‘Call me Mario, but I don’t care a bit!’

I’m at the counter, enjoying a drink as I go over my chosen copy of the day’s newspaper.

The loud music isn’t bothering me since I personally don’t mind loud music as long as I‘m not having some companion with whom I’m chatting.

Next to me are two young drinkers engaged in a conversation. With all the noise, I can’t even tell what their conversation is all about.

Peter, one of the duo, is a fellow I know pretty well, for he’s a bona fide citizen of our neighbourhood. Born here – here, we say.

Soon, Peter’s companion leaves. Then, he vacates his stool and moves over to me. He greets me—for the second time.

With his beer in hand, he starts to say something, but I can’t hear it, of course. I nod, pretending I can hear what he’s saying and agreeing with him.

He’s the talkative type that’s keen on talking without bothering to know whether the other party is interested.

The type that laughs at their own jokes, even as their audience remains glum.

I hope this can’t go on and on, but Peter doesn’t seem like he’s about to depart and leave me alone.

And he doesn’t stop talking, even though I can’t hear what he’s saying.

So, I lean towards him and shout into his ear: “Can you please walk over there and ask the akaunta who’s handling the music from his smartphone to reduce the volume?”

“Okay, mzee,” he says as he dashes to the akaunta who’s seated among a bevy of barmaids and a couple of male customers. Bongo is amazing, I tell you!

It’s a bit quiet now, so Peter and I can hear one another. He orders us one-on-one, probably to ensure I won’t leave like his friend and render him companionless, without an audience.

And then, out of the blue, he declares, “Me, I don’t like young women…they’re mostly immature and irresponsible!”

“How?” you ask.

“Me, I don’t have much money… The only income I earn is a few lakhs from the rental cash, thanks to the house I inherited from Dad… I only cope with women who can support me,” he says as he places his bottle on the counter after a good swallow.

“So, you currently have a mature woman making sure you’re comfortable, eh?” you ask.

He answers that he actually has two, adding, “Each of them calls me husband, and I call them wife.”

“Do they know each other? You ask. He says no.

“Doesn’t it bother you, living on women when you’re still young enough to work, earn your own money and bring up a family?” you ask.

His answer “I’m neither interested in a genuine wife nor children… What for?”

When you ask him if he isn’t often stigmatised over his social status, he laughs that off and says,

“I know some people call me a Mario, but I don’t care at all… Everybody should mind his own business,” he says and leaves me enjoying the second beer he bought me.