Life. It is earth, it is living, and it is everything. The week that has been has been an extra ordinary one. One, we all know what August is like to many of our forsaken lives. I have not heard of any politician’s death and we are almost mid-month. Not to smile though, the grip that death has on this bewitching month has already robbed us many we would have otherwise not wished to die. But such is life, all we have to do is accept the string thought of destiny and wait for our days. That is a better way of living. A way that makes us all look forward to the opportunities that life grants us with the fear that living is quite the unlucky sport (just kidding). Anyway, I am always inspired by the enormous efforts everyone is putting into making sure their future riches are sealed. Forget the drunks and the potheads, there are several rehabilitation centers
Afraid of ghosts
to accommodate all of them. The son of Jomo tried to give them a new leash of life and the country was sober for a few weeks. On Sunday however, as I dragged my inspired self from church following my way through to the nearest supermarket for the week’s supply, I met close to 9 Rambo whiskeyed fellas. Their dry bodies’ oozed unfathomed stench, a mix of cane, spirit, brandy, beer and cow innards (mutura). A pig sty had better stench. It is then that it hit me, Kasin Barry left, EABL Has sold enough keg for the monies they wanted to raise. The common drunk was back to his place. A place where merries are turned into sorrows after the last coin has been spend and the only abode would be the unforgiving floor of some den or outside the landlord’s house.
I will not talk about August deaths and muse about the drinking culture in our country. I would rather muse about botany and ghosts that are our ancestors. You see, people are weird. Ever sat with your house help on a random Tuesday and let her just feel good about herself? Encouraging her to speak out about her fears and dreams about her future husband. We have a funny one at our place. This madam did some schooling. The problem with her is that she is a faith whore. She believes anything under the sun. I will not tell you about her four thousand Mpesa story. Some thug in Kamiti got lucky. Now, this mama was telling me about how August is cursed and I kept asking my silly self, is I really that serious. I get her by the way and since she hails from those sides of sirisia, I would get her red eyed were I to argue with her on some issues. I wouldn’t want her to keep wagging her heavy tongue while she fights her urge of reverting to Bukusu when we argue. So I let her flow, slowly relaxing at the reverie of her contorted line of thought. She tells me about how ancestors visit in August, and I clear my throat moving my seat closer. Let me hear this. It has been ages before tales about ancient folklore and beliefs have hit my ears.
Last year, she goes on, was very traumatizing to her. It was one rainy night in those western escarpments. The hills were in commune with the gods and it was time for the ancestors to visit. She says it was the year her two brothers became men. They were strong and steadfast as they bravely stood outside their mother’s hut on one morning. Before the smiling sun kissed the grounds in Bukusuland, their foreskins had gone. They did not cry nor did they shed a tear. The whole village broke into song and dance rising to a crescendo that evening when stomachs were filled and heads were spinning for the unholy froths had they had indulged. Pamela had been no exception. I imagine her shaking derriere to those fastidious Bukusu tunes and quickly switch that thought of. As of any merrymaking, the aftermath in more cases than one bound to bring problems. Her tummy kept turning and making noise while she slept. She in return had to toss and turn in her rickety bed, profusely sweating from the pain pangs ludicrously gnashing away in her tummy with reckless abandon. She had to go out and relieve herself.
The terrors of dark nights have been told all through the generations of mother earth. Pamela’s grandmother – now deceased had warned her of August nights. Her tummy could not wait however lest she decided to make good of her bedding. She was sure however that no one would sleep henceforth because of the contents she would subject the house to. She wouldn’t tell the level of the pungent toxic that would follow her suit. As she thought this, she was already at the door, her hands shaking in pain as her forehead became a towering waterfall. She unhinged the improvised lock and made way to the pit latrine at the far end of the homestead. She did not carry any matchbox. Her brains were focused on the task ahead. She did not realize someone on her heels. She did not care. Just when she had pulled away the sack that acted as the door to their makeshift toiletry and got in eager to squat in position and breath out her pains did she see it. It was dark and silhouette-like. It was the figure of a man, shriveled and strong at the same time. She told me he was right there in front of her while her body relented into panic. She heard her name and thought she was dreaming. Mum was calling her. We should pick up from here next time she breaks from her chores.
Wooooi!! The sirisia ancestors though, why do you visit in such times?