Bisho Ntongo’s solutions to Uswaz irritations

In the good old days when African presidents immortalized themselves by writing books - where some writings bore semblance to kindergarten rhymes, one Johnston Kamau (alias Jommo Kenyatta) wrote one entitled “Suffering without bitterness”. This particular book never came anywhere close to the ilks of the titles like those penned by the likes of Ngugi Wa Thiongo or Chinua Achebe in terms of their literary value, the title nevertheless still remains etched up somewhere in my little brain ( as if I have any).

I may not have appreciated the title then but today, it makes a lot of sense to me. In Uswaz, one is forced to eat a humble cake for the sake of peace. What is capable of stirring up a hornet’s nest in other parts of Bongo is let go without ado here lest I raise the devil in Uswahilinites. In Uswaz, you are guaranteed of instant quarrel and uncalled-for animosities – we live and let others live and suffer without bitterness.

That is why I have often considered pitching a tent in the middle of the Indian Ocean. If I could find an idyllic Island where I am not forced to live with people who drive me up the wall – where I won’t have to suffer without bitterness – a place where my only neighbours would sharks and whales, life would be fun for me.

Take it this way; you have this neighbor who thinks that the best time to burn trash is around the evening time when my kids are just about to retire to bed. The son of the devil burns stuff that include plastic and others that produce the most noxious smoke right behind your bedroom window. Since, as Tanzanians, we are forced to live “well” with our neighbours, I turn the other cheek.

Hussein the Uswaz wag (or his wife Asha) mistakenly reckons that by impaling me with his religion and the most insinuative taarab music, he is saving my soul from eternal fire. His junk of a radio sends religious and the accursed music through my window at the highest decibels.

My one-and-only Bisho Ntongo has devised ways to quell the situation (I am too cowardly to do that). Last time while Asha was stoking the smoky fire just behind our two-roomed shack, Bisho opened the window and splashed Asha and her fire with a bucketful of water that had previously been used to wash fish (ha ha ha) and dared Asha to try anything (Bisho is known for manhandling those who offend her including me).

As for taarab, last week I brought in a second-hand hoofer that blasts its way throughout the night with music overshadowing Hussein’s junk of a radio. This action successfully sent signals to the offending families that we also have offensive capability. In the meantime, Hussein the wag and his wife Asha have been staring at Bisho Ntongo like people stare at something that the cat just brought in. We don’t always have to suffer without bitterness.