Riggy G landed in my home county last weekend, visiting one of our legendary crooners and gatecrashing rallies like a champ. But let’s pretend the Honest Man didn’t stop at political jamborees. Let’s assume he wandered into Wakulima Bar at Kanorero market—not for a drink, of course, but simply because he could.

Inside, he finds Uncle at his usual spot, staring at his drink, his razor-sharp machete tapping a menacing beat on the floor. At the counter, Giceeri is locked in a fierce battle with her glasses.

“Geithĩkai,” Riggy G greets cheerfully, flashing his signature ear-to-ear smile. Some old-timers in frayed caps light up like Christmas trees.Uncle isn’t impressed. He squints at Riggy with that trademark killer glare and fires back, “Ngeithi ni ũcũrũ?” (Are greetings porridge we can eat?)

Riggy swallows his smile, then falters. “Ndiuma na ũũru,” he tries, his voice tinged with diplomacy. (I come in peace.)

Uncle tightens his grip on the machete. “Niĩ ndĩnaguo: ndũrũme cia mũũrũ wa Jomo niwacokirie?” (I have a question: Did you return Uhuru’s sheep?)

Riggy dodges the question like a seasoned politician. “I am an honest man,” he says, shrugging. Meanwhile, at the counter, Giceeri pulls out a cracked mirror, powders her face hastily, and draws two lines above her eyes that extend all the way to the temples.

“Honest tũkũrĩa kana tuikie ikumbĩ?” Uncle growls. (Can we eat honesty?) Silence falls. Somewhere in the back, a geezer lets out a wheezy cough thick with phlegm.

Giceeri struts by, wiggling her imaginary derriere with all the sass of a Kanorero Beyoncé. “Baba, nikuuzie nini?” she asks Riggy G, smiling demurely, two missing front teeth barely dimming her confidence. (What should I get you, dear?)

Riggy G scratches his head, his charm trying to shine through. “Uzia hawa wazee chenye wanakunywa,” he says, gesturing at the men in tattered caps. (Get these old-timers whatever they’re drinking)

Uncle, machete still in hand, booms, “Ndatigire ũkĩhũra njohi.” (Weren’t you fighting alcoholism just the other day?)

From the corner, Kamaley—a skinny chap whose bill reads like Kenya’s foreign debt, chimes in, “Mzae, wacha Riggy G atufurahishe!” (Come on, let Riggy G treat us!)

“Tũtikũrĩa ciake. Nĩ ambe acokie mahiũ mene!” Uncle thunders, waving his machete dramatically above him. (We don’t want his drinks. Let him return the stolen sheep first!)

Kamaley and his crew swoop in, whisking Riggy G to the nearest haven—a jaded keg joint down the road. It’s a ramshackle dive where reggae beats thump relentlessly, rattling the rusty tin roof. The air is a heady smog of muguka, stale beer, and the ripe aroma of unwashed bodies, so thick you could slice it with a machete.

Young revelers erupt in cheers as Riggy G enters, their bloodshot eyes lighting up like car headlights on full beam. They crowd around him, some drumming on sticky tables, others waving half-empty mugs in a toast to their unexpected VIP.

Drinks flow like the mighty Mathioya River, and every sip comes courtesy of Riggy G’s bottomless wallet. Riggy G is generally having a good time, until a husky voiced street cat whose face looks like a road map to every dirty shebeen in Murang’a County sneaks close to him.

“Puff and pass.” She says above the din, handing Riggy G a rolled spliff. He promptly pays up and sneaks out.

Back at Wakulima Bar, Giceeri slams her cracked mirror on the counter and noisily washes her glasses, muttering something about wasted opportunities. Uncle, unfazed, pulls a rolled stub of kiraiku from behind his ear, lights it up, and watches the smoke curl toward the roof, announcing his quiet, undeniable triumph.

He later staggers home, yodeling a forgotten Mau Mau era battle tune: Kĩrĩnyaga ya Itungati.

 

 

 

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