Baba Charlene is welcome to visit our home pub


When Baba Charlene was on the campaign trail last year, he would pop in into nondescript kibandaskis and relish chapos, sitting on rustic wooden forms. In the same spirit, this festive season, he should visit Kenyans and see how they are doing, with several new taxes he has introduced.

One Saturday evening, Baba Charlene should don his modish black Stetson and drop down into our weekend haunt. Most likely, he will hail us ‘Mwathani agoocwo’ (praise the Lord) his trademark salaams when he is in the mountain region. No one will answer him, not because we are rude, but because most of the fellows there were last in church when Moi was president. The other lot has no reason to praise the Lord.

Giceeri, who will be plastered, will spot the man in a suit, fish a cracked mirror from her handbag and spruce up her face. Then with a naughty wink and twerk of her imaginary bottom, she will serve him the most expensive drink upon which the C-in-C will ask for a cold soda.

Giceeri will add that Fanta Madiaba will cost him some two hundred bob since ushuru umepanda. Baba Charlene will chat with local sodas and throw a round mwenda of sodas since he can’t buy anything intoxicating. Of course, the sodas will be promptly converted to fiery drinks at the counter, much to Baba Charlene’s chagrin.

Kamaley will text his friends on his kabambe that there is a bazuu who is buying like he has sold a piece of prime land. Shortly after, a motley of famished fellows will crawl in from the shadows prompting Baba Charlene to throw another round. Giceeri will squint at his growing bill, doubt his paying capability and shout that going forward, she will be selling by ‘cach money.’

Since he is a busy man, Baba Charlene will walk out, leaving his aide to settle the bill. Giceeri will think he wants to abscond and run after him, saying that that’s how guys in suits behave. Outside, Baba Charlene will find some lanky youths leaning by his car. They will demand ‘za macho’ ‘or payment for keeping an eye on his car lest local crooks pinch the wheel caps, yet they are known thieves.

‘Buda,hii ni mali origi,’ one hustler will whisper to Prezzo, ostensibly trying to sell him some backstreet strain of weed. Prezzo will wave it away and get into his car. Which won’t take off since it has no headlamps.

At this point, he will have no choice but to talk with the guy peddling ‘mali origi’ to get him a mechanic, a guy called Maish Waya with a strong gin breath and unsteady hands. Maish will light a pungent stub, tinker with the car’s fuses and mumble that he knows a guy who has the lamps around.

The lamp dealer, a sneaky fellow with a hood low on his eyes, will say that the headlamps will cost a whooping twenty thousand. Prezzo will loudly wonder why the headlamps are so expensive in such a remote place.

‘Ushuru umepanda.’ The hooded fellow will quip. Upon checking, Prezzo will realize the lamps belong to his car -and wonder where the issue of tax comes in for stolen goods. 


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