Encounter with elderly mzungu and resolve to undergo a boob job

 Encounter with elderly mzungu and resolve to undergo a boob job

I am at a roadside kiosk looking at some goods, pretending I have money. A foreigner in just a wet, light cotton vest and wet underwear comes by, a limp in his gait. He is an old man carrying a backpack. He greets the kiosk man and I with a nod, and asks, “Ghjjtyip hgkx ghpouf njkl ghjy?”

I look at him, then tilt my head slightly sideways and upwards so that I’m gazing at the clouds, then I fold my arms, furrow my brows and carefully place my index finger on my bottom lip so that I look thoughtful.

“What is he saying?” the kiosk man asks me.

“I don’t know,” I say, still trying to look thoughtful. “Perhaps he is asking me out.”

“Cfroplk gh adyiknmk xfxzyq,” the old man says again.

I look at him, finger still on bottom lip, and nod slowly, as if I’m absorbing his incomprehensible words. His skin is sunburnt and resembles the colour of the skin of a ‘smokie’.

Terrifying teeth

He is bald with a little, damp blondish-whitish hair covering patches of his scalp. He has tiny, terrifying teeth, obviously stained by years of smoking.

“What language is that?” asks the kiosk man.

“Chinese,” I make a guess while trying to appear knowledgeable about languages.

It definitely isn’t Chinese.

“Here, hold my purse while I complicate things further,” I tell the kiosk man.

“Not un-der-stand,” I say slowly, shaking my head slowly and maintaining intense eye contact with the old, foreign man.

“No?” he asks, slowly shaking his head as well.

“No,” I shake my head again.

“Stryhxcg poujm bnn cxxzfrwq jyhp!” the foreigner says, pointing at my face. He looks concerned.

“Ah, my face?” I ask, pointing at my face.

He nods.

“Ah, don’t worry. I’m not in pain. This is just how I look naturally,” I assure him gently.

He glares at me for a moment. He cannot understand. He reaches for his backpack and opens it. He fumbles inside it a bit and his hand comes out of the bag holding some crisp, foreign currency notes. I’m more interested.

“Ghajskkp cxqrwwe hu ipljgdjs gabanmcvba gtu iteqxc,” he says, making gestures with his handful of money.

I realise that this old man’s name is Opportunity, and he is not even knocking at my door, but standing right in front of me half naked with money in his hands. I am not about to let a little detail like language barrier come between me and Opportunity.

“Why do I fall in love so easily?” I think to myself while looking at his handful of money.

“What does he want?” asks the nosy kiosk man.

Just then, two young women are approaching us quickly. They both have big, colourful weaves, sunglasses, cleavagey tops, tiny shorts and sandals. One of them is smoking, the other is chewing PK with enthusiasm. I know her, the one smoking. She used to live with Joachim, a little-known criminal and cobbler who once stole my shoes instead of cobbling them.

Once, I found him sitting on a bench outside a little shop, drinking Coca Cola while playfully holding hands with the shopkeeper’s (adult) daughter. Then she saw her father cycling towards the shop, and quickly got up and disappeared inside the shop. Joachim then saw me, grinned and asked the shopkeeper for another cold Coca Cola for me, he would pay.

I asked him why he looked so happy. He told me that he was no longer a criminal and drug abuser, and that he had been sanctified by The Precious Blood of The Lamb. He said in fact, he had a small church where he ministered every Sunday. He was looking for an assistant reverend to employ, he said. He was also looking for more faithful who had a desperate thirst and deep hunger for The Word, he added.

He loudly observed that I looked like I could successfully lead the praise and worship team, and that, fortunately, that post was available. I told him that I didn’t have a praise and worshippy voice. He said that it didn’t matter because he could already see the passion and dedication in my eyes. I asked him how much the salary was. He said he was sure we could come to an agreement, even though the overall collection from his congregation was barely enough to purchase a little paraffin and a packet of maize flour.

After a small, heavy silence, I told Joachim that jobs were hard to come by these days and that I wouldn’t mind being the praise and worship leader for a reasonable pay. I added that the passion and dedication he had seen in my eyes was God assuring him that I was, indeed, the best candidate for the job. He nodded in agreement and applauded me for making a very big and bold step towards achieving greatness.

Talk further

He asked for my number so we could talk further later on, while he felt his pockets for his phone. He then said that he had left his phone in his car and asked me to give him a minute to run for it. He got up and first went into the shop for a moment, then got out and quickly walked to his car that was hidden by the corner.

Ten minutes later, Joachim was still getting his phone. As I was about to go and see if he had also forgotten his car in the garage, the shopkeeper came out, took the two empty Coca Cola bottles and asked me if I wanted anything more. I said no. He then asked me to pay because he was about to close the shop for lunch. I told him that I was waiting for Joachim, who had said he would pay for the Coca Cola I had consumed.

He told me that Joachim assured him that I was the one who would pay. He added that Joachim had consumed two Coca Colas and four scones, and had bought five Sportsman cigarettes. The shopkeeper said he didn’t have time for games and that I was wasting his time. Since I had only about Sh40, I used my shoes and earphones to take care of the debt.

Coca Cola

Much later, I saw Joachim standing outside another shop a little distance away, drinking Coca Cola and eating a scone, or bread, in the company of a young lady who looked like she could be a good praise and worship team leader.

“Weh, huyu mzee ni wetu ni vile amepotea,” the woman chewing gum announces while staring at the wad of money in the old man’s wrinkled hand.

I want to say it’s a bloody lie but she looks like she has won many physical fights and isn’t afraid to get into another one, so I just say, “Ooh, sawa.”

The old man is looking at their cleavages.

“Qryxzsder hg plkj yt tdfresdn hjop,” says the other woman to the old man.

The old man laughs and responds to her in that strange language while still looking at their cleavages. Then the three of them leave, the old man sandwiched between them. I sigh. A missed Opportunity. Then I swear to enrol myself in a language college and get breast implants.