I saw them. I sat and watched them.  The only thing that was missing when watching them was a big bowl of popcorn and a tall glass of soda.  I watched them throwing themselves at him.  I watched the rat race.  Chief – the name did suit him.  The ladies called him Mapesa.  Again the nickname suited him.  Mapesa – money.  Chief Mapesa.  Son of the Minister of Finance – old money he claimed he had and he was so used to throwing it around.  It’s ironic, isn’t it?  It was as if his whole life had been a script.  Carefully plotted and written so that everything interwove into the other.

Chief Mapesa with his businesses and properties scattered all over Tanzania.  Was it a wonder they all wanted a nibble of him?  He knew how to weave them into his web.  He knew how to treat a woman right and make her feel like a queen.  He wasn’t embarrassed about carrying a bouquet of roses as big as the Kilimanjaro; or getting himself down and dirty in massage oils; or putting on an apron to cook them a meal; or walk into a lingerie boutique and dive into the racks with every colour, texture and size of undies. 

            “Oh Chief!” was the national anthem for the ladies.

I watched the rats’ race for a nibble of Chief – afterall there was plenty to go around.  They all had a plot.  All the ones before the others and others that followed.  It was the same old plot – to make sure Mama Chief was out of the house and they were in instead.  Yes, the same old plot.  First they would seduce Chief, then they would beg, when all failed they started threatening.

            “Chief!”  They would screamed, stomping their feet, “it’s either that woman or me!  I’m tired of being the other woman!”

But Chief had heard it all before.  He would just sit there, on that leather couch he had bought, not moving, not flinching, not even blinking.  He didn’t even look at them.  He just went on paging the old TIMES magazine that he had left on the coffee table, that he had also bought.  Chief always left magazines on coffee tables, as if marking his territories – a trademark, like the red RAV4s he bought them.  Interesting the magazines were never moved, as if agreeing to submit to their master.

Now after the feet stomping scene failed, some would threaten to walk out, hoping he would beg them to stay.  But Chief never begged, afterall he was the Chief.  They would leave, thinking that after a few minutes of banging that door Chief would pick up his phone and call them, whispering sweet nothings, promising the sun and moon.  But Chief never did, afterall there are plenty fish in the sea, erm, rats to go around.

Some would beg to be taken back after realising that Chief had not bothered to look back.  They would please and beg and promise not to be naughty again.  They would beg for their safety net to secure them.  The safety net that bought them cars, paid for their rent, DSTV subsriptions, took them shopping, overseas on holidays and out to expensive restaurants.

            “Chief has changed,” they would complain when all fails.  “He doesn’t love me anymore.”

            “You don’t say, shoga!”  A girlfriend who would also be hoping for a nibble if Chief would reply, trying very hard to have a sad look while inside rejoicing – that now it would be her turn.

            “I think he’s cheating on me!”  She would whisper, looking sadly at her well manicured hands as if it would be her very last manicure.  Maybe it would.  Afterall, the mapesa might no longer there.

So while some fell pregnant, hoping to trap him – to trap some of his wealth – Chief never got trapped.  He would pay for child support, one he had enough prove that the baby was his and open a trust fund for the child.  Why not, afterall it was his mbegu. 

They never gave up without a fight.  Afterall it was a rats’ race.  Some would resort to getting some concortion and potion from Bagamoyo, under some baobab tree.  But mama chief already had all the tracks covered and made sure that her family – including Chief were well protected.  It was a rats’ race afterall, wasn’t it?

Anyway, others resorted to calling Mama Chief – telling her everything, hoping that after she had heard it all she would choose to leave the cheating bastard.  But Mama Chief knew all about them.  She got him the way too – it was a rat race afterall.  So she chose to be the meek, submissive wife.  The kind of wife who didn’t say anything, who was too stupid and afraid to comment, the kind of wife whom you put many of your properties in her name, as you don’t want the people to start pointing fingers – to question the old money.

He provided for her well, Chief did.  Afterall she was Mama Chief, the mother of his children.  He had set up all her businesses, schooled her siblings, bought her luxuries cars, every now and then vacationing and shopping overseas.  I couldn’t help it but wonder though - maybe he did so as to keep her from asking question, or to keep her occupied and out of the way, or maybe it was just Chief’s way. 

Every now and then Chief would come home drunk and would throw new documents at Mama chief to lock in the safe.  Obediently, Mama Chief would bend down and pick up the papers scattered all over the persian carpet in the lounge.  After his dinner he would call her and have her sign the new documents – masking his wealth behind her name.  She had to be good for something, he always told himself.

As she locked the safe, Mama Chief would smile, knowing that one day she would end the rats’ race.  Yes, he was also good for something.