Mama Night’s Bar (Part VI)

There is a famous lampooning of Shakespeare’s poem, The Seven Ages of Man, which goes like this: ‘All the world is bar/ And all the men and women merely drinkers/ They all have their hiccups and staggerings.’

Shakespeare had written that the world was a stage, and all of us merely players. American comics in the late 1800s playfully tweaked Shakespeare’s lines, not only made them humorous, but also blended them with witty wisdom. If Sunday — our new arrival to the slum running a Kiwempe cinema hall — had an idea about how the world was not just a stage, but also a bar, perhaps he would have been more careful.

His decision to monopolize a reknown and most loved public asset — a bar woman — was clearly recipe for disaster. Sunday would have known that in moments of hiccups and staggerings, drinkers, denied intercourse, become rowdy and unstoppable. But he clearly lacked this sense of judgement.

See, when bars begin to grow — be they in slums or upscale neighbourhoods — they attract younger, oftentimes, more beautiful barmaids. These girls could be pale on first arrival, but with the often dangerously deep-fried menu of the slum, they start to glow like the new shoots of a banana plant. And what is an alehouse without tantalising damsels!

Indeed, as soon as Mama Night’s bar had its new acquisitions of fresh maidens, it started attracting younger drinkers. These were mostly boys in their early youth, who eked their sustenance by vending sugarcanes, as porters at construction sites, frying and selling foodstuffs, rode or washed boda-boda bicycles in the drainage that separated Mafubira from Mpumudde.

To these drinkers, while they would have other places with perhaps cheaper liquor, Mama Night sold more than liquor. Shehad maidens, too. Dear reader, I have never seen a block as unreflective as Sunday. Perhaps because he spent a great deal of time in the gym, pumping his muscles, or perhaps high on his movies, Sunday seemed to think himself a John Rambo, or Jean Claude van Damme.

He thought he owned the slum and the town. While I agree Mama Night needed a helping hand after she became Security, Sunday overdid himself. In addition to spending endless time in Mama Night’s bar — which was also Mama Night’s home, and part-time leg- house — Sunday, disorganised the routines of the house. Remember he, too, started out as a buyer, and now was the capitalist monopolist.

Presenting himself as Mama Night wingman, he took charge of the barmaids’ routines, sending them on errands and controlling their lives.

“I saw you in the corner taking long with that stupid boy who doesn’t bathe, you have to always come back quickly!” he would rebuke them.

“If Dan ever makes you pregnant from those dirty boys, your job is gone!” he would threaten. But while Sunday threatened girls and their suitors, he quickly, quietly, turned himself into a pimp himself.

As you may know by now, dear reader, I could have been a boy, but my sense and taste of things was fairly good. The slum develops your antennas really quickly. I knew beauty when I saw it, and its opposite. If it was not for Maida, I would not be writing this part of the story.

But this teenager who had just come from Bugisu exuded a freshness unusual of Mama Night’s employees. It would be no exaggeration to say that the Almighty curated this girl with utmost precision. She must have been 17 or 18, and simply looked like a painting. The more mature lads all competed to tip her and gift her with their entire day’s earnings.

It was not just her rebelliously emerging bottom, nor the little mangoes shooting at the front of her blouse (bras were mostly unknown), but the magic was in her gait. She flaunted herself around tenderly, calmly, but profoundly, unintendedly, erotically. Her eyes simply radiated, and whenever she smiled, she displayed a neat set of teeth. Even if she was just agape, innocence painted itself on her face.

There is something about slums and swamps — they tend to live together. Our slum stood on the borders of a swamp — with some houses in the swamp itself — and thecroakingoffrogswasthemusicofthe night. Nearby, was a football playground, and all else were yams and sugarcanes gardens. Young men washed boda-boda- bicycles on one side of the culvert as the Kamuli- Jinja road crossed this swamp.

One of the bicycle washers was a young man called Kitikyamwogo, a tall lad of average build. Kiti, as was mostly known, was also good at football, and was often a used substitute for Mafubira senior team’s striking line. Famed for his mild footballing talents — a slum boy in the senior team playing in Bugembe stadium — and with constant inflow of income from his work, Kiti was empowered enough to have his eyes on Maida.

And he seemed to be ahead of many other suitors. But his victory would never be easy-coming. No one knows how it all began, but Sunday had come to culvert breathing fire. He was berating another bicycle washer called Dan for wasting Tendo’s time whenever they send her on errands. Tendo was one of the other girls. Kiti was just watching, and as the shoutout escalated, Sunday sent a threat to all the boys.

“And I’m warning you all of you including you stupid Kiti, Maida is ever busy.” As he smiled at the attack, Kiti mildly shot back: “Shiaa, you think we’ll defecate in our houses for fear of the dark, twala ere wena.”

“What did you say?! what did you say?!” Sunday was advancing furiously, and in seconds, he had slapped Kiti with all his strength, breaking his nose. When Kiti stood up, his nose was bleeding. But he seemed unafraid at all. Initially, we were worried for Kiti, what was he going to do with this muscular man.

But in a minute, we learned that Kiti not only played football, but also knew how to box. He cut a proper southpaw posture, angled his shoulders well, put in guards up, and was moving his head fast like the legendary Mike Tyson. Impressed by Kiti’s posture, we cheered the underdog. Amidst the loud shouts, Kiti was charging, ‘How do you slap me; how do you slap me!’

The bodybuilder, cut the orthodox boxing posture, but clearly looked to have no idea about what he was doing. His guards were down; he had no footwork, and was standing still, only charging with his monster figure. Kitiwasruthlessandmethodical. He slid inside and jabbed him in the stomach, and when Sunday went down to guard his stomach, Kiti landed a strong straight shot on the head, sending Sunday staggering into the drainage. The noises were now fever pitch!

Before Sunday would organise himself, Kiti turned into a street ninja, and sent him a flying kick on the chest. Before our eyes, the myth of “superman Sunday” was being dismantled. And when Sunday stood up again, he was running for dear life, like a thief being chased, staggering into the yams — with no clear direction. At this point, the noise was deafening. Kiti did not give chase.

yusufkajura@gmail.com

The author is a political theorist based at Makerere University