• In villages, people fear what they hear about almost more than what they see
Once in a while, a subject of much squabbling arises in Jiji Ndogo. Before I came here, the birth of triplets caused a ridiculous uproar that caused the poor family to relocate. Twins, one could understand, the villagers said; triplets were too far removed from what the humble rustics considered normal.
Ridiculous, I know, but just about every small community removed from Western influence still clings to traditional cultural beliefs. As a young cadet, I remember attending the funeral of a friend’s mother somewhere in Busia.
So west of Kenya was it that the residents proudly pointed to some hill in the near distance and boasted their proximity to Uganda. I shared their enthusiasm. I had never come this close to another country, but that was not the most absurd thing I took home. That cake went to the moment I was not welcomed into the compound the way others were.
“The problem is that you didn’t arrive crying,” said my friend, laughing at my misery. “Over here, the harder you mourn, the warmer the reception.”
So, with this and other incidents firmly in mind, it doesn’t seem all that strange that the suspected sight of a nine-foot snake in Jiji Ndogo would elicit such mixed feelings from the denizens gathered around the bush where the snake is said to have been seen.
“Now I know who’s been preying on my chickens,” Nyaguthii said.
“You should be glad,” Otieno chimed in. “The gods have accepted your offerings.”
“My offerings?”
“Yeah. Like Abel in the bible, you know?”
“I didn’t offer anything. And what would possess you to compare a snake to the Most High?”
“Did you see it? That’s definitely Omieri.”
“If you’re talking about that snake in Kisumu, it died way back when I was a young girl. Burned to ashes when I still had all my teeth.”
“And your breasts didn’t touch your knees.”
“Are you trying to insult me?”
I break the two up before they begin exchanging blows. “No need to be nasty, Otieno.”
“But everything I’ve said is true.”
“Who saw the snake?” I ask around. Unfortunately, no one can answer me with any degree of confidence. What ensues is a session of finger-pointing, claiming so and so came before the accuser. “Do I take to mean none among has seen it?”
“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, Mr Policeman,” says an old man, leaning heavily on a walking stick. He’s new to Jiji Ndogo.
“Who are you? I don’t think we’ve met before.”
“I’m just visiting. Like the reborn Omieri.”
“So, you’re the one spreading this rumour, I see. Well, I’d urge you to stop instilling fear in people. If anyone did indeed see a snake, it was just that — a snake. Not a mythical creature.”
Sophia returns with her search party. “Any luck?” I ask her.
“Nope, but the anxiety is real. We have to do something.”
“What? Short of capturing the snake, I see nothing that will ease the unease.”
She pulls me aside. “You know how magicians and politicians fool people?”
“They begin with foolish audiences, in the first place?”
“Don’t try to be smart, Makini. It’s so unlike you. I’m talking about misdirection. All we need to do is get a hold of a sizeable snake. Word goes around that the monster was captured and our sleepy village goes back to slumber.”
“And where do you suppose we find such a snake?”
“I know a guy.”
Sophia’s “Snake Expert” arrives two days later with a dead creature in a bag. And that was my first introduction to politics.