HOW MAX MISSED A WIFE- part 1. Last Saturday yours truly was the driver, with me an entourage to Nyeri, in a village I can’t remember the name. The Pro-box I was steering had carried beyond capacity, considering we had four goats, 3 banana bunches, 5 crates of soda, 6 bags of cement, a 500 litre Kentank drum and a gunia of potatoes at the boot. I was part of the dowry entourage for my former school mate Max. Given my current economic melt-downs, I had not contributed anything material towards the fete but I was invited courtesy of my wise counsel and driving proficiency. Back at my village, I hold the title of the best dowry negotiator this side; north of Limpopo and Max was keen to utilize my expertise. I was reluctant to join the assemblage but after much persuasions, I had to create time from my usually busy schedule to attend the occasion. Max if you can’t remember is one of my two best friends in high school. The other is Marto. Now you may be aware that mid this year Marto married in a historical wedding never witnessed in his village. Multiple women had camped outside the wedding venue with kids and placards written: MARTO the DEAD BEAT AKUKU: we had to engage the services of mean-looking bouncers and convince the presiding pastor to lock the ladies from outside the church to prevent them from causing stampede. Now to Nyeri, we were an entourage of 3 vehicles, a pick-up with food stuffs, a matatu with friends, villagers and relatives then the Probox which I was driving, carrying the bridegroom to be and his best couple. I was leading the pack, repeatedly and loudly playing the song “Mke si nguo eti utaomba mtu.” Max was all the way bragging about his catch, occasionally forcing me to pull the car beside the road as he showed us some photos they had taken together with the girl, Kate, at Uhuru Park. Honestly she was a stunning girl, but of course not as gorgeous, dazzling, elegant, pretty, exquisite and curvaceous as my girlfriend. Look what I did there!!! Just like me, Max didn’t know the route towards his future in-laws well and we got lost severally. At Karatina shopping center, I stopped and dashed to a shop to buy three sachets of ENO, a valuable contrivance I never forget in such occasions. As we finally approached the homestead, we were welcomed by a group of ululating women, shaking their thing madly as they sang songs I didn’t understand. To show the waiting gathering I was the nigga driving, I lowered the window, jerked my head out, and started waving frantically and hooting irritatingly, clearly stealing the show. The hosts first blocked the entrance to the home with a row of chairs, demanding we give an entry fee before we are allowed in. Everybody in the probox, except the driver (I) who was busy hooting, contributed something in hurry and we threw the collections to the singing women, who ran to collect them opening the entrance for us. The dance tempo escalated as hips swung and shoulders shook. I stepped out of the Probox as a King, waving to the expectant crowds. No sooner had we sat down under the tent than the MC took to the podium to pass some important notices. As expected, he reminded the hosts which bushes to utilize for long calls as we Nairobians treat ourselves to an honor of visiting the only mabati toilet in the homestead. He followed that with the news I was waiting for, that the food was ready. I led the queue, licking my lips to alert the enzymes. In such scenarios I don’t eat anything I can cook in my house. Anyway I cook nothing in my house but things like Ugali, vegetables and rice can be easily found in my neighbor’s houses. I tapped my pocket to confirm that my ENO dosage was still there then piled my plate with the delicacies. What usually surprises me is that I never grow fat despite my record breaking eating appetite. The more I eat the more I grow skinnier. I know I have roundworms but surely they can’t exhaust all that I feed them with. I once visited a doctor who after examining me told me that he couldn’t do anything about my deteriorating afya and it seems my malnourishment is hereditary, I don’t know from who. Fast forward. We cleared everything and reminded them that we won’t mind a cup of tea to escort the main course. After everyone settled down, we got down to the main business. All that time I had not seen Kate, Max’s fiancée. This had at first got me worried but I soon brushed it off thinking she must be busy helping with the kitchen, furthermore Max was always telling me that her babe loves cooking! The nigga was wrong. Kate was intentionally kept away for the opportune moment. The MC cut off the music abruptly as an old aunt grabbed the mic, slapping it severally to confirm it was functional. “Mabari chenu watu ya Nyairofi!” she started out as I stuck a handkerchief in my mouth to prevent laughter. Outside the house came four ladies, okay let’s call them people, wrapped from toe to head with lessos and sheets. Slowly they were skulking towards the podium. I sat up and stared. “Hii masichana nne nimefuga mareso Kate iko hapa. Nataka Max akuje hapa bere ajishukulie Kate wake na akikosa mnatoa erfu ichirini.” (Kate is among these four girls here, Max come and identify her and if you can’t you will cough off ksh.20k) The four were of equal size and covered similarly and clearly differentiating them was like picking out an Al Shabaab Mujahideen from an Al Qaeda parade.
Posted on: Tue, 30 Sep 2014 05:13:54 +0000
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