THE problem with my age group is that technology is becoming a challenge, especially when it comes to that gadget they call the ‘smart phone’.
I remember the days when we solely relied on the old telephones which had a reputation of ringing with such a volume that it could wake up the dead, literally, but life was wonderful those days.
For the dot com age, it comes as a surprise when we tell them that there was no way you could walk around with the telephone in your pocket.
There was a time my daughter was surprised when I told her that the only message we could write to someone was on paper and that an envelope from the land of Mwalimu Julius Nyerere could traverse across the world to a loved one in America, although it could take months to get a reply, but we were a happy lot.
I remember there was a time before dinner in one of those rare nights when I happened to be home before the children went to bed when I was explaining to my domestic thug how we survived with those telephones.
The boy looked confused when I told him that you could throw one through a glass window or at a burglar, to break the window or give the burglar a bad concussion.
I told him that it took a while to dial a girl’s number, so you could chicken out, but that is how I used to communicate with their mother when we were still dating.
He did not believe me when I told him that with the old phone which saw us through our youth, all the electronics were potted in a honey-like oil, so you could drop the phone in a bucket full of water, leave it there for a week, fish it out and it would probably work just fine.
He scratched his imaginary beard when I told him that there were never cutouts, one-way conversations, drop-outs or battery-low or battery-dead situations during a critical phone job interview, never and that you could actually cradle the handset between ear and shoulder.
With the old phone which I miss terribly, there was no way you could enter a crowded bus and have to endure someone yelling “Yes Tom, no, make it ten million buana, you know that Range Rover is an original from UK, yes, mama watoto is still in the Bahamas with my grandmother and five children….of course I paid for their accommodation for a whole month, no my friend, my trip to France is supposed to be next week so you will have to stay in my mansion in Masaki while I am away and please don’t forget to feed my Chihuahua,” when the fellow looks as if he had just borrowed bus fare, we didn’t have to hear all that.
With the old fashioned telephone, there was no luxury of sending or receiving messages, so there was no need to have a password which is as complicated as a code word to a nuclear reactor.
That is why the other day I remembered the old telephone with nostalgia when chaos erupted in my home after my daughter discovered my password on my phone and handed it to her mother.
I had no idea that mama Boyi had my password to my phone when I returned home in the wee hours of morning, after swallowing enough beer to float a small boat to celebrate something that I don’t even remember.
I threw my phone on the bedside table and crawled into bed, where mama Boyi was busy pretending that she was asleep, because I discovered later that she was very much awake.
With the frothy liquid swirling in my system, my head had barely touched the pillow before I switched off, which was later followed by my usual snores.
That Nyakyusa woman waited until she was sure that I was out cold before she went for my phone and with the password she received from my daughter (I am looking for a fellow who can take her out of my hands and I don’t care if she is underage), she had no problem unlocking it.
When I bought that phone, the first security system I put on it was through using my fingerprint, which you don’t have to be a genius to know how that ended up, because all that woman had to do was to know the finger I used to unlock it and wait patiently until I black out, I really suffered because of that and I have evidence to prove that.
Anyway, after she unlocked the phone, she went straight to the messages and she came across a message from Neema, which said ‘Asante my, leo umenifurahisha sana, which literally means ‘thank you dear, today you have really made me happy’.
Now before you go about looking at me as if I have just stolen offerings from the Vatican, you should know that Neema is a pretty bar maid at Zakayo’s Pub, my local watering hole and the reason she was happy and grateful is because I bought a bottle of wine for her after she begged me.
“Baba Boyi, if you don’t mind please can you buy some wine for me? My mind is not okay because I have just discovered that my boyfriend is seducing my mother,” she told me and I swear that is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth!
The second message did not make matters better, because it was from a fellow who insists on using his mother’s maiden name, that is why I saved him as ‘J. Maria’, the chap is called Joseph Maria.
The message was simple, ‘Mzee jana umeupiga mwingi sana, thanks’ and this was after he requested me for a soft loan which I sent to him through mobile transaction, so he was just appreciating my noble gesture.
But the first thud of the greasy frying pan on my bald head did not appreciate the fact that I was a very innocent fellow and I woke up in great pain, but the second strike of the pan sent me back to dreamland.
