Always, when I want to make important calls, I find that I have no airtime. Does it ever happen to you? It’s even worse when I run out of data and I suddenly realise that I need to send messages to friends, relatives or colleagues. Let me expatiate further, when I don’t have data for WhatsApp, I get frustrated and feel cut off from the rest of the world. I am so addicted to my redmi phone and when I should be doing some work or reading, I always find myself scrolling on the phone. The short of it is I am a phone addict and everyday, hours of meaningful time have gone down the drain.
As it is, I don’t have airtime and it has been some days since my data expired. It’s expensive for me to buy daily or weekly data so I will only be able to buy the monthly data when I get paid, which is a week from now. The data itself is too expensive, maybe the most expensive in the region. You can imagine my frustration.
I wanted to make a call or at least send a message to Mai VaMaidei that I will be coming home a bit late, but I did not have airtime.
I didn’t want Mai VaMaidei to start having funny ideas that I was out there, partying with friends, instead of assisting my children with their homework. Baba VaTata, my friend had called me earlier during the day that he was coming to pick me up after work. He wanted us to go to a funeral wake of one of his home boys, Martin who had been killed in a hit- and run accident over the weekend. If I was lucky enough, I could extricate some money from him, enough to replenish my internet data.
I was missing out on social media. My footprints were all over Instagram, WhatsApp, Facebook, Twitter, now X but I liked the name twitter better. Someone had told me about starting a blog and tell my stories and that it was a big thing and I could make a name for myself.
The first mistake I made when Baba VaTata picked me was to forget to request his phone. It was an iphone 7 plus, which he had possessed for as long as I can remember. I could have made a call to Mai VaMaidei. I completely forgot about it. That was mistake number one.
We did not even spent much time at the funeral, about an hour or so. We made sure that we paid homage to Martin’s parents who were all distraught at the loss of their son who was the bread winner.
Baba VaTata wore the saddest face I had ever seen at a funeral. I don’t know how he managed it. I could never do that. My face countenance could never really play the part without looking foolish so I never tried.
Martin’s mother, wearing a black dress and black doek sat on the floor surrounded by close friends and relatives. Her grief was magnified in her eyes which had become swollen and turned red from crying.
Martin’s ex-wife was also sitting on the floor, by the side of her mother-in-law. She and Martin had a daughter together. Their marriage had hit the rocks over cheating allegations. In fact Martin’s ex- wife had been caught red- handed, cheating with a mushika-shika driver.
Baba VaTata had some money and he put a ten dollar bill in a basket. It was customary to make funeral contributions to lessen the financial burden of the bereaved. I mumbled something under my breathe as an excuse since I did not have any money on me. I did not even have any money at all.
“Let’ s go and have some beer and we will come back,” said Baba VaTata. I believed him. As we went away, I noticed groups of men sitting on sofas and table chairs outside. In the tent which had been pitched, some mourners were singing. There was going to be a church service soon.
We did not go to Zororo Bar, instead just down the street, there was a bottle store. We headed there. As we took our seats two female friends of Baba VaTata joined us.
That was mistake number two. I knew Prisca, but the other one was not familiar to me. She looked innocent enough and out of place. What crossed my mind was that this girl who still had milk on her nose should be in a church and not in a bottle store. This was someone’s daughter who should not be exposed to this kind of life.
I was uncomfortable having the two ladies around. Something was not right.
“So it is you ?”
Someone suddenly touched my shoulder. I was startled. It was Uncle Hwidza, my co-tenant, the last person I expected to see. A broad grin spread on his face as he looked at the two ladies sitting with us. It was the kind of smile that said, ”I have caught you this time around.”
It was not what it looked like. It was even pointless to explain anything to him. It would only make it worse.
I could see trouble a mile away. I could even smell it. He was going to tell his wife and his wife would never keep the secret. She would tell Mai VaMaidei and all hell would break loose.
Next time, I will unravel the whole story and drama that nearly caused heart failure.
*Onie Ndoro X@Onie90396982