myself in case she decided to land the frying pan on my bald head, but I thank God because I think she realised that in my condition, one strike of the pan would have sent me to my ancestors.
She sat on the edge of the bed and motioned me to sit, but my first attempt sent me headfirst on the floor near her feet, and she did not make any effort of helping out.
I managed to sit on the third attempt as my wife placed the frying pan on the bedside table, and in a voice that resembled the voice of my math teacher, she asked me where I was coming from at that hour.
Although I was roaring drunk, I managed to explain to her the situation, that I met with a long lost friend and in his wisdom he decided that I should swallow enough beer to float a small boat.
I told her that apart from breaking my own record in terms of swallowing cold, frothy brown bottles, I was also the darling of the party because I sang my heart out like an opera singer, and to make sure I convinced her, I tried to give her a demo of ‘Karubandika’ song.
Anyway, the point is, I know I might shock most of you, but the mother of my clan loves dancing, so when I told her that I was at a place where there was music and I did not think of inviting her, her mind went back to the many times she has been asking me to take her out.
I always know that women can be ruthless creatures if they so choose, but I did not think she would be cruel enough to make me promise to take her out in my state at that time, but that is exactly what she did.
So yesterday I did not have an option but to take her out to a certain bar where there was live music, and this is after she threatened to deal with my bald head every time I came back home until I took her out.
The place was packed but not to the extreme, because we found a table right in front of the stage, where a few minutes later Mama Boyi decided to relive her youth and show the younger generation how to dance.
The band consisted of several bleached Congolese youths, so when I fished out a 10,000 bank note and gave it to the band leader because I was impressed by their talent, I did not think of anything when one of them came over and asked me my name.
“Baba Boyi, mutu ya pesa, mutu ya watu, tajiri mukubwa mujini, mwanaume pekee anaendesha gari ya umeme Tanzania,” I was shocked when the bleached Congolese screamed on the microphone a few minutes later.
When I handed him another 10,000 note, the same bleached fellow came back and asked for the name of my wife, and when I told him Mama Boyi, the next thing I heard was, “Papa Mukulu, Baba Boyi, mutu amejaa hekima na franga mingi, na muke yake murembo Mama Boke,”.
It took me several minutes to convince the mother of my clan that I did not know any woman called Mama Boke, and that the fellow did not hear properly when I told him my wife is called Mama Boyi and not Mama Boke.
The worst thing is that I also did not know that my landlord was also there, so when I saw a message saying ‘You should be out of my house tomorrow if you do not pay your rent arrears’, I left cursing those Congolese fellows.
