Let's Have A Drink

A delicate dance. You buy, I buy. I buy two, you buy two. I buy the whole evening this time, you buy the whole night another time. There are subtle and not so subtle reminders of who is paying when. There are clear rules known to the players. Going to the toilet when the waiter passes by, picking your phone, a sudden keen concentration on a non-existent SMS on your phone when the bottles are empty. It matters who chooses the pub, who orders a round, who comes with company. Every small thing matters. This ensures order.

That’s what it means when a man invites another for a drink, that you’re really just buying yourself drinks in a different pattern. Reciprocity is implied heavily. You’ll buy him just as many drinks as he buys you. If you know the rules, you can ‘buy’ a drink for 10 strangers, yet it will only cost you 10 drinks, and you will drink 10 drinks.

I had this pal back in Uni who used to invite me for a drink and at the end of the evening he would announce in his soft nilotic voice how he forgot his wallet home. He was 400 pounds and had a short temper, so such an announcement was met with loud laughter and nothing more. I hear he is now ‘born again’ and he ‘denounced the ways of the world’. The ways of the world usually means alcohol and the above mentioned loud laughter, silliness, suspension of reason and common sense. I suspect that lack of willing drinking partners was a major contributor to his decision to be conceived again and the rebirth.

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It’s a delicate balance having a drink with another man. If I pay all the bills, am saying am higher in the food chain. I can take care of you. I am the top dog here. Roi. But sometimes am saying I want a favour, so let me pay now for a future payment in cash or kind. Sometimes its historical, am repaying a debt, real or imagined.

Sometimes it is age. I have this uncle, very nice chap, old-ish, a primary school teacher from the time he was born. This guy is from the old school, these guys, they can never take a drink from someone younger. Naturally, these are my preferred drinking mates. However, their choice of pub and discussion topics are usually a put off.

And the body language is another story. The same act of paying the bill for the whole evening can be done with contempt, or with gratitude or with genuine brotherly respect.

Personally I ignore all these rules. I buy when I want to and can afford, and don’t buy when I don’t want to, or when I can’t afford. Simple. And very annoying to some people. Luckily I don’t do drink dates anymore. Can’t afford the money nor the time.

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So anyway, Simon (his real name) called me for a drink. Ok, he did not call, turned up at my office at 12.30 pm and said he was coming back at 5.30pm to take me for a drink. Simo, he always pays for all the drinks all the time. This is because he always and only has drinks in his cousin’s pub in Hurlingham and feels that he is hosting, so should pay. Also, he is older, and is from the old school, won’t get a drink from a younger person. And also, he usually comes with this lady friend of his. If you bring company, you’re paying.

As I said, I don’t do drinks. But this chap, as described above, has good drinking manners. And also yours truly respects his elders (at least in pub matters). I think the main reason I agreed was that as he left, he wagged his finger at me jokingly, said, ‘sawa mzee? Don’t bounce’ then smiled, but his eyes, they were dark-ish, hollow-ish. Some quality I cannot describe, some quality that is lent to our eyes by shit. Shit of sufficient depth. Deep shit. I could see he was troubled.

I will not pretend to be motivated by pure altruism. I think 80% of my drive is curiosity. I am curious to understand how we get into problems, how we handle them, how we overcome problems. I think it’s a more useful life skill than how to handle happiness. Happiness just flows. So I am more likely to come over when you’re stressed than when you celebrating another degree earned. Another year lived. Another baby born. I know a chap who threw a party when he bought a car. gai fafa! Dast isht stoopit.

I turned up late. My car, nothing works anymore. Anyway, yours lately got there late, his royal lateness. His Earliness was there on time, with his usual female companion and another one. Another female companion. This was unusual. And they spoke without looking at each other. They were speaking in their language, which I understand very clearly. But I couldn’t make out anything.

You know, we do things, then put other people on the spot. It is so unfair. Peripheral people like me. Collateral damage.

I have been drinking with Simo at this pub in Hurlingham since forever. And he always came with this lady, this lady who never said a word. I never knew her name. She was the type of woman whose age you can never guess, they don’t look young, they don’t look old. It's like maids. Or aunts. Like super maid Rebecca, she could be 23 years, she could be 53 years old. They’re usually of strong build, stout-ish, pretty face, big nice body, strong legs. Jonah Lomu biceps. They can work up a good appetite in a very short time.

And this one, she never said a word. She only looked at Simo lovingly as we had our beers. Always. And he would not talk to her, nor touch her, not even look at her, but at the same time, you can feel that he is paying attention to her. He was not ignoring her. You could always sense that they were one. I don’t know how he did it. How they did it. I drank any beer, anything alcoholic really. He drank a flagship brand, she liked dark, strong stout lagers. Very befitting.

I was never told her name, or how they related, but she was not his wife. Simo did not have a wife. He lived alone in his house in Lavington. This I had had to pick out from conversations. Simo is those people who speak alot but say little. He had lived in this house since the time he came back from Germany with a master’s degree in computer science, 1988. Simo had a cyber café in Nairobi when you were in diapers. He still drives this massive BMW that he bought brand new in Germany 26 years ago, steering wheel on the wrong side. It has a car phone ti hi hi hi. And leather seats, and he always wears a leather jacket. I think he has two, a brown one and a black one, but he once said, passingly, that he has more than 20 leather jackets. It is probable and possible.

Simo consults for several African governments on high security IT systems. He is also retained by top media, mobile phone companies, multinational banks to sort out IT issues. When am in strange corners of dark Africa, he would link me with police chiefs and rebel generals who are his best friends for life. Giving me access to restricted areas. (nothing useful, usually just illegal dance clubs patronised by rich old men, overworked, underpaid dancers smuggled from Asia. OK, when I put it that way, it sounds bad. Anyway, let’s not digress). And since I go out a lot in dark Africa, and am fluent in IT, there is no shortage of stories between us. I prefer to listen than talk. That’s the only way to learn. If you’re the type that talks throughout, you only learn the different tones of your own voice. Useless info.

Despite my self proclaimed Über listening skills. That is all I know about this chap. As for his pretty lady friend, well, she wears an ugly weave (unnecessary repetition here, all weaves are ugly), dresses in expensive clothes poorly chosen, loves gold jewelery, never says a word and loves Simo to death. I always find them there and leave them there at the pub. Simo sends my family Christmas cards every year, written:

‘To Charlie and family, from Simon and family, Happy New Year’

When I think about it now, they are not Christmas cards. They are all plain cards with only those words and abstract colourful shapes at the front. They are New Year cards.

So a few days after New Year’s Day, he has called me here. With these two ladies. One is a stranger. Actually, both are strangers really. One is younger. Approximately 8 possibilities run through my head, in quick succession, each worse than the previous, about what is going to happen. But I remain as cool as a fan and sit. Return greetings from the enthusiastic waiters and order a dark cold stout lager. It comes in a fancy bottle. We begin polite small talk. He does not speak any slang, it’s either the Queen’s proper, or German, or his mother tongue. Or surprisingly good Kiswahili. I opt for the Queen’s always. My German is uber weak.

‘I have not seen you for some time Simon. I trust you have been well’ I offer.

‘Yes, quite. I must say it has been good. Can’t complain really’ He confirms.

We talk about Zo. He is very fond of Zo and has bought him numerous gifts. However, he has never remembered to come to a meeting with them. Or drop them home. Or use a courier service to have them dropped.

So that is how it goes for a while. Small talk.

Then, she spoke.

Out of nowhere, she spoke.

I went silent. Simo stared away. And she said it all.

In 100 years, I would never ever have guessed what she had to say. And why they decided to tell me.

This is the burden I am having to carry.