By Pascal Mwandambo
I had just returned to my house after a rather hectic day in school when Timotheo called. The school administration had not hired another lab assistant after firing the previous one for gross misconduct so I had to work as both a chemistry teacher and a lab assistant.
I cursed under my breath fearing it’s one of his begging habits, asking for sambaza and m-pesa for buying vuta pumzi.
For those not familiar with local terminologies, vuta pumzi is cheap keg sold in mugs and served from heavy metallic cylinders like those used to store LPG gas.
“Let’s meet in town and have some drinks. Things are good today” Timotheo said in very high spirits.
At first, I thought I should turn down the offer, fearing it was one of his ploys.
“Since when does a tick donate blood to it’s host?” I wondered to myself.
“I hope this is not one of your clever tricks to milk the last coin from my miserable wallet” I warned Timotheo as I put on my shoes.
“It’s not a trick. We are waiting for one of the new aspirants of Mavumbi parliamentary seat. Am one of Bazenga’s campaigners,’ he said.
I picked a notebook and a pen and made a beeline to one of the pubs in Mavumbi town which also serves as a restaurant and nyama choma joint.
Upon arrival, I found a group of people talking in animated tones. Some drank sodas while others drunk deer. Timotheo was gulping Kenya Cane, diluted with water as if alcoholic drinks were being abolished the following day.
From the kitchen, one could smell the aroma of meat being roasted. My appetite was whetted and I was ready to feast from Bazenga.
“Where is the Bazenga who is paying for all these stuff?” I asked Tim, a trifle worried.
“Don’t worry cousin. It’s our time to eat. Order whatever you want” Timotheo enthused. You would think he was the one footing the bills.
I could see that he had even bought a brand new phone and abandoned his old mulika mwizi.
“I have talked to mheshimiwa. He said he is holding a brief meeting with a group of women and will be joining us in less than an hour” he said.
Yondo Sister, the bar attendant, came over and began hovering dutifully around the table, waiting to take my order.
I ordered two cold Tuskers and downed them with gusto. Cold beer is very appetizing especially if it’s being paid for by someone else.
The Bazenga “campaigners”, some of them loafers in town who know nothing about campaign strategies except running after handouts from politicians, were in very high spirits.
I downed the second beer as the meat began arriving on the table. The stuff was so good; the cook must have been a pro on culinary arts.
As time moved on, anxiety began building up. One hour had lapsed yet Bazenga had not showed up.
I called Yondo Sister and asked her if she had received any instructions to serve the group of “campaigners” from the aspiring politician and she answered in the affirmative. That was comforting enough.
Before leaving, I ordered a Richot mzinga to enjoy in the comfort of my house.
Later in the evening, Timotheo called. From the background vibrations, I could tell he was using his old mulika mwizi.
“Bazenga ametucheza” he said angrily. “The chap failed to turn up and his phone was switched off.”
I had held those fears having had a similar experience before which forced me to pay for unplanned bills because a politician had asked us to eat and drink “nitakuja kulipa”.
Poor Timotheo, even the new phone Bazenga had bought him had been confiscated over the unpaid bill.
