By Joseph Maina
I always strive to enforce discipline and good manners in my household. As the adage goes, manners maketh man, and in this digital age, cell phone etiquette is a key area of interest. While some folks in my family use cell phones with decorum, there remain those who could definitely do with a helping hand.
For instance, Jimmy is always on the phone, chatting up his friends in a language that is normally associated with certain FM breakfast shows. Worse, he speaks in a way that would make you think he is addressing someone in Libya.
Then we have our house-help, Maggy, aka Miss Mboch, aka the deejay who spins our plates and related disks in the kitchen. Maggy’s ringtone is this unspeakably dirty song that features randy lyrics and an unforgivably loud volume.
On Sunday morning, she received a call from her boyfriend. Before long, she was droning on and on about her personal issues, while occasionally breaking into a series of laughs. Throughout the call, I endured anything but a happy time. Keep in mind that my heirs were right there.
“Ask her to tone down her volume,” I rasped through gritted teeth, addressing my comptroller.
Somehow, Mama Jimmy saw nothing wrong with this lack of telephone manners: “Don’t be hard on her; ni ushamba unamsumbua.
Later, Mama Jimmy was having a shower in readiness for church when her phone rang. As she was not around, I picked up the gadget and saw she had received one message and missed two calls. The message was from a character named Mama Saimo, urging her to hurry up. Then there was a call from Mama Njeri wa Mashuka and another from Mama Kamau wa Mitumba.
Taking advantage of my comptroller’s absence, I took my sweet time exploring her directory, and a couple of entries caught my eye. For instance, there was a character named Sonko, whom I presumed to be her boss. Then there was Sarah wa Probox, Murage wa Makaa, Kioko wa Duka, Kim Kabro and a whole slew of phony names. Happily, she had saved me as ‘Sweetie’.
“Who is Mama Njeri wa Mashuka?” I wondered, to which the comptroller announced that Mama Njeri is one of her chama pals, and that she sells duvets and bed sheets.
“And who is Mama Kamau wa Madeni?”
“Ah! Huyo ni mama fulani anapenda kukopakopa,” came the answer.
Apparently, Kenyans seldom save people by their real names, preferring fancy pseudonyms and wild nicknames instead. I guess it is for ease of remembrance, but some names are downright crass.
Afterwards, I checked out my mboys’ phones. Jimmy’s phonebook had characters such as Mato wa Arsenal, Leah Mtiaji, Jemo Mlevi, Suzie Maringo, Erico Msoto, Miriam Sumbua and Sarah Baibe. Frankly, some of the names sounded worse than curse words, and I could not help but chuckle as I scrolled. But it also left me wondering what names people use to save me on their phones.
Aghast, I summoned my mboys and demanded an explanation.
“Who are these people?” I asked, addressing Jimmy.
As expected, the boy’s reply took the form of a grin of careless mischief: “Ah, hao ni mabeste tu.”
“And what kind of names are these?” I prodded, this time addressing Russell.
“Er… I saved them in a hurry,” he replied, just as my comptroller stepped into the room.
Tit for tat
“Baba Jim, kwani wewe husave aje watu?” she asked while picking my phone from the table.
It turned out that my phonebook has Otis Mechanic, Ndauwo Watchman, Saimo wa Kariokor, Erico Fisi, Janet Mlevi, Mugambi wa Veve, Wambui Fala, Kiarie wa Keg, Munene wa Cartoon and a whole caboodle of ridiculous names. Some names in my phonebook could easily be used against me in a court of law
After a short silence, Mama Jimmy went ballistic on me.
“Hey, have you been snooping around our phones?” she prodded, to which I timidly replied in the negative. She was far from convinced.
“So, how did you know these things?” she demanded, effectively putting my manners on the chopping board. The hunter had become the hunted.
