In Daddy's Shadow

I still go to Hairif Cafe at the Coast Bus junction of Mwembe Tayari in Mombasa. Back in the day it was Baba's favourite. It was actually his second choice. His favourite place at Raha Leo behind the old Mwembe Tayari Market was demolished. I never ate anything there. The place was teeming with flies. It used to be the Raha Leo Hotel but we just called it Hoteli ya Mainzi or the ‘Flies’' Hotel. I believe the flies got good nourishment from the mounds of garbage left to rot in the street. There was also a butchery next where they hung the meat in the open. There was no refrigeration.

In popular Kiswahili 'hoteli' generally refers to restaurant even though the correct term is 'mkahawa'.

Baba loved the boiled goat soup or ‘supu ya mbuzi' they served with chapati 'mchicha' or amaranths and an optional pair of bananas. Now that I am old enough to think, I realize there aren't that many places in town where they serve African cuisine. The ubiquitous Chicken and Chips which we so loved is all you find in most places. These days the Hairif serves that as well but I can tell you it is not what they sell most. Pilau, biriani and the quintessential Supu ya Mbuzi rank way up there.

Into the Rabai sunset, Baba walked.

Now I can hear some say isn't pilaf a Middle Eastern dish? Yes and no- Middle Eastern and Turkish dishes are so loved here and have been loved for centuries there are our dishes. The samosa, kebab and mshkak are very much our own dishes they are hawked in the streets. That is what you will eat at the Hairif. We simply call them Swahili Dishes.

The Hairif is not where you will take your girl for a date. Mostly it is commuters shuttling in and out of town you will find there. The waiters shout out your order to the counter much like an amplified echo as you utter. Just how the cooks note the orders is a mystery. Each waiter will repeat the current order as they pick up plates. The cacophony of voices marks the uniqueness of this very Swahili restaurant. The faces have changed but the style reaching back into the roots of my childhood remains.

They still have bright lighting, Formica-topped tables and large mirrors all round the place. They finally did away with the flowered Formica tables but that was after they were cracked in many places. Thanks to the holy month of Ramadan, the place gets a fresh coat of paint annually.

It looks pretty garish and my son giggles every time I take him there. He too calls it 'Hoteli ya Daddy'. It's a no frills place where the waiters and one waitress wear none-too-attractive lab coats for a uniform and  in the mornings, a guest cowpeas vendor sits at a corner dispensing her dish cooked in thick coconut milk. This particular dish has always been outsourced in Swahili restaurants- why so is a mystery to me. These days even the chapati and mahamri are probably prepared elsewhere. I cannot vouch for their quality except trust Hairif to choose the best for me.

 The waitress is a fairly recent addition. That is after a lady took over counter duties in this largely male establishment. In the 1980s it was unusual to see an unaccompanied woman here. Things have changed.

The service starts with the mandatory glass of water banged on the table as your order is taken. Yes, the waiter bangs the tub just to catch your attention. It is actually not a glass tub. Stainless steel tubs have taken the place of glass. Plastic water jugs too have taken over from their glass predecessors. Baba used to make a flourish of examining the contents for impurities by opening the cover to peer at the water before drinking. He was not at all worried about the flies at the ‘Flies’ Hotel. The food was steaming hot, he said. That did not detract him from waving them away as he sipped on his soup. I would be sipping on a soda while clutching the shopping basket. I had to- outside street gamblers plied their illegal trade. Sometimes they staged mock fights and in the confusion they pinched a wallet or even carted away a whole bag. They usually picked on children or women.

Many times I had to sit in wait at the ‘Flies’ Hotel. My dad had a gambling habit which took him to Gupta's down Raha Leo street where gruff men hung around. Yet he was quite amiable. He sang in the bathroom and enthralled us with his deep baritone during evening prayers. Usually he said he would only be away briefly. I would watch the happenings in the street for all the hours he was away. I could as well walk home without him but that was sure to bring Mama to a boil. So I watched as street cons took advantage of rural folks or greedy first-timers trying their hand at a game of cards.

Usually, they let the first-timers win a couple of games. I guess it was to gauge how much they had on them. Then the rookie would lose all subsequent plays. I saw many adult men weep on Raha Leo Street. That is contrary to the meaning of the phrase 'Raha Leo'. It means, Joy Today. If a clever fellow refused to play on after the first win, the cons started a fist fight. They won either way because they were all gang members.

For all his love of Mombasa town, Baba loved MwembeTayari and the zigzagging Raha Leo Street the most. As the Raha Leo Street wound eastwards towards Digo Road, it played host to all manner of trades. There were the street-side vegetables vendors, handy goods salemen peddling anything from mouse traps to 'suta', or street preachers sparring over which faith was truly God's word. Back in the day religious sparring was a good-natured affair bringing out guffaws in the crowd.

The 'suta' salesmen hissed out the word from behind clenched teeth. They were actually backstreet pharmacists peddling penicillin tablets for the treatment of gonorrhea. I was to find out later that the law was you had to go to hospital with the person who infected you in order to get treatment. Little wonder there were so many 'suta' salesmen hissing up and down the street. Of course the cons took advantage to peddle chalk as medicine. 

These were not the only medicine men in the street. Some men in traditional gear sat under makeshift shelters. They had an array of roots and herbs for sale. The much loved 'Kungu manga' was on sale here. It's potency was legendary. It was said the man who took the herb had stamina to last a full night or more. If he lacked a woman he could even run amok. Of course you had to know who to buy from because the herbalists were also cons. Not all that was peddled as ‘Kungu Manga’ had aphrodisiac powers.

Shoe shiners and roast maize sellers made an extra coin on the side peddling marijuana. In fact, they were not really shoe shiners or maize sellers; they were drug peddlers. It is not surprising that when heroin entered the market Mwembe Tayari and the Raha Leo Street became the main market in the town. Things start from somewhere.

If you ventured beyond the tarmac and into the slums, fair-skinned ladies lay in wait. In the most seductive Kiswahili, they enticed men. Well, not all were gifted with fair skin. Many had only the face bleached white. You could clearly see where the Ambi Cream reached. It covered as far as the palm could reach living the rest of the face dark as nature willed. I must confess curiosity drew me to peer at the happenings in the alleys. On a lucky day you actually got to see a woman advertise her thighs by letting the wrapper fall off- nothing wanton, just a calculated act of carelessness. It was not unusual to see a drunk lumber out of those alleys while buttoning up his trousers. Remember zippers were not that common in the early 1980s.

Word in the street held that not all the welcoming voices were female. Some men plied the same trade under the cover of female dress. Baba pointed out one to me one day. There was no knowing for sure if he was male. He was draped in a bui bui. It was also said the men often lured unsuspecting clients into the brothels to rob them. I never ventured beyond the tarmac...

A short arc to the south leads to Blue Room Restaurant. It was not always at the present site on Haile Selassie Road. It was actually hidden away in the arc but always had big pretensions. They had slot machines in Blue Room long before they became famous in the country. My gambling dad never to let luck slip away, would let me play. Everyone was born with his luck, he said. It was not illegal for children to play slot machines those days. I cannot remember winning anything. Of course Baba made sure I kept the matter secret. Some things were not for women, he said. But Blue Room was the best restaurant I had ever been to. Here they served chips but Baba never bought me fries. It was not far too expensive, he said. Indian kids ate fries as I watched. Usually Baba insisted on coffee and chapati here yet we only took the cheaper tea at home. I kind of like coffee now.

They pulled down much of the Old Mwembe Tayari Market and banned street trading along Raha Leo Street.  The place has taken a more respectable sheen but you cannot miss the attendant chaos resident in the area. When drug dealers took over the abandoned upper floors of the old Mwembe Tayari Market, we watched. Government did nothing. Thieves set base up there making the area a no-go zone after dark for years. But Baba never stopped going there. He only warned that the key was self-discipline.

He was a good Christian man, Baba. Prayed morning and night, never raised his hand or voice at anyone but still gambled. He never drank and was always home by evening news at Seven. Yet everyday he strolled from work to Guptas to bet on English races. He loved things English. He was born in the year King George became King of England. His father named him George. The English, he often intimated were the most civilized.  Were it not for them the world would be in the Dark Ages, he said. The only problem with colonialism was the Colour Bar, said Baba. Otherwise the British were better managers. I gathered that even in the application of their unjust Pass Laws they were ruthlessly efficient.

He often hummed ‘What a Wonderful World’ and when I asked who sang the tune he said- ‘Don’t you know Satchmo?’ Then he dozed off. I had to go and find out for myself who Satchmo was- then I fell in love with jazz…. And the blues.

He read Time Magazine which I became familiar with very early on. His racing magazines were not to be touched. He could have won big many times, he said. Only he did not have the money to place big bets. Once he pointed out a bus conductor who risked the day’s collection to win big. The fellow won a hundred thousand shillings. Mama did not understand, he said. Gambling was not bad. It was not like beer or womanizing- those were the worst things that could happen to a man.

 When, I had a chance to choose- I chose beer over gambling. Gambling made things hard for us. Baba was always short of cash. And not just that- Mama was always fearful Baba would gamble his last penny. I hate gambling. I cannot buy a sweepstake ticket and dread walking into a casino. Many times I have wanted to walk into a casino but cannot. There could be some bewitching spirit lying in wait. I could find myself captive. It is now ten years since Baba died.

 Of the many things he taught me I never took up gambling. I have never tried it consciously unless it is foisted upon me through product promos. I listened to Mama’s voice on that one but went against both to become the only one in a religious family of ten to imbibe. I still plan to go to a casino in Baba’s honour.