Why ‘sister’ is worried I am mentally unwell

It’s yet another drinking session at this neighbourhood joint that has been hugely transformed by a new owner.

Word has it that the owner runs two other bars elsewhere in Dar. She happens to hail from a district to the north of Bongo where people are generally not tall.

But this one, who calls me bro, is tall. The tall, creative Mwasu has introduced changes that are bringing in hordes of drinkers more than ever before.

For instance, she alternates her employees from one bar of hers to another.

The idea is, I’ve been reliably informed, to ensure none of the barmaids cultivates undue familiarity with regular drinkers and ends up forgetting she is employed to work, not to have fun with her favourite customers.

I’ll not give details of the barmaids’ dress code because this is a family newspaper. But suffice it to say, skin exposure is amply depicted by the alluring barmaids.

Drinkers—or is it drunkards—like it that way, apparently.

There’s no karaoke tonight, and the music volume is tolerable, praise be to the Lord!

I’m focused on my newspaper, thanks to the light from the counter cubicle light, which I boost with the one from my Kitochi phone.

And then, I feel a soft pat on my left shoulder, and, even before I fully turn to see who’s patting me, I see her face.

It’s this same girl I mentioned in a past narration (March 28) that she’s a sister to the new-look bar’s proprietor.

“Shikamoo, bro,” she says. “Mar’haba, mdogo wangu,” I say in response to “my kid sister’s” salutation.

I push aside my newspaper so as to listen to what she has to say to me, for she seems like she has something big to tell me, the way she’s looking at me straight in the eye.

“Bro, sorry to interrupt you, but I need to ask you something,” she says.

“Please ask,” I say.

“Actually, me… I know you don’t actually read anything at the counter; you just pretend,” she says, her face showing she’s serious about what she’s suggesting.

“Why do you think I’m just pretending?”

“Because people don’t read in bars; you pretend you’re reading to hide something in your mind or your heart,” she states in a matter-of-fact tone.

I’ve heard this countless times. It’s strange to read on a bus, on a flight, at the beach, in a garden park or at some gathering as one waits for the start of a function!

It’s even suggested in some circles that such behaviour is a sign of either stupid snobbishness or mental illness!

“Sister, I’m okay… You see… I’m a mwandishi, and, for a mwandishi to keep writing, he needs to read all the time, anywhere.”

“Oh, so you’re a mwandishi, eh? Please forgive me, for I thought you were suffering from depression or something… Let me leave you alone to read as you enjoy your beer… And I’ll add you one; okay, bro ?” She says and walks away after ordering the kaunta to give me one.