There is a false notion here that you’re rich!

You’re a struggling hustler, leading a kind of hand-to-mouth existence, but do others know? Many patrons with whom you share spaces at the numerous drinking joints in your neighbourhood don’t know that! Wanakuona mtu wa maana—an important person. Bah!

This fellow seated on a stool next to yours at the counter notices you’re busy going over your copy of the day’s newspaper as you imbibe your beer and requests that you put the paper aside so “people can talk.” You’re not as unsociable as you may look, so you obey.

The trouble is, he’s nattering about football matches taking place in Europe, while, as long-time readers of this column know too well, you’re absolutely blank when it comes to foreign football. Your reason being, you’ve had enough headaches following the Simba-Yanga cacophonies.

Then the guy, brandishing his near-empty bottle, says: “Mzee wangu, I’m sure you won’t mind buying me one—just one, and I’ll be on my way home… I’ve already taken five and one more beer is all I need.”

Here you are, a man who normally takes a maximum of three, not necessarily because you don’t have the capacity to take a little bit more. No, you've got the capacity, but you try to limit your beer intake so that the peanuts you earn for your scribbling toil can take you as far as possible before the next paycheque.

And now, a man who has already swallowed a whole five bottles—and apparently drunk already—is demanding that you buy him “just one more.” What cheek!

Look at a different scenario on a different day. You’ve arrived at this bar nearest to the place you call kwangu. You just need to take one for the road, for mama watoto has SMSed to say food is almost ready and she wanted to know if you’d be home to eat together with everybody else.   “I won’t be long,” you had affirmed during your not-so-long-ago chat with mama.

Now this lanky fellow rushes out of the blue to join you at the counter, a beer in hand, to say hi. Call him Joe.

He greets you jovially and says something about “our team,” because he and I happen to be supporters of the same local club.  Joe shares your optimism that, despite its poor show viz a viz our main rivals in the 2023/24 season, we’ll be okay next season.

“We’re getting better organised in readiness for 2024/25, or what do you say, Mzee?” Joe poses. You respond that you agree with him. 

You’re soon ready to leave, so you give Sh5,000 to the akaunta. As she hands back your Sh3,000 change, Joe says: “My dear mzee, why don’t I drink one from the change?”

Even before you say anything, she heads to the fridge and comes back with a cold Safari for Joe and says: “And with the remaining one thou I’ll take a soda, au siyo mzee wangu?” Trust the akauntas!

You hold back your anger against these two crooks because you’re supposed to be a gentleman. And a well-to-do gentleman, too!