JIJI NDOGO: My boss takes me to a mganga

See, 115 years ago, in 1910, Kenya was still part of the British East Africa Protectorate, a British colonial territory. It wouldn’t be renamed Kenya until 1920. Basically, Kenya is only 105 years old, so the old duke who kicked the bucket was 10 years older than Kenya.

And no, I didn’t have all this history in my head. I had to consult Wikipedia for the deets. Also, no, I’m not fascinated by how ancient this guy was. It’s the idea of his quality of life before he died that has me worried.

Either I read some place or someone told me that life goes full circle. We are born naïve and helpless and if we are lucky enough to die of old age, we end up behaving like small babies once more. If you ask me, that sucks on so many levels.

The idea of crapping my pants and peeing willy-nilly like a toddler scares me. Adult diapers? Heck, no! Also, having my kids drag me out in a blanket to bask in the sun like drying maize gives me the jitters. But being in my late twenties, all that is far, far away. I’m like an astronaut worrying about the weather in Mars, having never been to the moon.

You know who is creeping closer to a date with his maker? My boss, Inspector Tembo. Although he also happens to be my father-in-law, I don’t know how old he is. Neither does my wife, Sgt Sophia. I doubt anyone knows. He might have been around when good old Noah was preparing for the flood.

You might be thinking, “Why not just ask him how old he is?”

Two reasons. One, it had been none of my business, until today. Two, my boss won’t tell anyone how old he is. Not me, and not his own daughter. We’ve come to think it has something to do with his retirement. The man isn’t looking forward to receiving his matching orders yet, and having to spend his time counting the weaverbirds in the tree upcountry.

That said, today, he came to me with a very sombre request.

“Son,” he said, “I’d like you to take me somewhere, but you have to promise me whatever happens there remains between us.”

This totally shocked me. For one, I’m surprised that he’d ask me to share a secret. But most of all, that he called me “son”. Never once has he used such an endearing term towards me.

“Yes, boss,” I say. I’d thought of calling him “father” but I thought it a bit of a stretch. “Where are we going?”

He put a finger to his lips. “Shhhh! Do you want me to announce it to the entire neighbourhood?”

Our journey led us down to the river and up the valley on the other side of Jiji Ndogo. It’s not an area we frequent a lot because it’s mostly forest. Actually, I’m impressed that Tembo is able to pick a path through the dense underbrush.

Finally, we come to a clearing, in the middle of which is a small sagging mud-and-thatch house. It looks so old, Mau Mau fighters might have built it.

“Damn,” I say. “If you tell me a witch lives here—”

Tembo clamps a hand over my mouth. “Are you stupid? She doesn’t like being called a witch.”

“Who doesn’t?”

 Just then, a woman older than God emerges from the hut. “Hello, inspector. I guess you’re here for the youth potion?”