In Manzese, being a state guest is very simple

DAR ES SALAAM: YOU see, in Manzese, I am a respected family man. At least that is what I believe, because any time there is a family dispute, they always come for me.

My wife, Mama Boyi, a woman of great patience and even greater lungs when it comes to shouting my name, respects me according to her moods that particular day, or depending in the state I am in when I arrive home.

My son, a young philosopher of the streets, the one I call the domestic thug, spends most of his time shaking his imaginary dreadlocks after puffing on what he calls the holy herb, (the boy is bald). Now, New Year’s Eve is not an ordinary night in Manzese.

It is a sacred festival where common sense is suspended, money develops wings and everyone suddenly believes they can drink like a visiting Russian sailor.

On this particular evening, I had informed Mama Boyi that I was ‘just stepping out for one soda.’

She looked at me the way a mother looks at a child holding a cat behind his back, she already knew the cat was dead, but she wanted to see how the story would end.

My destination was Zakayo’s Pub, my local watering hole, a place where the beer is always cold, the music is always too loud and the wisdom shared is always highly questionable. You see, Zakayo’s Pub is not just a bar, it is a university.

Professors include drunk uncles, failed businessmen and men who can tell you exactly how the country should be run, despite not being able to run their own households.

That night, I was in the esteemed company of my Luo friend Jattelo, a man who laughs before finishing his jokes, Oscar the Hawker, who can sell you your own shoes and convince you they were stolen from you, and Harris the Hustler, a fellow who is always ‘working on a deal’ but never seems to be working anywhere specific.

Between us sat bottles, glasses and big dreams for the coming year, most of which would not survive past midnight.

The pub was packed. Sweat, music and ambition hung thick in the air. People were dancing as if their landlords were chasing them and mzee Zakayo himself moved around proudly, counting bottles like a priest counting rosary beads.

In short, the mood was joyful, loud and dangerously optimistic. That was when trouble, which in Manzese never sends a text before arriving, walked in wearing a torn shirt and confidence borrowed from alcohol.

This fellow, whose name we never learned and whose sobriety we never witnessed, decided that New Year’s Eve was the perfect time to test the strength of someone else’s marriage.

He staggered toward a couple seated near us and announced, loudly and without shame, that he wanted to kiss the wife…..for blessings, he said.

The husband, a calm looking man who had clearly reached the advanced stages of patience, politely told him to move along.

The drunk fellow refused. He insisted that love was free and that the new year required sacrifices.

Before we could comprehend what was going on, someone pushed someone else, a chair fell and suddenly Zakayo’s Pub transformed from a university into a boxing ring.

Bottles clinked, insults flew in multiple languages, and I found myself standing up, not to fight, but because my chair had disappeared under very mysterious circumstances.

Jattelo was shouting something in Luo, Oscar was trying to mediate while simultaneously protecting his pockets and Harris had vanished, as hustlers do when responsibility shows up.

A chair flew close to my ear and landed on a boda boda fellow who was still trying to figure out where he was.

He screamed once before passing out. I was trying to rescue the woman who refused to be kissed when I heard the unmistaken roar of a police vehicle, the one we fondly call the ‘Defender’ as it came to a dramatic stop.

The music died instantly as everyone suddenly remembered they had families at home and bright futures ahead. Police officers poured in, armed with torches and the kind of facial expressions that suggested they had not planned to celebrate New Year’s Eve like this.

There was shouting and screaming and before we could explain that we were innocent bystanders, we were bundled together like unwashed laundry and pushed into the Defender.

Innocent, guilty, drunk, sober, my friend, it did not matter, because that night everyone qualified for a free ride. We were taken to Manzese Police Post, where we were told to sit on the floor in a single line.

Our belongings were noted with great interest, especially anything that looked like a genuine Tanzanian currency, before we were ushered into a dark cell that smelled of unwashed bodies.

Inside, we found fellows of all descriptions, from pickpockets who could undress you with their fingers, burglars who bragged about doors they had defeated and men who claimed they were arrested ‘by mistake’ so convincingly that even they believed it.

As soon as the door closed, hands began moving in the darkness like curious octopuses.

Someone attempted to check if my pockets were hosting valuables. I slapped a hand. Another appeared. I blocked it.

Happy New Year shouts echoed from outside, fireworks popping in the distance, while inside we were fighting off silent auditions for the national pickpocket team. Jattelo stood back-to-back with me like we were in a low-budget action movie.

Oscar kept whispering warnings, and Harris, miraculously, reappeared, claiming he had ‘connections’ that would sort everything out by morning. Midnight came and went. In our cell, we huddled against the wall to avoid curious hands.

When someone shouted “Happy New Year!” from another cell, Jattelo responded by shouting “Sat up!” It was around afternoon when we heard a commotion outside, and for a moment we thought that the local ‘Gen Z’ had decided to attack the police post.

I heard something crash violently and someone cried painfully, before I heard the familiar sound of the dreaded frying pan landing on a soft head. I could hear one police officer begging to be spared before there was a loud bang and then silence.

I knew things were tough outside when the senior ranking officer came to seek refuge in our cell. Mama Boyi had come to the rescue!