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Katanga�s booze, sewage, cheap sex
LIFE GOES ON: Drainage channel that substitutes the usual demarcation marks in Katanga, and right, THAT�S LIFE: A man washing clothes near a stream of sewage
TO say my maiden visit to Katanga was simply a nightmare is an understatement. As I sauntered through the ghetto, flies incessantly gave me standing ovations. My eyes were entertained to the sight of fresh and dry human dung launched at rather every head-turn.
Naked, malnourished infants with yellow lumps of mucus heading reluctantly for their mouth, frolic about the whole expanse hollering and wailing. The less enthusiastic ones find no mischief settling down to attend a natural call to excrete.
This is no preserve for the children.
Adults play it straight at night under the cover of darkness, albeit, in a more sophisticated manner. Faeces are off-loaded into a black kavera(polythene bag) and littered all over. The level minded dump them in the swamp.
Temporary bibaati units, murky shacks and yawning mud and wattle huts complete the picture of Katanga housing. A handful of semi temporary structures stand erect, but still overtly defy the principles of geometry. A few dozen tin-roofed shops and bars flank the filthy clustering. With sewerage snuggling about with houses� threshold, this is surely the right place to pick up cholera or dysentery. The sordid smell of sewage blended with malwa and waragi doses lends the impression of an everyday do, just as this throng and another indulge in their orgy of self congratulation.
Forget about milk tea or coffee for breakfast, residents here wake up to a treat of waragi and malwa. It is mundane for casual men and women to start serious drinking as early as 7:00a.m. This lasts throughout the whole day as tales and jokes are exchanged, raucous laughter filling the air, abuses hurled, rattling gossip unshelled and the tide of talk is like the booming of surf on a distant shore.
Everyone seems to be pumping up his or her decibel to reveal the jugular muscle like it were an unprecedented falsetto competition. There is nothing I think of to compare with the noise levels down here.
The brainchild of the booze are women who enthusiastically peddle this business as the salient brink to keeping their family afloat.
Drunken couples snog and fondle amidst cheers in the broad daylight with not even the least of care. Binges are spiced up with mairungi chewing sessions. Joints of crack (marijuana) are dispensed to all and sundry. I have heard a lot about slums, but nothing could quite prepare me for my debut experience.
Lunchtime set in and my tummy started throwing malicious tantrums. I succumbed to its plight.
And in no time I was solemnly trudging the length and breadth of the slum looking out for a somewhat decent sizzle to apprehend the situation. I was wrong. Katanga harbours no decent hotel or restaurant. Not even the travesty of it.
Nothing had snuffed my earlier urge about exploring Katanga before.
Thank God I stumbled upon a shack with writings, �Mama Boy�s Hotel� inscribed on its chest. Something crucial dawned on me. I ingested it full dose that since the eating joint�s gimmick was correctly spelt, the catering benefactress must be having a stretching command of the English language. I was beside the fact.
Dusk here shows up with prostitution in tow. Forget about the bar and roadside whores, the ones here ply their trade at home. It is normal to see a modest wench straddled by her doorside wooing passersby, as another one a stone throw away announces a discount. They are robust responsible-looking young women by day and seven headed beasts at night.
Most of the prostitutes do mediocre jobs like selling waragi during the day, not to cover up their sombre deeds (because everyone knows them pretty well) but to supplement their nightly income.
Shuddering to swallow, some of the perpetrators of this ill are housewives whose hubby is a notorious drunk. Being the only way to get food on table for the entire family, she carries on enthusiastically with due consent of her husband.
Brothels are strewn all over Katanga. Ugly-looking mud houses with a standard furnishing; one bed, one chair, a table and a packet of condoms for goodness� sake.
Price discrimination literally controls this venerable profession. She (commonly referred to as Nampima by locals) sweet-talked me before sprawling the fees sheet; a kiss is priced at sh200. A short-lived sexual game meanders between sh600 to sh1,000, while a night through encounter stands defiantly apart at sh2,500. All days and nights are the same. I encountered a replica experience the following day. Though this time round I was short of guts to afford another night here.
__________
bwanika
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