As much as I love peace, the gods still conspire against me

THIS week has been a nasty one for me, because several things happened which assured me that the gods decided to put their heads together and come up with a strategy to make sure that my life was a misery.

You see, I try to believe that I am a very peaceful fellow, even at times when I have swallowed enough frothy liquid to sail a small boat, that is why when the gods conspire against me, I am left with very many unanswered questions.

Trouble for me started when I returned home in the wee hours of morning after leaving Zakayo’s Pub in my local neighbourhood, and this is after the collection of metal I call my car as usual refused to cooperate and I decided to leave it in the custody of the Maasai guard at Zakayo’s.

For Dar residents, you all know that nowadays there are some parts which suffer from a serious shortage of water, and my neighbourhood is no exception, that is why although I felt like taking a healthy shower before I go to bed, I knew it would start a serious war with the mother of my clan, so I climbed in bed stinking like a broken brewery.

It did not take mama Boyi long to wake up, and as I was snoring away like an old Fiat truck negotiating the hilly side of Kitonga on high gear, a short message chirped in my phone.

Because the phone is a cheap version of a smart phone, all my attempts to put a password on it had failed, that is why it was always open like a gate of a brothel, and that is how the woman I call my wife took the liberty of reading the message on my behalf while I slept like a well fed baby.

“I hope umefika poa” read the message, and that Nyakiusa woman did not bother to inquire about the gender of the person who sent the message, and she went for my throat like a veteran wrestler, and I saw the faces of my ancestors flashing before me, with some of them waving as if I was going to board a plane. I think she realised that if she killed me she would be forced to take care of the family single handedly, that is why she released my throat reluctantly, leaving me coughing and sputtering like an old Isuzu engine that is refusing to start.

Of course she realised her mistake later after she discovered that the message was from my younger brother, but she left me with a very sore throat and a damaged ego. But for me that was better than a well-placed frying pan on my bald head.

The next day I went for my excuse of a car at Zakayo’s, and the engine started as if it has never misbehaved in its entire life, and I decided to go and soothe my throat in Tegeta after calling in sick at the office. I was in the company of my lake side friend Jatello, who assured me that he had a rich uncle in Tegeta who has a reputation of drowning grown men in cold, frothy Ilala liquid.

To say that we drank beer that day would be an understatement, because we practically swam in the stuff, and before we realised, it was heading towards midnight. Jatello was busy trying to convince a thin girl that her life would be better off if she gave him her phone number, and I was trying to locate the bar maid who was serving us to come and open my beer, when suddenly the place went deathly quiet. I was still trying to figure out what was happening when a fat woman carrying a bottle of whisky came running, screaming that there was a police Land Rover Defender outside.

In Dar es Salaam, the residents are weird, they have no fear of fast moving cars, but they fear rain, and party animals do not fear a power blackout, they fear the mention of the word ‘Defender’, because it simply means spending some time as a guest of the state.

When we arrived at that bar earlier when we were still sober, Jatello and I had admonished the manager because their toilet was so small, but in a few seconds, I assure you almost 50 of us crammed in that ‘small’ toilet comfortably.

Anyway, to make a long story short, we managed to negotiate our way out of spending the night as guests of the state, but not before ‘greasing’ the palms of the young boys holding evil looking guns.

The following day I was nursing a serious hangover and thinking of all the calamities that had befell me in a span of a few days, when my daughter, the Junior Investment, or the Queen Bee’ entered the sitting room as if she was entering a church. I was still trying to figure out whether she wanted to ask for money or to beg me to talk to her mother, when behind her entered a young man who looked as if he was straight out of a bongo flavour video.

Apart from wearing his tattered jeans below his butt, the boy had tattoos all over his body, and the plaited hair on his head at first confused me whether it was a boy or a girl.

My daughter saw my bewildered look, and before I could react, she came closer and told me that she wanted to introduce me to her fiancé. I looked at the ‘fiancé, and I could see him shaking his head to some music coming from his ear phones, and listening closely, I could hear him muttering the words ‘beer tamu’.

My ancestors helped to avoid murder that day, because it was mama Boyi who emerged from the kitchen, and I could hear the boy screaming outside and calling his mother as my wife chanted old Nyakiusa war songs as she dealt with him.