The boys ganged up on me a couple of weekends ago. They said I whine a lot, like “a little bitch”. They told me to get my shit together. That if I can’t keep my sly ass in a steady relationship, I should stop discouraging those who are doing a fine job at it. And that if I keep bashing women every time I post something, I’m going to end up forty, miserable, single, and with nothing to my name; no pension to ride on, no grandkids running around the house playing brikicho and cleaning up their poop with my white shirts, no social life, and no wife to give me a hard time about where to keep my socks. Nothing, nada! I frowned for a bit. Then I made a smug face and asked, “Okay, prophets of doom, will I at least have a bottle of Whiskey? Surely, if The Good Ole’ Chap above should decide that I be glum, He’ll at least provide Whiskey, right?”
They didn’t get it. They never get it. Nobody gets my Whiskey jokes. Oh, shut up, I know you didn’t either.
So I asked them, “Well, what would you rather have me write then?” They went quiet. And just as I was about to hit them with a “that’s what I thought” look, Roy grabbed my arm and said, “Write about us.” I swear, what was going through my mind after that statement was, “Wait for it, this maafaka ‘bout to come out of the closet!” Hehe. I know, but why would a man ask me to write about them? And while holding my arm! Cheesy, No?
Then he continued, “Write about us, at the bar; the conversations, the booze, the environment. All that shit.” And Chacha said, “Yeah. Write about Maggie’s, we want everyone coming to Juja to know this place. And us!”
[Here’s the thing about Chacha, ninja likes feeling like a Don. He’s that guy that will find you chilling with some cute cat, ignore you and say to her, “Jaber, my Mercedes is packed right outside the door. It is at your disposal. We can go for a drink at Aqua right now. Or take a road trip to Nakuru, or go for a bite at Teriyaki. Just say the word, Jaber. Just say the word.” Do you guys have any idea how annoying that shit is? Not the taking your girl away from you bit, you can always find another one. That he says things like ‘Jaber’ and ‘Mercedes’ with so much grandiose and poise and he’s not even Luo. Such fuckery!
Chacha is also too much of a fisi; he’s that bozo that will hit on a damsel and her friend and then her friend’s friend. But in all fairness, he’s also a cool chap. I like the guy – not in that tacky way you guys are thinking of – because he’s fun to share a bottle of Whiskey with. Also because he’s that guy that when you’re broke and he just got paid, he will always call you and say “Boss, si we meet at iClub, grab one for the road and see where the night takes us, aye?”
Roy, on the other hand, is cut from a different cloth. Even I sometimes don’t understand the guy. Roy drinks from Monday to Monday, quite literally, but he’ll still whop your ass in a random Calculus test. True story! Ninja has the highest number of A’s in our I.T class yet, still, all the bar tenders at every local pub around know him by name. You remember that thing about all fun and no play making Jack a dull boy? Take out Jack’s name and put in ‘Roy’.
Oh, and nobody makes hangover meat stew better than this son of a gun. I repeat, nobody!]
Everybody is now chiming in, some like P.K and Ken saying that, should I decide to do the piece, I shouldn’t drag their names through too much mud, that their Mamaas [this is slang’ for Girlfriend] are something else. Others like kina Philo and Dero and Rube telling me not to call them by their real names.
Ati, “Mimi I’m ‘The Beast’ buana, call me Philo and someone will lose a tooth.”
“And I’m Carrick, you know, like the footballer”, adds Dero. [Everybody knows Carrick the footballer Baba]
“Junior Memphis is what the ladies know me by”, declares Rube.
[Kwanza, Look here Chief, I wouldn’t be proud of the ladies calling me that if I were you. Junior Memphis sounds like some guy who asks for a glass of Red bull every five seconds during migwatos. Or one of those chaps that you accept their Friend requests on Facebook and they inbox you, “Tnx fi di +”
P.K is the other amusing character. Go through his contact list, you will find some names saved as “Dem nilipata kwa Kinyozi”. Or “Dem anafaa kukuja bash”. Or “Nyasi wa Gate B”. P.S: ‘Nyasi’ is our code-name for a not-so-good-looking damsel, or just anybody in general. It’s also what P.K and Roy call each other, they boys like that.
Philo is that mammoth of a fellow with a loud booming voice. I was so scared of him when we met in first year because I thought he’d break my neck just for the hell of it. There was this hotel we used to go to for lunch in first year, Philo would walk and if the line was too long, he’d shout his order from the door, pick a table and it’d be brought to him. Folks, that’s how you know you’re the shit!
Ken is that guy that has been in a stable relationship with the same lass from first year, and still going strong. They’ve even introduced each other to their families; the lass’ mum and he are on a first-name calling basis now. They even chat sometimes. Ken is one of those boys you know will always have your back.
Then there’s Dero and Rube. These are those chaps that will always be just fine at a house party so long as there’s Whiskey, mogoka, a packet of Fresh chewing gum, and poker cards. To hell with women! Dero is also one of the most loyal Man U fans I have ever met. You know how players mumble some light prayer and then motivate themselves by clapping before kick-off? Dero does that shit too bana.]
Now, folks, this is not Ghafla or some socialite contest blog. Here, we keep it simple and as real as possibly can. So those aliases – mara The Beast sijui Carrick sijui Junior Memphis gikmakamago – will not fly here. I will call you by your real names. And that’s settled.
About the bar, I honestly didn’t need much convincing. I’ve always wanted to write about the bar; I’ve always had this incessant nudge deep within me to write about those chaps that crap in their pants after the first glass and those that stagger home after midnight singing Kumbaya; Those that get so emotional they start calling their exes and those that just sit there, still, unmoved. Sometimes when I need a good laugh, I just stroll to the bar, order one drink and sit where I can observe everybody. Forget those posh bars stocked with expensive bottles of Johnny Walker, Jameson, Grants and Chivas where they sell a double at Ksh. 1200, I’m talking about the locals here. The ones that serve keg and Kibao and Blue Ice and Moonwalker and all that other hooey Kamwana tried to get rid of the other day. The bars made for true legends; for real men [have you seen that London Distillers advert?]. The bars you go to with just Ksh. 50 and leave crawling to your digs. The only place a man can truly ever have some piece of mind.
So I thought about it for a second and said, Sure, what the hell!
First of all, here’s the thing about the bar, men talk a lot of shit here. When we’re at the bar and we’re with our boys, we’re completely oblivious of the rest of world. At that moment, we own the whole fucking universe. The President couldn’t tell us shit, the Pope couldn’t tell us shit. Hell, my Boss couldn’t tell me shit. He could call to give me that pay I’ve been grinding his ass over [get your mind out of the gutter] for the last month and I’d say “Get your toi some new diapers mate, I’m busy!” The bar is where we go to unwind and talk about men issues. It’s where a man can complain about his woman’s mediocre cooking and doleful fashion sense and awful walking style and below-the-belt moves in bed and not get kicked out of the bedroom to the couch for it. So, to my boys’ Mamaas who may come across this piece, don’t throw his briefs into the bin because you saw his name here saying something you don’t like. It’s never that serious, donge? Also, these conversations happened so long ago I can’t remember exactly who said what. Most of it is just my imagination.
Also, and you may have noticed already, this is going to be an X-rated piece. If you’re one of those uptight folk who can’t even say ‘ass’ unless you’re referring to that animal Jesus rode into Jerusalem on then I’m afraid this one’s not for you. You may want to close this tab now and click onto something soft – something teary – like, maybe, go to YouTube and listen to Adelle’s ‘Hello’. Sawa? [By the way, have you listened to Jimmy Gait’s cover?]
Now, when you go to Juja, ask for directions to Rising Cock hostels at Gate C. I beg to digress here for a second, there’s a hostel in Juja named Rising Cock. And another named Golden Balls. Believe that. I don’t know about you but methinks these hostels are owned by some horny rich old ladies that probably nobody wanted to fuck anymore so they put up these buildings and gave them those names so whenever they thought about them, it gave them immediate orgasm. No, Really, I’m just saying. Mimi my woman tells me she’s having a cocktail at Golden Balls and we’re done. Place sounds like somewhere a lady walks into and gets an immediate turn on and a sudden urge to fuck anything that walks. No shit!
Okay, si you’re at Rising Cock now? Take the next sharp turn and walk straight ahead. You’ll see some place where they sell pork in the distance. Opposite it will be some bluish kibanda-like establishment christened ‘Sunrise Hotel’; this is where I take my Chapo-Madondo. Their Chapos are huge, tasty, and they go for just 10 bob. As a rule of thumb, I don’t buy Chapo for more than 10 bob. Don’t ask.
After Sunrise Hotel, skip two doors and walk into the next one. That’s Maggie’s. You’ll know when you get there, because you’ll probably find a bunch of bozos howling and laughing at the top of their voices by the entrance. Those bozos will most probably be us, we like sitting next to the door, because it has this amazing view from where we can see all the ladies passing by and give credits where it’s due and criticize where it is so deserved. Maggie’s is a dingy joint, you will walk in and all manner of smell will strike your miniature nose; whiffs of cigarette and weed smoke, smell of cheap liquor, even sweat. But we’re men, and this is just how we like it. This is the setting of this story.
There are three or four jugs [not bottles, jugs] of booze on the table. We’ve started talking a lot of shit and arguing over a bunch of nonsense by now, which means the liquor is starting to kick in. We’re evenly spread all round the table, howling, debating, agreeing, disagreeing, stomping glasses. Ken is probably on his phone, texting the Missus, telling her not to wait up. I’m at the corner, silent, pretending to be listening, yet struggling to fight the urge to drunk-call some random chic on my contact list. Free advice; keep your phone away when you’re drunk. I have a friend who thought he called his pregnant girlfriend and accepted responsibility for his actions. The next morning he got a text from his mum saying, “You have a baby? So this is what you do with the money we gave you after selling Atoti, our only cow, donge? Nyasachiel ka amaki nyathini…” You know your goose is cooked when your mum leaves a sentence trailing off for you to complete.
Rube: Oya. From here on forth, I’m the shit. Jana I was on a roll, man. Side chic and Main chic on the same day bana. *Bangs chest, sings from glass*
Dero: Aaah, wapi? Toa evidence.
Rube: Hahahah. What evidence? Kwani you guys want a sex tape?
Chacha: Eeehh. Bring the damn sex tape, all this is just hearsay.
Rube: Oh, Gerarahia. Peleka wivu mbali.
Me: Heheh, Ni sawa Rube. You’re the man Baba. And you, Chacha, what about you and that mami? Kunaendaje?
Chacha: [Loud laughter] What mami?
Me: You know, the one saved as ‘Eye Candy’ on your contact list?
Chacha: Hahahahah. There is no ‘Eye Candy’ Boss. Cheza chini.
Me: Okay, what about the other one saved as ‘Her’?
Dero: ‘Eye Candy’ na ‘Her’? Eh, Boss, Si I told you to stop fooling around? Utakufa mapema bana.
Chacha: Hahahah. Who’s fooling around? Kuweni wapole. Wewe Ian kwani you’ve been going through my phone?
Me: You remember last night how you were so wasted you asked me to call ‘Her’ and ask if you could go over? And ‘Her’ said she was out of town so you asked me to call ‘Eye Candy’? Yes.
Chacha: Uhmmmm……aaahhhh…..when did this happen again?
Rube: Hahahah. Pombe sio supu Kijana!
Roy: [Goes through his phone Gallery, pauses at one picture, points the phone towards P.K] Wasee, look here, rate this mami for me, on a scale of 1-10.
P.K: Ah. Huyu ni nyasi sana. Hata 4 ni mingi.
Ken: She’s not that bad. A 5 should do.
Me: Daamn, she fine, y’all stop hating. She’s a shy 8.
Roy: Now that’s a man with taste.
Me: Ahem! [Boastful cough]
Chacha: Aaaah, I’m with P.K on this one. Ako down!
Roy: Kwendeni huko. Nyinyi nyote ni manyasi. Alafu Ian yule yellow yellow wako yuko aje? Heheh.
Ken: We see you, Ian. Quit trying to ignore the question.
Chacha: Thought I was the only one that noticed. *Corky giggle*
Me: Hahahah. What yellow yellow though? I don’t know what y’all talking about.
Rube: Oh, you know who.
Me: Shut up.
Dero: Ahaaaa. Iaaaann. Heheheh.
P.K: Bana ebu look at that ass out there.
[Everybody turns, there’s no ass, everybody turns back]
P.K: [Laughing] Hahahahah. Wah, Team Mafisi ni real kweli. Unaskianga tu Juja Boys.
[We all laugh]
P.K: Na jana I was at this crazy bash maze. Sasa si there was this chic whom I was eyeing and, from her reaction, I think she was eyeing me too. So I got my groove on, went up to her and we started talking and laughing while touching each other and shit. Kumbe there was this other guy who also liked this same chic. So he comes over and starts pestering the chic with more booze and trying to grab her away from where we were. She seemed hesitant, like the guy was bothering her or something. Sasa si I tell the guy to beat it but the stupid mofo talks smack back at me. So I got up, gave him a good one across the chini and the weak motherfucker went out cold bana. Akableki hivo! Sasa si the competition is out and I’m feeling myself, thinking I’ve shown the chic I can protect her sindio? Guess what, the chic gets up, looks me in the eye and says, “I don’t like violent guys.” Imagine!
[We all laugh, again. This time louder]
Roy: Hapo ulijipiga noma solo wewe Nyasi. Hahahahah.
Ken: Hahahahah. Inaitwa kujislice. Usijali msee, hivo ndio kunaendanga.
Dero: Wewe Ian si you order two more jugs with that blogging money bana?
Chacha: Maze Writer joh.
Me: [Confused] What blogging money? The fuck you think I am, Bikozulu?
Rube: Sasa Bikozulu ndio nani tena huyo? Ama ni ile Whiskey mpya?
To be Continued….Next Year.
17 thoughts on “CONVERSATIONS FROM THE BAR”
That’s a tucking piece,im a big fan of your critical thinking.
i owe you a bottle of whiskey buddy.
Next time begin your comment with the Whiskey part. Heheheh.
your style of writing
Oh, Thank You, Kind Sir.
roy waz my man bullied me nikiwa form one
hadi nikazowea maisha ngumu
big up broh
Roy was a bully? LOL.
hahaa si ww pekee ulibuliwa na roy….ask him nani alikua form one wake….
mashati nilizifua kweli
What’s it with writers and whiskey? *raises glass*
I dont know, Shad, Real recognize real? Heheh.
Heheheh. Thank you for always stopping by, Brio.
I love it. Team mafisi kweli
Certified Members. Heheh.
Dude, am feeling you from Nigeria. Hope to do a writing collabo with you, Baba
From Nigeria? Dang.
Sure thing Sir. And bring some Jolof Rice while at it. Heheh
you are an awesome writer, this piece is epic …
Thank You for stopping by Wanjiku.