By Tony Malesi
Men, unlike women, have an interesting way of bonding. Women compliment, peck each other’s cheeks, kiss and pat one another’s backs, but guess what, they just don’t mean it.
Men, on the other hand, have no time for such sissy stuff. They rarely attempt to be politically or socially correct with one another, and socialise by exchanging insults. But guess what? They just don’t mean it!
Having made that clear, lets us shut our eyes for a moment and see former President Kibaki having a ball blowing up his retirement windfall in Othaya.
I can envision him sunning himself outside his house one midmorning after washing his legs, face and hands (a hobby for most old men).
As the sun soaks sweetly into his tired bones, the old man would be shaking his head lazily to some Mugithi tune wafting from a Chinese made transistor radio (pretending to be made in Japan) safely hidden beneath his seat.
After quaffing several mugs of tea, boredom sets in. The revered njamba, with hands trembling like a leaf, will rummage in his checkered coat pockets for his snuff, sorry, phone for long moments.
After miraculously bumping into it in his hand, he will proceed to scroll through the phone book and stumble upon Mathenge’s number — a childhood friend he has not seen for years.
Seedy
He, who, among many other things, expanded the lexicon of expletives will begin, “Wewe Mathenge ni mtu pumbavu sana, mavi ya kuku, bloody bure kabisa (hello, you are a very useless man, useless like chicken droppings).”
Of course, Mathenge, who doesn’t have Kibaki’s number, would angrily ask, “Wewe ni nani (who is this)?” Amid loud guffaws chuckles, Mzee Kibaki will bellow, “It’s me, Kibaki.”
Mathenge would then burst into rapturous laughter. But don’t expect him to begin by sobbing and expressing how he misses Kibaki.
“Where are you, you useless old goat of Othaya?” he will insult his old playmate.
Throughout the conversation, insults will be happily traded and at the end of it all, a meeting will be convened, preferably in a seedy village pub where the jukebox in the corner conked out before Kibaki defected from Kanu.
Expect them to spend hours backbiting the youth and complaining about how useless modern life has become. After their tenth beers, their conversation will degenerate rather dangerously to long forgotten teen girlfriends, especially the one for whom the two traded blows in a village dance.
Before they know it, the old barmaid will be ordering them to leave, lest the local police corporal tosses them in a cell for contravening the Mututho laws.
The next morning, after Mzee Kibaki’s usual face, hands and legs washing ritual, he phones Mathenge do the previous day’s ‘postmortem’.
“Wewe ni bure kabisa. Ulishindwa kula pombe (useless man, you didn’t finish your beer),” he begins.
Mathenge would giggle sheepishly and say, “unafikiria mimi ni wa juzi kama wewe (you think I’m your age mate)?” — never mind that the two shared a knife.
Before you know it, a goat eating session has been planned. The only problem, however, is that he forgets to tell a key stakeholder — Mama Lucy, the very one meant to stew the goat.
“Mathenge is here. Is the goat ready, Mama Jimmy?”
“Ngai fafa! Goat? Which goat are you talking about Baba Jimmy?”
And so it goes...
