If there were face masks for windscreens, Aunt wa Harrier would have 10 for her guzzler
So now si we were hapo Kenol looking for a pub suitable for the class of Aunt wa Harrier when my favourite uncle from shags joined us.
Kenol, for those not in the know, is that meeting point for people from Mt Kenya along the Superhighway, past Thika. When going for ruracio, they meet at Kenol. Going for burial, Keno. Coming from burial, Kenol. And when not going anywhere near Kenol, they still find themselves at Kenol.
Kenol if you have never been there is downright agricultural: red soil, dusty, haphazardly planned and with many men sporting Seng’enge ni Ngombe faded caps and countless Proboxes all white and Canters, ‘Ask for Transport Pick-Ups’ and those NZE Toyotas peculiar to mundu wa Nyumba from Mt Kenya region. Why do most have a long antennae with a green tennis at the tip?
Women seem to be coming to and from the market. Kenol is busy, like Nyamakima in down town Nairobi.
You can tell Mt Kenya characters from Nairobi at Kenol. They congregate in meat joints from where their row of cars are covered by that moshi from the wire mesh, goat ribs roasting from the row of butcheries.
‘Is there any teenage whiskey here?’ Aunt wa Harrier asked referring to her blended 18 to 20 year old whiskies
Now you can imagine getting a pub to cut pints with Aunt wa Harrier? One problem was securing parking where her Harrier would be immune to dust. If there were face masks for windscreens, she would have 10 for her Harrier. Aunt wa Harrier also kept running her fingers on bar stools before examining the dust on the tip of her fingers with her mouth turned upwards, kinyoriro style.
“Is there any teenage whiskey here?” Aunt wa Harrier asked referring to her blended 18 to 20 year old whiskies. But the bewildered bar girl used to selling one week old locally brewed brands did not understand and retorted inside her face mask: “Hapa we not sell drinksi to teenagers especially whiskey is for grown up with beard!”
And with that, Aunt wa Harrier went to her car and fished a bottle of sparkling mineral water from a cooler box.
Aunt wa Harrier asked for a serviette but the bar girl mistook serviette for a delicacy and said: ‘hii ni bar…hatuuzi shafashi!’
Uncle Jamaica, wondering what the fuzz was all about, kept drinking some low-life Sh200 spirits. He drank them neat. No doido of ndimu oh! sijui maji moto and lime. After four bottles Uncle Jamaica turned to me and slurred: “When I last saw you, ulikua unanyonya matiti ya mama yako….now here you are una nyonya chupa ya pombe!”
Uncle Jamaica then laughed at his own joke he almost fell from the barstool in his brown moth-eaten suit.
Aunt wa Harrier asked the bar girl for a serviette to wipe the neck of her sparkling mineral water bottle and she mistook serviette for a delicacy and said “hii ni bar…hatuuzi shafashi!”
Aunt wa Harrier was so pissed she bought Uncle Jamaica five more bottles of whatever poison he was drinking as I followed her towards her Harrier: “Twende Naivasha…. for just one drink!”
