I know I keep saying I am not superstitious or even religious. However, maybe my ancestors were on to something with some of their beliefs.
Hear me out. The other night, I had a weird dream that involved me chasing a bird around in a room occupied by deceased friends and family, who seemed to be at some sort of gathering. Eventually, I caught the flyaway bird and put it out of the window.
My people interpret a bird flying into a house as a harbinger of death or, at the very best, a sign of impending major change. Of course, they don’t specify whose death, but when I put the various elements of the dream together, I figured it could even be mine.
I woke up in a cold sweat and decided if I was going to be shuffling off my mortal coil at any moment, then I must not die a hypocrite. Over the years, I have begged, bullied and cajoled readers to prepare for the end by writing their wills, and all the while mine has not been ready for me to go.
So this morning, as I sat at my laptop in my rented flat, a stone's throw from the Indian Ocean, where, by the way, I want my ashes disposed of, I got down to the business of my last will and testament.
To the ordinary onlooker, I may appear to be a man of significant stature. However, in fact, my ‘estate’, strictly speaking, consists of this decrepit 2018 laptop, my constantly overheating mobile phone and a few second-hand books.
However, what I lack in title deeds, I more than make up for in creative liabilities. So here goes: "I, Mwangi G, being of sound mind, though the digital lenders at M-Shwari and my bank would argue otherwise, hereby declare this my Last Will and Testament."
Article I: The Distribution of Tangible Assets: To whichever of my relatives wants it, I leave my 2018 HP Laptop. It requires a constant connection to a power outlet and prayers to the gods of cooling fans to function, but it contains a folder titled ‘Business Plans 2022’. This folder is empty, but the symbolism of a clean slate is my parting gift to you.
To my landlady, I leave the security deposit. I am aware that the paint has peeled and the sink has developed a mysterious ‘cough’, but consider the deposit a settlement for the three months of rent I currently owe. If the math doesn't add up, please refer to the ‘Spiritual Blessings’ section of this document.
Article II: The Apportionment of Liabilities: This is the meat of my legacy. To my dearest best friend (the three of you decide which of you it is) who once lent me Sh5,000 “until Friday” (I never specified which Friday), I bequeath my Fuliza balance. It is currently standing at a majestic negative Sh4,900. In the spirit of “what’s mine is yours”, I have decided that “what I owe is also yours”.
To the various Digital Lending Apps currently sending threatening SMS messages to my entire contact list: I leave you my SIM card. May you find peace in calling each other to demand repayment. I suggest a group conference call, where you can discuss the philosophical nature of ‘unsecured loans’ until the universe’s battery runs out.
Article III: Funeral Arrangements: I request a modest send-off. Do not waste money on a fancy casket; a sturdy cardboard box from the local supermarket will do. Preferably one that previously held premium cooking oil, for extra flammability at the crematorium, and to give the illusion of wealth.
Final Codicil: Lastly, to the world at large, I leave my optimism. Despite owning nothing but a pile of debt high enough to touch the sky, I leave you with the knowledge that in Kenya, a man is measured by the number of people he can successfully avoid on payday.
I sign this with a thumbprint, as I have pawned my signature to a shylock.
Of course, maybe the weird dream was brought about by the medication I am currently on, in which case, forget everything you just read.
