SERIOUSLY, DUDE …
“Did I see you yesterday, Dude?”
That was Sunday morning greeting at Sans Chique where raging hangovers met to recollect the purpose of life.
The response was a shrug and a grimace. Hardly one remembered where they were or whatever happened to them the night before. But, this Sunday morning, the question had an ominous feel.
I shrugged and grimaced and forgot about it as also expected.
“Did I see you in a suit?” was the next question from the same pest.
“When?” I had to ask.
“Yesterday.”
“Where?”
He could remember where.
“Here,” he said.
“What time?”
He needed a beer and a moment to recollect.
“My head is killing me, “ he said.
Saturday was not twenty-four hours dead and it was already disappearing in a hangover worm hole. On my part, there was no recollection of having been there, but there was a suit and now I was wearing old jeans, t-shirt, and dusty safari boot, so I must have made it home at some point.
“It was here!” my friend exclaimed after gulping his beer. “I saw you here yesterday. In a suit and tie.”
I did not remember being anywhere in a suit and tie after the handshake. The one handshake I would never forget, and the invitation to a party that never was. Those two I still remember. I shrugged and grimaced and concentrate on my cure. He was ready for me to buy him another beer.
“What were you doing in a suit?” he asked.
Before I could think of an acceptable excuse, someone joined us. He looked worse and felt worse. Looking, smelling and feeling like beer vomit at San Chique on Sunday mornings was standard. He flopped in a seat and held up his hand pleading for a moment. He needed to catch his breath before embarking on a Sans Chique Sunday. But I needed to know.
“Did you see me here in a suit yesterday?” I asked him.
He stared at me, tried to understand where the question was coming from. He had brought the paper with him and, in San Chique, that was not a good sign. He lived alone, or his wife had dumped him, or she was cheating on him, or he was cheating on her, and that too was normal at San Chique and friends not caring to know was also standard.
Unable to relate my being in a suit to the way his head hurt, he bought us a beer each and made us promise not to ask him any more questions for the rest of the day. That was easy to promise. I did not want to talk either. Not about suits, or what had happened to me the day before. I wanted to be left alone. A short while later, he peered out from behind the Sunday paper and said to me –
“You are here.”
“Still here,” I said.
He shook the paper in my face.
“You are here, in the newspaper,” he yelled.
Sans Chique stopped talking, turned and looked. The first thought in everyone’s mind, including mine – wanted. A police mugshot. The Special Branch came by from time to time, took someone away, someone who would not to be seen again at Sans Chique for a long, long time, and sometimes never again. If they resurfaced months later, sometimes years later, they were spotting a prison haircut and a prisoner’s startled look. We did not ask where they had been, and they did not volunteer. We went to Sans Chique to drink in company of men with similar intention. It was not necessary to know what others did outside Sans Chique. Now the paper had my mugshot.
Before I could get at it, someone grabbed the newspaper, glanced at it, stared at me in awe, and then someone else snatched it from him and it was gone. The man who had bought and brought the paper to San Chique, against all good sense, was staring at me.
“Seriously, Dude?” he said. “I did not know you could write.”
“The suit!” the recollection came flooding back.
I had no memory of where the suit was. That was fine as I intended to get rid of it anyway, but I now remembered why I wore one. One did not go shake the old man’s hand wearing an old t-shirt, old jeans, and scruffy safari boots. I did not see why not, but the publisher had been to State House before and he was certain there would be no exception for me.
I could not see myself in suit and tie, but I wanted to meet the old man. Shaking the old man’s hand was, like climbing the Kilimanjaro, something to brag about when you ran out of achievements to brag about or tall tales to impress your girlfriend. I went out and had a suit made to measure, bought a long-sleeve shirt and a tie. A school friend who worked in a bank showed me how to knot the tie.
Feeling like a conman, an imposter, and a fraud in my suit and tie, we drove to State House. We made sure to arrive ten minutes early. The security men directed us to the side entrance reserved for petitioners, favour-seekers and book publishers. A solemn old man in a stiff black suit and tie let us in and ushered us into a deathly quiet waiting room. He offered us tea and cautioned us not to speak loudly. There were two other parties waiting, equally uneasy, talking in low voices, and tapping the floor nervously with their shoes. We joined them in talking in low voices and tapping the floor with our shoes. I had a shiny black pair bought in a hurry that morning. They were a size too small and not suited for tapping.
“Are you excited?” asked the publisher.
My throat was dry with excitement and too dry for small talk. He glanced at his watch. He had assumed we were the only visitors for the nine o’clock appointment. He had an editorial meeting back at his office in an hour. He tapped the floor with his shoes and stared in space like everyone else. More visitors came, got their tea and joined in the nervous wait.
“Are you nervous?” the publisher.
Why should I be nervous? I was there to be recognised and be honoured with a handshake, a certificate, and a cheque. But my mouth was dry with anticipation. Many things were said about the old man, about his generosity, his overpowering aura, his hypnotic stare and, especially, his electrifying handshake.
Then it was our turn to go be face to face with the old man. The publisher aligned my tie with my shirt buttons, tightened the knot and straighten my jacket. He was a kind, old man, and probably had a nervous son my age who also could not tie a tie. He smiled and patted my back like a proud parent.
“Hurry up,” the usher ordered. “Mzee is very busy.”
Mzee was on a back patio with the Attorney General, the Minister for State and three other hangers-on. He spent most days there meeting and shaking hands with people calling to pay homage and ask for favours. The publisher had been there before and knew about it. One of the big men with him introduced us and stated our purpose. We were there to shake his hand and present him with copies of the best book of the year. We were then to receive from his hand a certificate of recognition and, I guessed, a big cheque. The publisher would receive similar recognition for having published the best book of the year.
We shook hands with Mzee, lined up for a photograph and, before I knew it, it was over. There was no cheque, or cash changing hands. The whole affair took less than two minutes. We lingered, uncertain what to do next, until one of the hangers-on said we were free to go. Perhaps sensing my disappointment, Mzee was rumoured to be psychic too, he pointed us to another entrance where we would find refreshments like tea, coffee, beer, whiskey, and whatever we fancied.
“Great,” I was relieved. “A party, at least.”
The publisher had other ideas. He steered us through the reception room with the offered drinks in plain view and took us out back to the car park where the driver was waiting. It was ten in the morning and he had meetings to attend. He had been to State House before and he assured me Mzee’s invitation to drinks was not meant to be taken literary. I would have to go arrange my own celebration somewhere else.
He dropped me off at a street corner in town center and, with nowhere else to go at that hour of day, I headed for the only place without opening hours. I had taken the day off from work for an event that did not last but a moment and my mouth was dry.