You’re at this neighbourhood bar having a drink with a fellow mzee who ought to have left the workplace, but, well…he’s still working.
We’ve requested Margie the accountant reduce the music volume that’s the norm in joints that you and your ilk usually patronise.
“That’s better,” says my tablemate (call him Muga) while giving a thumbs-up to Margie, who had shouted from her beer-dispensing cabin, asking whether the sound level she had just set is okay.
There are a few expressions of dismay from some young drinkers, but, God bless them, when Margie tells them she’s responded to a request from “those two old men there", they let it be.
This is a small drinking establishment that you’ve come to love because of its usually low population of drinkers, hence, it's easier to manage.
You joined Muga as he imbibed Konyagi from a Kasichana-size bottle, and, as you ordered your Castro Laiti, you begged the mhudumu to add another on your bill.
Muga is a gentleman to the core, a guy from the old school who went on retirement last year, having reached his statutory go-home-and-stay-there age.
However, the government agency for which he toiled suggested that he continue slogging as a consultant for an extra two years. That’s the contract.
You ask how he likes the offer, and he says it’s okay, but he quickly admits it can be somewhat irritating receiving instructions from young fellows he had personally mentored!
“I enjoy the loose working arrangement… there isn’t the torture that’s reporting at 7.30am, and I’m easily excused when I inform them I’m unwell and won’t be able to be at the workplace,” he says with a chuckle as he directs his glass to a waiting mouth.
He had rejected the bottle of water I offered for softening his Konyagi, saying the half litre he had ordered along with his Konyagi was enough.
“I don’t like a lot of water in my Konyagi…mixing it with too much water reduces its strength…I like my Konyagi strong,” says Muga.
We dwell on numerous topics, and you note the guy is quite conversant with the state of Bongo’s economy. Which shouldn’t be surprising, though, for you soon learn this pensioner is an economist.
Muga is halfway through the Kasichana courtesy of you, and he soon polishes that off while you aren’t even about to finish your second 330ml bottle of Castro Laiti.
“Tell me, Muga, why don’t you take lagers? They're softer than gins, hence good for wazee like us," you say.
“Lagers are soft, yes; and that’s exactly why I don’t cherish them… I prefer my drink when it’s strong,” argues the economist.
“Why?” you ask.
"You see, when I take beer, it’s like I’m wasting money,” he says.
“How?” you ask.
“You see, Mr Muyanza, when I take lagers, it means I subject my system to too much liquid,” he says.
But the body needs lots of liquid, which is better than less of it, which leads to dehydration. I reason with him like I am some scientist... Ha!
“Well, you might be having a point, my friend, but the trouble with me is, when I take lagers, no matter how many bottles I swallow, I don’t get drunk!” he says.
Oops! I’ve always considered drinking to get drunk the preserve of the young, kumbe wapi!
