Something about Saturdays that I love. The looseness of it all, the unaffected air that hangs. Saturdays is the day the lord has chosen. If Saturday was a person it would be like Toni Braxton licking an ice-cream. But this is not about Saturdays; this is about Fridays, the second coolest day. Fridays are an old cliché which continues to work against all convention. But Fridays are under threat from Thursdays which I hear is slowly becoming the next Fridays. So Friday got to watch out because Thursday is breathing down his ass. Anyway, back to Fridays. After putting in a few hours in terms of work last Friday, I hightail over to my boy’s pad with a bottle of red wine tucked under my arm. He calls wine a “gay drink,” because he drinks Vodka or anything served in a dwarf glass. So here he is calling my beloved drink gay and yet he is the same guy who carries his chick’s purse in public. Okay, so it happened once, but common I can’t see how that is better than drinking red wine. I think drinking something hoping it will make you look manly is gay. I’m just saying. He has a half bottle of Vodka opened when I pitch up at 6pm and he drinks it like a girl; by squirming every time he takes a neat sip. At some point being macho becomes too laborious and he decides to mix it with lime, which if you ask me is sissy because you spoil the taste of it. Doesn’t anyone watch the kick-ass Smirnoff Vodka ads on TV? Real men drink Vodka neat, and they don’t squirm! I honestly think that if he can’t handle Vodka neat he should try and drink Smirnoff Ice even though he can never hear the end of it from me. Anyway so he squirms though his Vodka and tells me of some pal of his who moved into this apartment which has a cool bar downstairs and a good decent crowd. I’m interested because I’m a very vain person. I love such places. I’m a pathetic wanna-be bourgeois, bite me. But at least I wouldn’t squirm while drinking Vodka. Anyway, we shoot the breeze some, as we work our way down the barrels. We decide that this bar sounds like a nice place to check out. So he hits the shower, dresses up and we step out. We decide to use his car because; one, I’m lazy and two he drives a better car. Bastard. It’s a little after 9pm, it’s nippy, we are a bit wasted (just a bit) and we have Hot 96 on the dial. It’s some kick-ass music; Hot 96 plays some really excellent music…when they aren’t talking. I wish they didn’t talk. Anyway, Papa Shaq is on air, and he is pelting it good. Look, I’m going to be honest, I’m not a big fan of Papa Shaq but only because I find how he talks a bit put-on. He talks like he is a bad boy, but you can tell he is only an aspiring bad boy. Look, all the bad boys are in Kaloleni, Ziwani, Majengo and Kariobangi South and those folks don’t even speak English because English is a language for the weak. These guys are bad by default or circumstance not because they watch The Sopranos or listen to 50 Cent. Plus bad boys don’t talk; they stick toothpicks in their mouths and just stare. You don’t need to hear a bad boy talk, you only need to see a bad boy for you to know that he won’t have any qualms sticking a shinny in your gut. But this time round Papa Shaq is playing some good music (“some good shit” as a pal of mine, Mackey, loves to say), he is playing some good old head thumping Adina Howard stuff and Montel Jordan and it’s nostalgic because the 90’s is an era which we all became men. He (Shaq) is also banging on about nothing really, you know, just running his mouth and it’s totally hilarious. He says some stuff that really kills us in the car, some which border on the raunchy, but my God, are they funny! You can tell he is having hoot of a time in the studio, and he might not know it but he is really putting the shine in our evening, you know, putting us in the mood with some Dr.Dre hits, the best preamble for an evening on the tiles if you want to know. “I think that guy is smoking some shit in the studio, I hope he doesn’t stop before we get to the bar,” My pal laughs. We are turning into Argwengs Kodhek road from one of those small feeder roads that spill into it. We are taking a left. Papa Shaq is groaning away the way he does on radio. I’m thumping a text on my phone. My Vodka drinking pal is on the wheels, cackling at Papa Shaq’s quips. There is a car in front, a Toyota EST or something, also turning left. My pal looks towards the right for any oncoming traffic which is a lot at this time of the night, he assumes that the Toyota EST in front has already managed to jump in, and so while his concentration is arrested to the right, he only realizes that the car in front hasn’t moved, when he rams into. Metal meets metal. Or rather plastic meets plastic because nowadays cars are made of plastic even though they sound like metal when they meet. It’s official; a fender bender. 9pm. Just what we need! It’s not loud, or crashing, more like an audible thud and a jolt. I mean we were driving at what 3km/hr? My pal curses aloud, and continues to curse until I tell him to bloody calm down. After six seconds of absorbing and processing what just happened, we step out of the car and inspect the damage which is not big really. The car in front has a slight dimple on its bumper; ours has a scratch, nothing major really. This is something we can sort out here without involving cops or parents. Well we were wrong. The four doors to the EST burst open and three slightly distraught ladies spill out. One look at them and I knew they were going to have us for dinner. The first thing I notice is a Mohawk on one of the ladies heads, the driver. I hate the Mohawk, it’s a disgusting hairstyle. It’s like wearing a squirrel on your head, which is animal cruelty if you ask me. The Mohawk is a hairstyle that degrades the squirrel, mocking it and generally making the poor animal lose its self esteem. What has a squirrel done to deserve such mockery? I think a squirrel is a peaceful animal, and for someone to wear it on her head is insensitive. I have strong feelings about this hairstyle. If my woman ever wore a Mohawk I would not touch her until she returned the damned animal to the zoo. These girls are clearly on the same mission as us. The driver chick is wearing a black stocking under a very trendy short skirt and some short jacket. She has on sandals, which I suspect is because she can’t drive in heels. She looks trendy in spite of that hideous thing she is sporting on her head. You know what, she is actually very beautiful. She shuffles to the back of her car and stares at the damage. “Shit,” she spits. Before long her two hip looking buddies are standing at her trunk, staring at the damage. They look slightly under 30yrs of age, perhaps working in some marketing firms, earning decent pay. They look like the type who lived life for the night, drunk at Brew Bistro the first weekend of the month and Tamasha the rest of the month. The type who drink with some fat bankers. They looked like they watched too much of Big Brother and the Kardashians or whatever it’s called. They aren’t tacky or cheap, but they weren’t born in money either, they are hustlers like me and my boy here. And they are hot. The three of them. Well kept nails, great hair (except the Mohawk) and trendy clothes. We were indeed in trouble. “What the fuck, dude!” one of her buddies hiss at my pal. We were officially in potty time, because soon words like “fuck” and “shit” were being bandied by the two of the girls. I expected the driver chic wearing the squirrel to be the one with a potty mouth but, she was quite contained. My pal being a bit tipsy says something like, “Look, this is a small dent, with 5sock you can fix this.” This enrages Miss Potty mouth who says, “Stella, let’s not even vibe these guys, let’s call the cops to sort out this shit.” “That’s not necessary really,” I say. “Oh yes it is! 5 sock? You think this car is worth 5 sock?” she shrieks. “No, not the car, just the damage.” I say. The thing is, further up the road, near Divino bar, is always a roadblock and all the ladies had to do is walk up and get one of them cops and we would be in serious dogs. For one, we were clearly not very sober, for two, well we had rammed into a stationary car from behind. The cops would have a field day with this one. Problem was not even the driver- Stella- or the other lady who was seated behind, problem was this potty mouth who was a bit drunk and jumpy. In fact they were all a bit tipsy if you ask me. “Look, let the driver talk, why are you running your mouth and yet it’s not even your car?” that’s my pal sticking his foot in his mouth. Miss Potty Mouth gets pissed and starts talking fast and wagging her finger in my pal’s face like she been watching too much black TV. Now my pal is one of those guys who like to say “I’m a mgikuyu and no woman shall talk to me like that,” They clash badly with Miss Potty mouth, voices are raised, cars slow down, roll down their windows and stare. It’s becoming a spectacle. Her pal’s try to calm her down, but she won’t have nothing of it, she wants blood, she is Sparta! At the height of this verbal tirade, my pal says something in kikuyu to Potty Mouth and it’s something sexist I gather because this really incenses Miss Potty Mouth who launches into a colorful Kikuyu tirade of her own. So for three minutes, nasty kikuyu words fly around, and to tell you the truth I was kind of having a good time watching this drama. Anyway I tell Mohawk that the sooner we all settle this out of court the sooner we will all go and have our drinks and so I suggest that they ask Potty Mouth back in the car and I have my pal back in the car on my end as well. That sort of worked. With the trouble makers safely bandied in the car, we talk. She says she needs 10k to fix her car. I almost laugh at that amount, because we will pay but only if it’s in Ugandan shillings. I tell her my pal doesn’t have that money, neither do I. “What does your pal do?” she asks. “He is a farmer.” The other pal laughs, she has dreadlocks and she looks sort of naughty. She has lit up a cigarette and is staring at me cynically from behind
the haze of smoke. “Yeah, right. And I’m a nuclear scientist.” She slurs. “No really, he is a farmer. He grows tomatoes and cabbages. In fact he has the biggest tomatoes you have ever seen. ” Nutty dreadlocks giggles because she catches the raunchy joke. It’s always good to isolate the dirty minds from the rest. Anyway, I insist that 10k won’t fly. “Si you add for him?” Mohawk suggests, and when I tell her that I’m unemployed Dreadlocks says, “Why can’t he hire you in his farm if you need a job?” I find that really funny, but maybe because I’ve had a whole bottle of wine. “I don’t qualify,” I say. “What is he looking for?” “Someone to water his tomatoes, but see, I’m an orange kind of guy.” I say, and she really laughs at that. Mohawk for the first time chuckles. The ice is thawing. She asks how much we can pay and I walk over to my buddy and ask how much we should pay and he says 5sock. The girls laugh at this suggestion. So Mohawk makes a call. She steps aside and talks into her phone, narrating what’s just happened. “Ati they want to pay 5sock.” She says eventually. She listens and nods for a minute then comes and says she will only take 3k or it’s the cops. I ask her who she just called and she says her boyfriend. I ask her to call him again I talk to him and she hesitates for a while, and when I insist she reluctantly calls him back and says, “one of them wants to talk to you.” The moment the guy on the other end says hallo and speaks one sentence I immediately know without a doubt that he is a brother from the lakeside. The subtle accent is unmistakable. I also pick that he is not young, that when his girlfriend here was about getting born he had already broken his voice almost two decades back. Which is to say he sounded 5oyrs old. There is certain way 50yr olds talk; with a solid self assurance that almost borders on the arrogance. In fact this one sounded like the guy who sported whiffs of white hair on his goatee. The type who has made mad money, and now keeps a young Mohawk-ed thing like Stella here, buying her a small car and calling her a “a girl toto”. Here is what I do; I immediately switch from English to the tongue of our mother as a way of gaining some leverage and I realize soon that this little tact bridges the negotiations considerably. I tell him that we are just small times hoods trying to run this town, penniless and loud, but him on the other hands sounds like a big player, so why sweat us for the small change? I hasten to add that the dent is not worth much to be honest. Since he is from the old school, he likes to be told he is the real deal. He laughs and asks me where I’m from, I tell him my shags, he drops a name and asks if I know the guy. See that’s the problem with those old folks; they think we grew up in the village and know people as far as three hills beyond. So I lie to him, I tell him that I know him very well. “He and my old man are great buddies” He seems pleased. We continue to chat in mother tongue. “You really have a good looking lady here Mr. Okute, very brown!” I tell him. Now tell a Luo that his car or woman is a hit and he will see no evil in you. “Sure?” “Oh yeah, I mean, If I had a woman who looked like this, I wouldn’t let her drive around at night alone.” I say. Oh yeah, what would you do? He asks fishing for ideas. “I would hire her a chauffeur…a very old toothless chauffer though!” I say. That kills him. Who said flattery won’t get you places. He tells me he would have been driving her but he is on a business trip. Where? I ask. He says Kampala. I’m sort of disappointed when he doesn’t add that he is at the Stanley Hotel sipping Jack Daniels on the rocks. Always on the rocks. Anyway we chat for a while, I make him laugh thrice or four times and I repeat that this is a small problem that we shouldn’t split hairs over (I don’t think he has hair though, he sounds bald). He says it’s all good, and asks me to hand the phone back to Stella. Stella speaks with him for a minute, pouts, and says something whiny to him then hangs up soon after. She looks embarrassed because I now know that she is dating an old man. A man fit enough to be her dad, and also now I know that she didn’t buy that car with her money. Not that she cares, but hell it’s out there now. The deal is done; we pay her 1k, for their drinks and trouble. We get in the car at 10pm. Papa Shaq has signed off. The music is now of freefall. We head out into the night, but of course this little accident has changed the shape of the evening. But still this is a Friday and you got to make the best out of it before Thursday takes over.