I don't burn incense to ward off stray spirits, or throw salt over my shoulders to burn vampires or draw pentagrams on walls or jump over puddles twice. My superstitious friend probably does. Some time ago when she found a black cat on the stairs leading to her apartment, she stayed at a hotel and moved out of the apartment two days later. And she wouldn't even set foot in the apartment with the movers because the step where the cat lay purring was now a blackspot. She believes to this date the only reason she hasn't choked on her own saliva is because during her encounter she had avoided looking at that black-furred feline in the eyes.
Then the other day I walked past a street lined with coffins and undertakers. I felt what it must feel like to be superstitious – satiety in a gut full of knots. The coffins were truly magnificent, artistically speaking. The wood had this masterful glossy finish onto which was riveted the kind of railing that reminded you of royalty (for a royal send off, I guess). Then there was white silky fabric draping perfectly in the interior.
They were beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, I begun to imagine what it must be like to lie within. Is it soft and spongy? Probably smells like turpentine, wood glue and varnish. Does being carried in there feel like being on a restrictive swing? Okay, probably not, but airtight..... Suddenly, I was jostled back to reality by a lady sniffing and wiping her eyes as she inspected the coffin. Suddenly, I was engulfed by an eerie acknowledgement of the reality of death. Then I thought, if my superstitious friend were here, she would have told me to travel upcountry to her grandmother's compound to run around the lemon tree 10 times.
Grandmother’s compound! Mmmh…… (because my mind likes to wander). Because the mention of grandmother’s compound conjures up memories of roasted green maize and roasted mushroom – mushrooms as big as my palm. The maize there is nothing like the maize you buy from vendors at a Nairobi bus stop while pretending to ignore his black finger nails, the ghastly dust and smoke carrying wind and the frequency with which he is scratching his rear.
In the past, when we were at grandmother’s compound, we were like a walking edition of the Discovery Channel. People came to see the people from the place where “hair piece” was accessible. Hair piece was a very urbane thing, just like nail polish and perfume. Now, if your father drove you there in his old Peugeot, you were quite the spectacle.
The whole village would turn up to push it up the winding rocky paths and if there was mud, they would huff and puff and even carry it. Of course, at this point you are walking alongside the car with your long braids and new dress. You speak the English-Kiswahili hybrid even when spoken to in mother tongue because you are trying very hard to keep your terrible mother tongue phonetics under wraps. The muddy children, however, are looking at you like you are on hiatus from your kingdom in Mars as if to say: “You egotistical town snob!”