Boston and I became close friends as time went by. I often dropped in on my daily walkabouts for a local update on the village and he dropped by the resort after he closed up the paint shop. Most evenings we went to the local takeaway for ‘flied Irish potatoes’ (not French, not Australian nor Russian) on a bed of salad and two ‘flied eggs’. It is a healthier and cheaper combination to eat out in Chembe, whilst listening to the hub on the Main Street. A tent-like dining room with extremely short-legged benches and tables made the seating a little uncomfortable. There are too many short-asses here in Malawi.

But one night at band camp, I was invited for dinner at the Boston home as a ‘thank you’ for our friendship. I got introduced to his wife and his two daughters, mum and cousins live next door. We sat out on a huge picnic blanket as it was too hot and humid inside the house. We had chicken, Ndsima, and vegetables in a spicy sauce and it was so very tasty. Thank you so very much.

The night was still young and his friend Mantis called and asked for a beer and a round of pool at the ‘Chembe Local’. It was one of those places I never saw, but always wondered where the music came from. Just off the main drag, turn left, and you’re already in the drinking hall.

All eyes opened and black faces wandered our way when the three of us walked in. ‘That’s right’ I stared back. ‘Msungu. With two black friends. Here and now. Three beers, please.

Some locals had been here all day it seemed. A smell of green filled the air as even the barman chuffed on some delightful herbs. The music was just great. That typical African beat and catchy tunes that just move your body. Many locals shook what they got, singing along to the tunes. Ya, this could be a hot pick-up joint. But there weren’t any girls in here. They have their reasons not to come in and are probably busy by the lake.

There was a pool table right smack bang in the middle of the pub. Beer bottle cabs identified on whose turn it is. After a meet and greet, Boston placed his green label bottle cap onto the green table top. It was a relaxed atmosphere here, some more than others.

Eventually, I played against Boston. Just for fun just for a good laugh. We had to. The green tablecloth had more holes than my undies and the queues were ‘just’ a tad straighter than boomerangs back in Oz.

I don’t know how but I pulled them off, but landed some unbelievable shots. Lucky shots. Shots that challenge all Einstein and Newton gravitational laws within the objects given.

In a way how the doctor at the ‘Simpson’ described Mr. Burns’s health. ‘There are so many viruses fighting each other that all organs can function normally’.

The crooked stick equaled the swaying table to work with the holy carpet to sink the ball. I couldn’t believe it, neither could the bystanders around this table. This form continued to my next challenger.

It was old mate’s turn. I noticed him before, it was hard not to. A loudmouth you could find in any pub at 9 pm. He had been residing in this tavern all day long by the looks of him. Everybody knows him, nobody likes him.

‘I am going to kill you’ as I shook hands with him. He was obviously impressed by my moves around the table.

‘C’mon man, what happened to the funhouse? Many tried, none succeeded’ I replied as a tough man. He was just way too serious as he came up with the dodgiest pool rules as we played along. I never even heard of any of them anywhere on this planet.

‘Two shots for me, you can’t play the cushion first to hit your ball!’ he yelled after I had taken my shot. ‘Since when?’ And on any foul, you can move the white ball to wherever you want?!

This is going nowhere. He was on the black label and I laid the play ball right in front of the number 8, right in front of the pocket.

‘I get two shots’ he declared. I just gulped my beer which instantly went out the way it came. I thought I was dreaming! ‘Why do you get two shots?’ I asked. ‘Why do you need two shots?’ was my second question.

Other observers had enough of his tantrums meanwhile and started arguing with dickhead. I guess that’s why he wasn’t that popular around here, that’s why he is a dickhead. A discussion started around the pool table and I couldn’t stop laughing. It was a typical African scenario I witnessed so many times.

Palaver, palaver. A big fuzz about absolutely nothing. Everyone is right, no one gives in. 20 minutes wasted for fudge-all. I even had time to finish my beer and order two new ones. I sat next to Boston who wasn’t as amused as I was.

‘He wants two shots. He only needs one. But yet, they are still discussing the issue. Where is my tissue?’

It was a hilarious show, an entertaining evening. I hadn’t laughed so much for a while.

Old mate eventually finished this game with one shot. Wow, what an effort. All other locals shook my hand for effort and being a fair sportsman.

We finished our beer, we had enough. The music was still going as we got going too. We didn’t have far to go either.

A night out downtown Chembe.