You may recall my story about Afande Niko and his best friend. It was in the Cape Town of Rwanda, way back in the mid 90s. Gisenyi had been ablaze as their most famous bachelor was preparing to make his vows before the priest and the Mayor. You may remember that Afande Niko had been assigned the tough job of being the Best Man. Being the stubborn man that he was, he had proceeded to secretly mix the high table sodas with some drops of Uganda Waragi. During those days, “Afande” weddings used to be subject to soft drinks only. It was severely forbidden to partake of the potent brew at such weddings. Afande Niko’s thirst was not an easy one to deal with. That is why he decided to take the risk and mix UG for the high table. The whole plan should have been a success, had the bridegroom not decided to guzzle excessively. This led to a situation in which the bridegroom could no-longer lift his heavy head from the table. Afande Niko was equally sorted out by the punch. He began hoping on his left leg, and doing a Zulu-like war cry, that sent shivers down the guests’ spines. There was no choice but to appoint someone else to become the next Best Man. It was Diaspoman himself, who took over that role. Well, 2 months later, Aggrey and I received an invitation card. It came from Afande Niko. It was not announcing wedding tolls for Afande Niko. Instead, it was announcing the birth of a bouncing baby boy. You may recall that the wedding couple had planted an advance that had left the beautiful bride’s abdomen protruding out like a basketball. We were therefore invited for the ceremony referred to as “Kwita izina”. Basically, it was a chance for family and friends to gather and give the seven-day-old baby a name. So, Aggrey and I prepared for the long and winding journey to Gisenyi. This time we wisely avoided borrowing a Carina, as the experiences of the last trip was still fresh in our minds. We chose to board public taxis. It was better than borrowing a junk of a car, which decides to choke and screech at its own leisure. Afande Niko was there to receive us. His smile told it all. There was a party awaiting us at this Gisenyi Mansion. The garden was well decorated and plastic chairs were scattered everywhere. This was a private function and therefore booze could be tolerated. Flashy cars were already pulling up at the gate as guests arrived for this very important “Mihango”. What was supposed to be a “baby-naming” ceremony, turned out to be a full blast party. Crates of beers and sodas were unleashed. Guests drank and ate like there was no tomorrow. The naming process lasted 5 minutes only, before the baby was whisked away to his private room. The rest of the time was meant for celebrations. Indeed, it was a chance for Rwandans to drink beers on a cool Friday evening. Close to midnight, the music became louder. Couples took to the grass and started to shake their bones. Occasionally, slow jams were played. Couples squeezed tight as the cold breeze from the lake Kivu swept across. The ground was already littered by hundreds of empty beer bottles. The D.J was from across the border. That is why he chose to warm the area by playing Kwasa kwasa and pesa pesa. But it was another great popular hit that really got the crowd to their feet. The song was none other than Ndombolo ya solo! When the D.J played this particular song, all guests leapt from their chairs and moved in for the kill. They danced in a manner that would put the best martial arts expert to real shame. It was like a combination of boxing and karate kicking. In the process, several kicks and fists criss-crossed, flooring a number of drunken visitors. One would think that Jet Lee himself had attended the party with his gang of fighters! We quietly crept away for safety, and straight to the lodge. diaspoman@yahoo.com
