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Messy lifetime dinner; this Mao look alike must pay

ARTS & CULTURE
By Maftah Yusuf | March 28th 2015

I have never won a lottery. Not that I do not participate in promotions like Bonyeza, but simply because I was born unlucky.

However, all that changed when the government called to inquire about my piece of land in Kwale. The land was needed to make way for the Standard Gauge Railway. The money on offer was good and one day I woke up a millionaire, just like that.

The best part of all this was that Michelle did not know about this particular windfall. Otherwise she would have murdered me at night just to inherit the loot.

She was however surprised when I upgraded the wheels of my car with those swanky alloys that look so good. "Timbuktu you refuse to replace my old microwave and you can buy new rims that we don't need, Nkt!" she complained.

"I want to take you out for a spin, buy your microwave and then dinner at a hot joint in Kilimani," I informed her. "Maybe I will meet some of the mommas of Kilimani I so adore," she said.

After a shopping spree which lasted longer than I had planned, we went to a restaurant for a late lunch. At the time I was so hungry that I could order the last supper.

The Maître D himself, dressed like chairman Mao ushered us in. The man was full of hospitality. Bowing low and saying nice things about our country while showing us our table.

Soon a waiter was upon us with the welcoming cocktail and a menu. We sipped the drinks while admiring photos of the dishes on the coupon.

"You can always ask for help," chairman Mao offered in something that sounded English. "My wife and I want to be surprised, give us what you serve."

Platters of bitings, bowls with strange sauces and mouthwatering dishes overflowed on our table.

"Michelle, do not overeat as this may only be the first course," I warned her as she ravenously tore into the meal.

With yellow goo dripping from the side of her mouth, she dipped a morsel into what must have been fish paste and stuck it in her mouth.

Obviously she was too busy chewing to listen to me. Then I called Mao for a refill of my glass.

"I can see you like snake fang wine Mr Timbuktu," he noted. He however failed to notice I was gasping with shock. "Ati snake fang wine! Are you trying to poison us?" I shouted aghast.

Michelle wondered aloud whether they had prepared any of the dishes she had so far consumed with cobra venom.
"No madam, I served you rat kebab, frogs legs, fried spider, duck feet in birds nest sauce, all from leading game reserves and national parks," Chairman Mao answered proudly.

"Chinekee!" my wife exclaimed.

"Pay up and leave Timbuktu, the time for Africans is over," Chairman Mao announced. His charming routine replaced by totalitarianism.

This place was full of surprises. Chairman Mao was discriminating against my skin colour in my own country. This was too good to be true. I would hire the grand Mullah to make them tremble in their Kimonos and pay me damages.

"Fast mister, you are wasting my time," Chairman Mao barked just as I was switching on my phone to do an Ababu on them.

I protested but was reminded that the management reserved the right of admission and therefore it was permissible by law.

I had recorded enough and was just messing around with the man after paying when Samurais from the kitchen grabbed me and executed a Magerer.

I was bounced out of the place unceremoniously. All the while Michelle screamed thinking they would kill me.

I have no idea how the government can allow such a joint to operate and will therefore be presenting my case to Nairobi Governor Evans Omuga Kidesh. "You will be sorry." I warned Chairman Mao as we got into our car.

"The father of Uhuru, Mzee Jomo ejected wabeberu from this country single-handedly years ago. You will see," I said shaking my fist at him.

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