This very short piece is dedicated to the memory of Professor Pius Adesanme who was one of the victims of the Ethiopian Airways Plane catastrophe, an inspiration and point of reference to young African satirists ….gone too soon sir.
So quite recently I have barely been home owing much to my overwhelming work schedule that requires my presence in three districts simultaneously….a blessing and a curse if you ask me
Such was the arrangement this previous week that I only got home on Sunday having left Monday, of course there was the one night stopover in Ntcheu as old habits die hard and orgasms from old Ntcheu prostitutes last even longer…it is difficult to shake off the mahule bug once you’ve lived in Ntcheu, but that’s not the story here…
Anyhow, this Sunday I got home and soon after realized that my house had undergone an electrical fault in my absence, I then set about to arrange the fastest way of remediation which figured out to be the next day…so for the time being I was wholly and truly fucked….left despondent, lonely, vulnerable and pathetic…
But hey wait a minute! They do not call me the Biggest of daddies (bae) for nothing
This called for some well-deserved kuzitonthoza time but not my usual style that involves orgies with prostitutes and a torn foreskin…iyayi….this is dedza, and not ntcheu, the beauty about this dedza setup is that absolutely no one knows of my tales and STI-infested reputation, ine kuno ndi mngelo, ndipo ana am’mipanda ndi a showa osati masewera…
So the best plan I could come up with (in line with my new good boy policy) involved heading to Mapiri Country Golf Lodge, where yours truly has become a regular and is at first name basis with all staff members mpakana ayiniake…za ma biggie izi
I then proceeded to hit up my Njinga ya moto kabaza guy (Brian) to come pick me up, the night was to be an affair of a one man dinner party and soft cool drinks to slowly kill the evening kuti pa den ndikangofikila kubleya…
Brian or ‘a bunto’ as he is affectionately called , materialized at my doorstep by 6:30 pm.
I quickly locked up my house then went around the taxi motorbike to embark skillfully behind Bunto’s erect back…and we were soon on our way.
For those who are not familiar with Mapiri country golf lodge, it is a fine establishment tucked away at the foot of Dedza Mountain and offers premium services that compete with well-known Hotels in the country’s cities…Mapiri offers Dedza’s affluent socialites(BDB and company) a quality environment without the need for travel to Lilongwe or the lakeshore districts.
Bunto and I got to the gate entrance of the establishment, and as per tradition he intuitively set upon to kill the engine, as normally taxi motorbikes and bicycles are not allowed even in the parking area as per some unwritten and unspoken decree…so usually amandisisila panja then he turns back,
olo ndimakabwelera I have to walk through the parking area to the gate mpamene amanditengera, don’t ask me why, these are just the standards I found kuno…
But tonight I was feeling frisky, I quickly told bunto to proceed through the gate and as he was about to protest I gave him a quick “iwe nyapako tatiye” and he complied…
God you should have seen the faces of the guards as Bunto in his waKabaza reflector vest coursed our Sanko motorbike up the drive to join the AUDIs and BMWs parked in the lot.
Initially my rebellion was going to only manifest itself with yours truly being delivered at the lobby on a kabaza…that was to be the limit
Then the unthinkable happened, one of the guards quickly sauntered over and as I am very well established at the place now he began to address me:
“wa-akulu pajatu onyamata wokabazawu niwolesedwa kulowa muno” he said so as he gestured to Bunto with a revolting finger plus a disgusted look on his face…
all this time Bunto’s gaze was set firmly on the ground, feeling very out of place and ashamed like the way a certain vice president candidate would feel if he showed up at a running mate’s debate….manyazi
I decided to teach all three of us involved in this innuendo a lesson…anthu asamapuse
“bwana wa ali ndi ine, tikufuna tidye ndikumwelera umu dala, chonde asamalireni njinga yawo” I bluntly told the guard then turned to Bunto “ a Bunto taparkirani machine wo tilowe umu!”
You should have seen both their faces dear reader!
The guard was left speechless as Bunto also in shock went ahead to park the dusty sanko right next to the gleaming poshy cars.
Apart from feeling a little rebellious and playful I have no idea why I asked bunto to come in with me.
Inside, we strike a picture of constrasts, all eyes raised, all eyes looking at the odd pair.
At first the waitress takes us to a table for one as she naturally assumes that kuti mwina Bunto in his yell yellow-green reflector kabaza vest is simply carrying my phone and will go out as soon as I am seated and he receives further instructions from big daddy bae,
I ask her for a table for two. She looks at me, looks at the kabaza guy, mouth agape. Something aint adding up, but she still takes us to a table for two.
Bunto is in a strange universe. Fish out of water.
I help him to order from the menu, complications of the life of the rich, kuno sitimalalata ngati kuti uli pachiwaya or kapena kuti ukugula mbatata yowotcha pa msika. I order chambo fillets in mandimu sauce served with fries for me while I help him out and he gets the pork chop served with seasonal fruits and potatoes…nkhumba, kachewere ndi nanazi dala…
The waitress scoots over with water and a basin to help Bunto wash his hands, my boy aint fucking around with no cutlery tonight.
We settle in to tackle the meal avec two shorts of jameson each and ice…
Inquisitive looks, hostile looks, querying looks, you’d think we were a male black and female Indian interracial couple that had just entered to watch a cricket match at Limbe sports club,it would be the same look of disapproval.
But this time it is not pesky Indians trying to preserve the purity of their culture, this is coming from the biggie biggies, the nthubu gorossos, ma blesser, the finishers, the rich Malawian blacks at the top and their accent-faking slay queens, feeling that theirtheir space had been violated by the presence of a kabaza guy.
Much to my disappointment, nobody says anything to us and I miss the opportunity of a fight. However I am extremely pleased with what is going on, this sense that I am violating that space gives me immense satisfaction.
I am also pleased that Bunto attacked his food like a true savage, sneezing, belching, guffawing etc…it seems he is catching on my game and my intentions…he throws in a cough here and there, chamakhololo chija, and this brings further disgust especially on the faces of the slay queens…but they all say nothing, they continue talking about Chilima nd Chimulirenji while pretending that we are not there, but their disgusted faces betray them.
We walk out like true champions after our meal, chatting loudly in the most Ntchisi accent we each can muster.
We strike a conversation about it on the way as he went to drop me back home. He tells me that the most painful part of it for him is that some of those bwanas and donnas spending about MK28000 for a meal for two are often people who owe their gardeners, watchmen, maids and nannies salary arrears and refuse to pay.
Our bill was MK15000
Back at home I gave him MK5000 for his fare even though the normal cost was supposed to be MK1000.
His profuse thanks and prayers are the last words I hear as I get swallowed in the darkness that now engulfs my house with no electricity…
This is a true story guys(for the first timeever), I just thought I must share, thank you so much for supporting my art, I don’t take that for granted, we should not take people for granted….hope you had a great toilet experience