THERE is nothing as irritating as someone who undervalues your character and does not consider your contribution in the society.
I have always said, and I will repeat it if need be, that I am a man with deep philosophy in me, and I have my own principals which have been a guiding factor which has made me the man I am today, the father of three beautiful kids (except one!) There is a bunch, or should I call them a gang, of hooligans who have no respect whatsoever for age, gender or anything, the only thing which they have deep respect for, is ‘Mkwanja’, or money, or Ankara.
The most irritating thing with this gang of hooligans is that they are licensed to ply their trade, which happens to be harassing, insulting, and generally belittling your character and ego, and the funny part is, they are uniformed! No, of course I am not talking about the police, I am talking about a group of people who call themselves drivers and ‘Konda’s’.
If you know these people, and how they ply their trade, then you will understand what I am talking about. Recently I nearly committed cold blood murder, but I thank God that on that fateful day, I was in the company of my rib, a. k. a Mama Boyi, who realized that my Nyamwezi spirits were about to explode, and took the necessary measures.
That day, my kimeo, which is a collection of metals and a sorry example of a car, kama kawaida, started behaving in a very funny fashion, and I knew it was sending a message that it was in no mood to take me anywhere that day, so I left it behind.
Mama Boyi wanted to do some shopping in a place called Kariakoo, and she begged me to accompany her (okay, she practically blackmailed me!), which I obediently did.
For those of you who know how the situation is in Bongo, then you will agree with me that boarding a daladala has become one of the consistent nightmares, because apart from encountering endless traffic jams, the amount of passengers squeezed into those boxes is amazing! I told mama Boyi that we should go ahead and cram ourselves in one of the loaded boxes, but she looked as if she had no plans of boarding one, and I understood why she looked at me with sad eyes and told me “Why don’t you call an Uber?”.
I knew that the one who was supposed to pay for the Uber was none other than yours truly, and at that particular moment I was trying to do quick calculations to see the amount of money I would remain with by the time mama Boyi gets through with her shopping, because my throat was parched and I had this weir urge of paying a visit at Zakayo’s Pub, my local watering hole in Manzese.
I flatly refused, and told her if she was not ready to squeeze into one of the ramshackle called a daladala, then we would rather head back home, because I was not ready to incur expenses while knowing very well that I was going to spend more when we reached our destination.
You see, at home, mama Boyi is the supreme leader who inflicts fear in all of us, including the thug who happens to be my son (the one who is not beautiful), because her word is law…but when we are outside, I try to make use of the opportunity and get back at her.
Anyway, finally one old bus came chugging along, packed like a box of fruits, and I knew that if I didn’t lead by example, my wife will remain rooted at the bus stop. I shoved her through a tiny space between a fat man and a drunk who was swearing and cursing all the time.
Half of my back was outside as the old bus gained speed, and when the skinny konda asked for his money, I told him that with the position I was hanging, I wouldn’t be able to give him his money until when the bus stopped.
He turned to my wife and asked for fare, but she told him that I was the one who was supposed to pay, so he’d better be patient. That was when the young man started talking as if he was sent by my enemies to harass and insult me, because it was obvious he never learnt any sort of manners from his mother.
“Basi mzee ingiza kitambi chako ndani, ama unataka kipigwe na upepo?” he told me, and because I had not heard him properly, I chose to ignore the statement, but when he turned to my wife and asked for money the second time, nilijua ni mkorofi.
Mama Boyi told him that she had already told him that I was the one who will pay him, so he should not continue bothering her.
“Mama toa hela, huyu mzee mwenye kitambi amesema hana hela!” he told her.
When I asked him what he had said to my wife, he looked at me and told me that it did not concern me, so I might as well shut up.It was unfortunate, because as I told you, half of my body was hanging from outside, but at that particular moment I felt like joining the rude young fellow with a speeding lorry.
Okay, I decided I was not ready to become a resident of Segerea by killing the dirty lad, but when he told my wife that she was fat, I really lost my temper.
If you remember correctly, then you will remember I told you that I take pride in the size of my wife, because despite everything, I still embrace our old culture, where people know of your status by looking at the size of your wife, or wives in most cases.
When the bus stopped to drop one of the passengers, I confronted the young man and asked him what he called my wife, and the arrogant young fellow looked at me and said “kwani mzee ni uongo? Nyote wanene!” The Rugaruga blood in me boiled at a dangerous level, and I could hear the chants of war led by Chief Mirambo himself, and I let out a loud, blood curdling war cry.
That was when mama Boyi, that wise creature, came to the rescue of the young man, because honestly speaking, nilikua naua mtu, murder was about to happen in broad daylight!