The Pub: You invite her, she outdrinks you!

Yeah, I always carry something to read, just in case I end up at a place where there’s no one with whom I can have an intelligent—or even stupid—conversation.

Then, a lady I know (call her Havijawa) passes by my table.

She must have been having something at the section of this popular drinking and eating establishment where they serve a dish that some people don’t eat—or eat discreetly, unseen. Ahem!

When she says Hi to me, I say Hi back—a “Hi” that I top up with the word Karibu!, meaning, welcome.

For the uneducated in the ways of our people, the Waswahili, when someone passes by, or approaches your table, you’re culturally obliged to “welcome” them.

Yeah, you welcome them to join you to partake of whatever you’re having, being it a drink or a meal.

Or even, just to have a conversation with you. Our people are that sociable.

If your answer to the invitation is No, you’ve to give a good excuse or reason.

Like, I’m joining someone at that other table. Or: I’m heading to the other section to partake of the kind of dish you don’t take.

Or, if you’re facing the exit, you explain (or to be exact, lie) that you’re rushing to meet someone somewhere else.

That’s us, Waswahili! We’re that wastaarabu—a civilised people.

Wakarimu, Kiswahili for generous.

When Havijawa says she’s in a hurry (that’s typical excuse), I sort of insist that she joins me and she “reluctantly” takes a seat as I summon Judy, the attendant who has been serving me, to come and listen to her.

“I’ll take a Kilimanjaro, cold,” Havijawa says.

Once she’s settled, you talk with her on this and that.

This lady, Havijawa, used to work with the support staff in a haircutting salon I used to visit twice a month, years back, hence our mutual familiarity.

Don’t ask for details, reader!

Havijawa polishes off her big Kilimanjaro even before I’m done with my little Castro Laiti which was half finished when she started hers!

You conclude she must have been very thirsty.

Judy must have been keenly watching our table from a distance, for hardly has Havijawa placed her empty bottle on the table than she’s there, lifting it up to verify it’s truly polished off, before asking, “Should I add you another, sister?”

“Yes, please,” says Havijawa.

When I soon ask for our bill, it’s standing at Sh12,000, that is Sh8,000 for Havijawa’s four Kilimanjaros and Sh4,000 for my two Castro Laitis.

Who settled the bill, you’re asking, reader?

If you’re sincere with your question, then, I’m certain, you’re a foreigner to Bongo.