The Bartender of the Muzimu | A Ugandan Folktale from The Thirsty Zebra
In a dusty bar on the edge of Kampala, bartender Musa serves a clientele unlike any other—ghosts awaiting their final journey at midnight.
The Bartender of the Muzimu: A Tale from a Kampala Night
The clock on the wall—a sun-bleached relic with a lazy tick—clicked over to 11:15 PM. For Musa, the keeper of ekiro, the night that belongs to others, this was when the living gave way to the lost.
By that hour, the living customers were gone—back to their homes in Najjera and Bwaise—leaving only the scent of spilled Waragi and roasted groundnuts. Musa preferred it that way—the silence. Silence ya mukwano, my friend. Mostly.
He wiped a glass with a rag that had seen better centuries. The Thirsty Zebra was more rust than walls, a bar built from corrugated iron and stubbornness. A waiting room between worlds.
The first arrived on a breath of cold air that smelled of dust and old rain. One moment the stool was empty, the next—araaba!—a man in a tattered suit, a face mapped with regrets older than independence.
“Evening, Colonel,” Musa said, not looking up. The ghost nodded, silent as always.
Musa poured two fingers of amber whiskey that never emptied. The ghost’s translucent hand passed through the glass before solidifying. That was Musa’s kavuyo—his work and his burden.
They came trickling in: Mama Nalwanga, still in her Mulago Hospital uniform, humming a lullaby; a boda boda driver with a tire mark across his chest; and a little girl, katono, clutching a doll. They were his bannaffe—his regulars, the choir of the almost-gone.
For Musa, this was happiness—not joy, but solemn duty. He was the keeper of the threshold, serving one last drink before the journey to the beyond. Even a muzimu deserves respect.
“You know he cannot pay you, Musa,” rasped Kalema, the ancient one—barely more than eyes in the air. Musa smiled. “And what would I buy with ghost money, jjajja? A man should have one last drink before a long journey.”
As the maddimu hour neared, the air thickened. The ghosts grew solid, sipping the memory of warmth. Musa felt both the weight and the peace of his calling.
At 11:58, the Colonel finished his silent drink, nodded, and walked through the wall—not as a ghost, but as a man finally at peace. One by one they followed: Mama Nalwanga fading, the boda driver blinking out, the child leaving behind only the scent of mandazi and dust.
The clock struck midnight. Ddimu! The hum vanished. The Thirsty Zebra was just a bar again—quiet, smelling of soap and stale beer. Musa sighed, picked up the Colonel’s glass—it was clean, always clean—and turned off the lights.
“Yes, tomorrow night then,” he whispered. It wasn’t a question. It was a promise.
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