STORYMOJA

Welcome 

0 

“Did you know that the evil spirit lives!?” said the street preacher, spiting more than just venom in my face. Looking right at me, left index finger in his nose and the other clutching a much worn out Bible, he continues: “He lives! He lives! He lives in every crevice of the city, in every institution, every corner, every bar. In every parliament, in every encounter, in every unsaved and unrighteous action. He lives, I know, even in YOUR house.”

 1  

We talk to my sister everyday on the phone. That is, when she doesn’t have to pretend she is doing something fecund in her office.  Like the rest of the corporate world, she fabricates and manipulates things – however imaginary – to do, or that in the immediate near future need to be done. Despite her astonishingly increasing status within this supposed “globalizing world,” she is not the evil spirit we are talking about.

Today, she and my mother talk about their electricity bills.

Sister who is Not the Evil Spirit (who hence forth shall be referred to as SNTES) says

Haya! Have you paid?

Hey I paid, but right now I don’t have any money.

Me, I can’t pay.

Now, since when did that matter in Kenya? Why are you worried?

But you know with Kibaki…

When you go to their offices, just go upstairs and tell them when you can pay, in fact, ask for Njoroge. I know him.

Haya! Kumbe they will let me? I hope so. These days I guess we can’t just buy another fuse from Kilonzo and put the electricity back ourselves. Haya, but did you see the guy that got electrocuted?

Listen, you just go and tell them. Ati you can pay when?

On the 25^th. Sawa, I’ll tell them.

Okay, now talk to your sister.

Hi.

Hi.

This is a perfunctory exchange. Thereafter both our mouths exhibit some superhuman ability that only female sibling phone conversations can conjure. We talk without pausing.

Hi, hawayu? Are you going out? How is he? Her? Stella? Odhis? Ati you were wearing what? Your hair is baaad. Do you know who’s in town? How is baby? Do you know who I danced with yesterday? And on and on, breathlessly.

Before either of us gets any answers, there is an abrupt click, and my ears are privy to the conventional East African dial tone, sadly, in this day and age without what sounded like garrulous poultry.  

Our conversation ends every time the patriarch of her workplace gives her the evil eye.

2

It was in one of her in-between states, – almost lucid, liminal, drinking tea, sleeping, yawning, awake, news hour, picking her hair, talking to Jesus – that my mother asked, “Does this girl know these mzungus are crazy?”

3

In the elongated troubled missive that was the preacher’s soliloquy, I picked out the following words: “The Devil Incarnate . . .”  “Bewitchment . . .” “Evil, evil, evil spirit!”

And suddenly I was to hear those words everywhere.

4

Another of my sisters, younger than SNTES by a good sixteen years, when told about Sister With the Evil Spirit’s (who thenceforth shall be referred to as SWES) shall we say disposition, could only deliver (and by virtue of her age and socialization could only be expected to deliver) one of the following words: “cool, duh, whatever, dude, um, sure, okay.”

There was no point searching her for more detail. MTV Africa had ensured there was none.

5

I was always the last to know.

It was only when I was closing the window with the hair braid extension that had late last night fallen from my mother’s head, that she informed me in greater minutiae of my sister’s wayward behavior. Until then I was only privy to rumours and greatly elaborated oral missives delivered by my irredeemably slothful and tittle-tattle neighbours.

Don’t get me wrong, although I am not the black sheep of the family, the proverbially vacillating adolescent, there has been many a time when my wool would have been purple. What was to be revealed shortly however, immediately rendered my purple wool – whose impetus was some previous venality (just some late nights in the local shebeen, and “too familiar” conversations with the Rastas next to the SDA church) – appear a slightly tarnished beige. 

My sister had definitely taken scandal, and was on a mission to take Nairobi middle-middle-class-Christian-housing estate-mixed primary school-1990´s Indian shopping mall visiting-type scandal to a whole new level of perversity.

My absence, by virtue of scholarly endeavour over the last year and a half, had hindered my awareness of my sister’s penchant for badness. I was not to worry though, there was no need to put the Ugali on hold, for although it had taken a week of formalities and perfunctory ceremony to get to this stage, my mother, in appropriate regalia, fully equipped with sound effects: breast-beating, hair-grabbing, cup-smashing, different languages, and with the help of the holy spirit, was at this very moment going to narrate all the various misdeeds SWES was accused of. 

Is there an Oscar for this type of thing?  An African parody for this atrocious American decadence?

I wish I had a cigarette.

The hair extension, in all its Korean-made multifaceted abilities, seemed to have combated the latch’s unresponsiveness, and the flowery curtains stolen from the sort-of communist army in the Seventies, provided an appropriate façade, protecting us from the tittle-tattle neighbours. I withdrew my hand and waited for the chronicling of the most relevant (and irrelevant) of my sister’s transgressions. These would be preceded by an abstract, an introduction/preamble, the autobiography of my sister until the present (also preceded by a preamble), and finally what were presently conceived of as her most malevolent deeds. 

My mother did not have delusions of grandeur; she was grandeur. Regal in the appropriate attire (a blood-red sweater that highlighted the gravity of the situation, and a purple headscarf that gave her a sinister facelift), she dramatically turned to face the solitary closed window, and opened her mouth soundlessly as if waiting for the east wind.

I could only hope my sister’s impiety would not provoke a trilogy.

Turning slowly back towards me, the brittleness in her eyes betraying her composed manner, her soundless mouth began to move audibly.

She began.

5  

The list of my sister’s unbecoming actions was endless. They were outright faux pas in any region of the world, but particularly in this one governed by my mother (“modern/traditional”, purportedly Christian, African queen negotiating sub alternate) and others like her. SWES, drunk with what ever evil force had coerced such bad conduct, had for the last few months:

Not combed her hair.

Flirted with socialism.

Been seen in a car with Nigerians.

Been seen out of a car with Nigerians.

Dropped out of university.

Protested in support of Somali pirates.

Intermingled with men and women of immoral turpitude.

Dated a Muslim.

Taken to smelling of a strange bush.

As you can see, SWES was working hard to confirm the existence of an evil spirit in this city.  It made me wonder unceasingly, was the street preacher right?

6

We couldn’t understand anything from the Mexican soap opera today. I’m telling you, nothing. Maybe only that there was a hot and hairy guy called Hernandez and two other women who both possessed roughly seven names each (although at some point in their titles they both owned the name Maria). Nevertheless, from the amount of screaming, crying and unbridled romance, you would think that they were also suffering from the same affliction as SWES.

Perhaps it has something to do with how frequently we advertise what possesses us? Every time you turn around, you encounter a sign announcing “Beers and Spirits,” and even more ominously, “Butcher, Beers and Spirits.” 

Capitalising on this escalating darkness, or as is more frequently stated: “In response to this grave phenomenon,” churches had now scheduled Tuesdays as the day when they would beat out the devil from their midst.

It was said that church attendance on these days was unrivaled.

7 

The Right Reverend Bishop on the news warned about the persistence of the evil spirit in girls’ boarding schools. Frequently on the news, we were now plied with images of puberty-distressed bodacious girls in some school at the end of civilization (or so it seemed). Often, they were to be seen uniformly in seductive disarray, rolling around on the grass, foaming at the mouth and speaking in a strange language to some invisible fiend. 

The Right Reverend Bishop screamed – energized and sweating profusely from the effort – that what we needed was a Christian jihad against these sinister forces. And that he was more than ready and able to do God’s work.

8

Every time I go to the supermarket now, I hope to God that some alcoholic drink is being promoted. The situation at home has become unbearable, with the antics of SWES keeping us awake long past the hour that we shabby genteel customarily retire.

My mother and SWES operate like aggravated hawks, eyeing each other piercingly, as emotion ravages them both just under the surface. They operate in menacing silence as though avoiding an encounter, yet concomitantly circling in for some misadventure that has not been played out but will soon, very soon. They are waiting to leap at a carcass that has not been savagely undone at the seams.

The last time I approached the entrance to the supermarket all I could make out was a display of disposable nappies. I don’t know why this franchise store has become so stingy. Anything over 12% will do.

9

It’s official.  Attacking the bougainvillea with a yet unseen fervour, the gardener tells me that from the looks of things my sister is harboring some sinister ally of Lucifer. He said it was a pity that we were the only ones who could not see it and we – no pun intended- still spent our time beating about the bush.

He also told me that the whole neighbourhood has already been alerted to SWES’s unbecoming actions when she has several times walked around the streets at night illuminated by some eerie brightness, her hair adrift.

If we wanted, he could always get us “something” from his cousin’s grandmother in Kitui.

And we didn’t have to pay if it didn’t work.

10

When the evangelical prayer meeting was called at our house, my sister was away undoubtedly defending some Babylonian crusade. Her absence though was part of their strategy.

The righteous arrived, all wearing glasses that were protected by the blood of Jesus. Sifting through her infinite belongings, they came across material that highlighted the gravity of their mission.

“Hi ni nini? What is this?” My deaconess Godmother, so startled from her findings, could no longer find her Queen’s English. Swahili would have to do. In her hands were what was supposedly a pair of underwear whose origins, obvious even to these pure daughters of the divine, could only be Brazilian.

Sixteen other palms opened in similar question, revealing a host of incriminating material. Cigarettes, condoms, fashion magazines, international phone numbers of dubious origins, photos of alcohol-filled parties, a book on yoga.

It was all my mother could do to keep from teetering off her ankles. She was equally unable to adjust her Ghanaian head wrap, which was slowly and weakly collapsing inwards.

Suddenly, a pair of one of the more youthful eyes caught a glimpse of a book with familiar binding peeping out from under my sister’s pillow. Their owner proclaimed, “My virtuous sisters, look, the Savior reigns! No need to worry anymore, for our licentious daughter is indeed seeking redemption. Shetani Ashindwe!” Let the Devil be won! 

Smiling, she stretched her hand under the pillow to pull out a King James Version of the New Testament.

King James was obviously the catalyst for much good, for looking around one could discern a growing sense of relief, a confidence that this mission would not be in vain. The virtuous sisters then, in a synchrony which could only have been developed during many previous exorcising excursions, moved together to pray, my mother standing hopefully in the center, surrounded by fifteen holy heavy bosoms.

Very unexpectedly SWES, back from whatever portentous mission early, and sensing intruders within her sinful realm, chose this exact moment to barge into her pagan living quarters. The door gave way under her urging in a manner more willing than the occurrence occasioned, and knocked the Sister in Christ who happened to be in possession of King James’s epistle so hard that she unceremoniously dropped the Bible from her hands.

The prayer group reached for their hearts, their mouths opened in shocked excitement.

On landing, the pages – loosened by the surprising acrobatics exhibited by this Bible – flew open, spilling forth three thinly rolled joints, one of which on the pressure of the thud (and what they could not distinguish as an un-expertise rolling) unraveled itself slowly like a giraffe’s tongue on a hot day. The dry light green contents peppered with small dark seeds poured forth, and in slow finality sluggishly deposited themselves at the apex of my mother’s feet.

My sister, the only one unaware of the Bible’s startling revelations, greedily affixed her eyes on the congregation of good news messengers (in whose chocolate brown faces she could read a mixture of cruel satisfaction and judgment). And in a mounting rage motivated by some invisible fiend, and foaming at the mouth like those bodacious pubescent girl students afflicted by some otherworldly foe – forgetting this was Africa and my mother’s country – bellowed,

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING IN MY ROOM??????”

 My mother, perhaps seeking penance for the interrupted prayer, or overcome by one ancestor or another’s wrath, threw herself heavily onto the floor. The little dark green seeds sought refuge in her collapsed head wrap.

10

There was a once a campaign in North America titled provocatively and unambiguously D.A.R.E. that was instigated by Nancy Reagan as one of her self-appointed duties as First Lady. Her intention was to keep the nation clean (and not comatose like it was in the 1970´s) and godly. 

Not being North American (I feel I am to be very thankful for this and jealous as well), I am unaware of the rituals employed during this campaign, and can only assume that there were nation-wide speeches, high school support groups, appearances on Oprah, and poster children for the campaign whose fervent declarations of independence from substance abuse rallied the nations’ teenagers. 

What I do know is that there were a multitude of T-shirts as ubiquitous as black women’s plastic hair, on which was emblazoned in big bold red, “D.A.R.E. to keep of drugs.”

I am not sure how long these T-shirts were worn in the States, nor how long the campaign lasted. Somehow though, the cotton took its own reverse middle passage, and the legacy of this forgotten campaign is now fostered in this land of my mother and others like her. 

These T-shirts are now donned in high number on many Kenyan streets by tired bodies, hungry stomachs and dark hands walking home at dusk, unaware of the politics that they are proclaiming, just in awe of what is considered trash in the Occident.

“D.A.R.E.” their chests proclaim fiercely.

Perhaps this is where the evil spirit came from?

11

Despite constant requests on the part of the daughters of the divine (for what was more important than someone else’s apparent misfortune, and one so deliciously interesting at that?), the evangelical prayer meeting cum exorcising session was never called again.

It wasn’t because SWES’s venality had ceased. Oh no. 

In fact, lately she had taken to hanging out with some displaced Australian hippies. Rumour had it that one of them had even asked for her hand in marriage.

Instead, my mother, needing some more traditional and perhaps more “potent” poultice, disappeared to her rural home for a few days, and came back with a sealed wooden pot adorned with deep horizontal black markings.  She then placed it on the mantel right next to a genteel miniature statue of a blond and youthful Jesus Christ. 

On the days when SWES did not bother to return home, my mother could be heard at quiet hours talking to both these symbols. By dim candle light she sat, and I would watch her as her left hand reached for Jesus’ feet, and the other reached to stir the mysterious brew that gurgled and leaped raucously inside the wooden pot with deep black markings.

12

There are some things you do not tell your mother.

You do not tell her that the only spirit my sister has access to comes in a bottle. You do not tell her that SWES, at her own will, chose her own path. Rather, as part of this new generation of the generationless, you try and hide your own demons, whilst simultaneously wondering if the street preacher really was right.

You gravely embody all sorts of contradictions yourself, but what you do is offer other examples of iniquitous occurrences.

“Imagine Mummy, that thing is going around, did you see those two girls’ schools on TV last night?

“Did you hear that Mama Boyani’s house burned down when they were looking for that snake?”

“Did you read in the paper that a South B green grocer was found hanging in his shop, ripe and rotting mangoes found spewing their entrails by his feet?”

For her sake and yours, you agree when she hysterically proclaims “Ashindwe!”

May the Devil be won!

And you hope that whatever is brewing in that pot is not for you.