What comes to your mind when you hear the word “we mzee?” A playful way of calling out your bro. But what about “Musee”? Don’t laugh, it probably sounds like Kasee. But that’s actually his name. Musee. Yeah, you read it right. If you were to see him from a distance, you would say he is a walking paradox trapped in a teenager's body. Nicknamed "Mzee" by his friends, not the respectful “we mzee”, just Mzee.
He had unruly mop circling his bald head made him look like a middle-aged man clinging desperately to his youth. Yes, bald heads were handsome, but his? “Kipara” sounds about right, for his timidness with a shining head and a scrubby clump of black hair sticking out at the back tended him to meekness and obesity. His unkempt beard made him the direction of all pointed fingers on our way to Bomas for the Mrs. Uon concert.
The air crackled with anticipation as the spotlight hit Sarru, you all know how notoriously her electrifying stage presence is. Her entrance song, a pulsating blend locals both hers and others’ sent the crowd into a frenzy. Musee’s friends, particularly Elon, the resident mischief-maker, nudged him.
"Mzee bana, go show Sarru some moves!" Elon cackled, shoving Musee playfully. The others joined in, “Tenda wema pewa tako”, their laughter a relentless chorus in Musee's already pounding ears. Before Musee could muster a protest, they were chanting his name, propelling him towards the stage.
Musee, a deer caught in headlights, stood awkwardly on the brightly lit platform. You could see the crowd roar with laughter, mistaking his bewilderment for stage presence. Heat flooded his cheeks as he rubbed his head, a nervous habit usually masked by his hair. But tonight, his hand found only the smooth expanse of his bald head, amplifying the laughter.
Desperate to salvage his dignity, Musee lurched towards Sarru, who was twerking with enough force to generate her own gravitational pull. He attempted a twerk himself, his body betraying him with a series of uncoordinated jiggles. Sarru, mid-shimmy, stopped dead in her tracks, eyes widening at the sight before her. Her manicured finger jabbed towards Musee's midsection. “comrade whyyy”?
Musee, oblivious at first, continued his valiant but embarrassing attempt. Then, it dawned on him. His stomach lurched. He glanced down – the reason for Sarru's shocked expression. His khaki pants, usually concealing his teenage angst, had other plans tonight. A prominent bulge strained against the fabric, leaving no room for misinterpretation. Immediately, the DJ changed the song from pewa tako since Musee hadn’t tendaad any wema, and smoothly switched it to kikongwe. Sarru pointed his hands like “ona huyu! ” then went along to teasingly sing along loudly “somutaimuu akikongwee samutaimuu...” The crowd was smirking and looked at him as though they wanted him to crawl underneath the stage to cover his embarrassment. The rest of the delegates at the front chairs were staring at him. One of them snickered.Musee had never been more humiliated in his life.
Sarru, using a finger notified the DJ to suddenly pause, the music, then faced the crowd and said loudly, “unajua kwa nini nacheka?” She then pointed at Musee’s pants to remind him that he was still erect and said, “hii ni maajabu. Kikongwe amembao manze.” Mortification scorched Musee's face. Beaten with humiliation, he hastily retreated from the stage. His exit, a combination of a hunched back and a hurried walk, only fuelled the amusement of the crowd.
Outside the concert hall, Musee found his friends doubled over with laughter, clutching their stomachs, tears streaming down their faces. Elon, the mastermind behind his public humiliation, wheezed, "Dude, you single-handedly shut down Sarru's twerking session! That's legendary!"
Musee, already drowning his sorrows in cheap bitter liquor given by Elon, couldn't take it anymore. He downed another tumbler, the bitter liquid a poor substitute for his shattered confidence. As they stumbled out of the venue, Musee spotted a petite girl, her laughter echoing in the night. Her smile, like a beacon in the darkness, drew him in.
Mustering all his remaining courage, trying to show that he still got it and cover partially for humiliation, he put on his black “exam” jacket and approached her. Just as he was to start a conversation, a booming voice cut him off. "Hey! You, the old man! Leave that girl alone! Miaka ni thate faev."
Musee whirled around to see Elon, pointing a finger accusingly at him. Two burly security guards materialized beside Elon, their expressions grim.
"Looks like we got ourselves a pervert here, trying to hit on a minor," Elon declared, his voice dripping with mock seriousness.
Musee's jaw dropped. Betrayal coursed through him. He looked back at the girl, her smile replaced by confusion. The guards, already suspicious of Musee's appearance, grabbed him roughly.
"Let go of me, you fools!" Musee yelled, his voice laced with panic and a surprising amount of beer-induced bravado. The struggle was futile. The guards, each twice his size, dragged him away like a ragdoll. “He is probably twice my age, look at that kipara!’ one of the security guards mocked.
His friends, doubled over with laughter once again, didn't bother to intervene. In fact, Elon even offered a helpful suggestion to the guards. "Make sure you check his ID, officers! This guy looks older than dirt!"
As Musee was unceremoniously ejected from the vicinity, he could hear his friends' laughter echoing in his ears. He swore revenge on Elon, a revenge that would be glorious, hilarious, and most importantly, involve a complete absence of public humiliation. But for now, Musee had a bigger problem – convincing a pair of skeptical security guards that he wasn't a predator with a penchant for underage girls. All thanks to his best friend, Elon, the wiseman.
Comrade why😂😂