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Two weeks into her romantic relationship with her childhood boyfriend, she had gone from gorgeous, to lovely, to babe, to ‘who are you,’ to the devil’s friend, to and ex-girlfriend, and finally a stranger. What takes people a lifetime to achieve only took her two weeks. But would you blame her? She speaks to the ancestors, after all.
Wednesday morning. The sun feels very good on my skin at 8:17 am. It feels particularly better on this day, lying in the middle of the bush in front of a mansion that makes me think there is no one else in the world but me. I am so far and detached from the world that I do not realize the turmoil, pace, suffering, joy, and turbulence that every other person experiences. I care not for sunburns because life is nothing if you cannot enjoy it. So, I lay there, face up, one hand partially blocking the sun, legs spread, and feeling the massaging sensation of the sun. Magical.
She slides the door open and walks through it. Her yellow bikini is something of a magical touch. It looks so good on her that I believe she was born with it. It matches not only her skin but also her body. She is in no hurry to reach me, giving me all the time on earth to build castles, draw sketches, and configure her image in my head. A chocolate skin tone amplifies her dimples and a warm smile. Her shoulders at an angle that just allows her chest enough space to be seen as it should; no more said. Her stomach, flat as they come and in their curves as my eyes could conceive. I tilt a little to see her waist better. Curvy, nervy, wavy… She has good legs. She stands at the height of about 5 feet and 6 inches. Behind her, a well-built man that I only met yesterday but feel like I have known for life. I don’t get a clear glimpse of his build because my eyes are fixated on this lass. Angie, that is her name.
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“Good morning Penguin-” I almost hate her for this greeting because I was just starting to draw her complete image in my head. I feel distracted, disturbed, and ambushed. I want to say Good Morning back, but it feels more like night or even midday at midnight. God did create good people, didn’t he?
“Good morning Angie. You look magnificent,” I say.
“I know,” she answers.
What? Why did you say that? People should say thank you when they are complimented-I do not quite muster the courage to say that aloud. So, I revel in my monologues, silent monologues. When the words come out, they are a joke, the kind of dark humor about hunting and killing rhinos. And she says that should a rhino show up, I should just offer myself to be eaten so that she survives. That the world will thank me for that. Ouch!
“Have you ever dated your childhood friend?” she changes the subject so abruptly that I am convinced I need to sit up. Her mind seems to be working so fast. I need my best attentive nerves in the game.
“Good morning guys. You seem so engrossed in your conversation that you did not even hear me sit.” It is Simon, the well-built man that I never even had a chance to see walk through the door because this lass had left no space in my mind.
“Good morning Simo. Is breakfast ready?” I say, bringing him into the conversation.
“No. Kim is on it. She might need help though she seems in control,” he responds.
“Didn’t Kevin say he will make breakfast?” Angie asks.
“Leave Kevin alone. He is still sleeping.”
“Lazy ass,” I say.
“You haven’t answered my question,” she interrupts.
“Do you mean like someone you grew up with or someone you hit on as an adolescent?” Simon asks.
“Someone you grew up with.”
We all laugh because we are not sure where she is taking this conversation. Just when we thought we had been shocked enough, she drops another.
“I fell in love with my childhood friend but we broke up two weeks later.”
“What?” I wonder what is coming after this. “Why did you break up?”
“Because I told him my ancestors speak to me.”
By this point, the hairs on my body are starting to rise. I am unsure what will come after this. The exit is at least 6 kilometers away, and I am unsure whether I would make it to that gate should she turn out to be a threat, the kind to run away from.
“I know it sounds strange but it is true. My ancestors tell me things. My ancestors tell me what will happen, when I am in danger, when to fall in love, when to have sex, everything. I speak with them and we have an understanding. So, I told my boyfriend that I speak to the ancestors and he was livid.”
“Wuoooh wooooh woooh! Start again. You speak to ancestors? How?” I am red-faced by this moment. I badly want to slap her because she is not being serious right now. She is playing some kind of games with me.
“Just know I speak with my ancestors. Is it even strange? We all have moments when we speak to people we love, dead or alive. Mine are moments when I speak to my ancestors. And they tell me things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“You don’t wanna know. Trust me. He left me when he knew. You think you can survive it?” I cannot say a word more. I am honestly not sure whether I am trying to understand this lass or scared. I am not sure whether I am listening or hearing. And then, another bombshell.
“He asked me if I go to church too,” she says. Simon is livid. I can see him from the corner of my eye. He wants nothing to do with this conversation. He wants to run, but he cannot because he wants to hear the full detail of it.
“What did you say?” I ask.
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“The truth. Well, I go to church. However, I do not go there like everyone else. I only go there to pass time or have fun and occasionally, to eat. Ans somehow, that freaked him out. He did not talk to me again that night.” I wonder whether I would have talked to her that night. Actually, no, I do not wonder. I know I would not have talked to him again that night. I mean, where is this heading?
“So, he left you after you told him about your church escapades, right?” I ask, curiously.
“No. He did not.”
At this point, I am not sure what I think about this girl. The lass in a yellow bikini is making me scared. The sun is even hotter, but I feel none of it. I want more of her.
“He asked me whether I believe in Jesus. That was the juicy part for me,” she says. I am not even sure why I am still speaking to her. I am also unsure whether she means the things she is saying, or she is merely pulling my leg, my left leg.
“I told him I am so mad at that dude Jesus. You see, when people believe in that dude, it is fine. But then there comes this group of people that use Jesus as their excuse to suffer. They suffer and think that is their place because that dude says so. They stay lazy and continue to suffer to supposedly keep that dude happy. I told him I have questions for Jesus.”
“I am sure he left you immediately. If he did not, I need to meet him,” I say.
For Angie, her story is not all about the ancestors and what they tell her but about her communion with people long gone yet so close she can feel them. It is a relationship with a world so dark yet so bright she lives in it. She wants love, but not human love. She wants to be loved, by an ancestor.
“I was born in 1987 in Kutus, Kirinyaga County. As a child, I was playful and liked by the neighbours. I did not eat at neighbours’ houses because my mother categorically forbade that. She died in 1990, a year that turned my life on its head. Six months after her death, a woman came home with a large bag of clothes and was received by my uncles and aunts, and of course, my father. I was told that from that day on, she would be my mother. It did not bother me because I did not foresee any problems with my new mother. What trouble would a son who does his chores, cleans, herds, works hard, listens, accepts to be sent to the shop, fetches water from the river, and wakes up early fear? Besides, my father had a shop about 2 kilometres away from home where he slept most of the days. I did not mind someone else helping me to cope with the loneliness of a seven-roomed house. I was confident. I was an excellent student in primary school. As a Firstborn, I felt the need to work hard so that when my younger siblings grew up, they would have someone to emulate. By 1995, my stepmother had two more children. I was happy that finally, I had some brothers.
“I had nowhere to run to. Yet this was only the beginning of weekly and at times daily ordeals I would endure. I endured them in silence because when I showed little resistance, my auntie told me she would do like she had done and I would not be so lucky to escape. I feared my father. Daily, weekly, and daily again, I was raped by a woman who knew spot on what she was doing. For more than a year, I slept in fear of the next time she would walk into my room. On November 5 1997, I slept with a kitchen knife in my room. She did not show up that night. I thought I had escaped only to wake up to a feeling of suffocation. She sat her whole weight on me, my helpless manhood sank deep in her flesh. My mind was torn between the pleasure and anger. I reached out for the knife under my mediocre of a pillow and stabbed her in the chest, pushed her aside and ran. I don’t know what story she told but I was picked up by the chief later in the day and after weeks of silence and refusal to speak to the police or anyone, I ended up at the children section at Kamiti Maximum Prison.
“It is the same case here. I think it could be the same for every country’s upcoming artists. There is so much greed for fast money and people no longer want to contribute on building themselves, learning, shadowing someone, and then breaking out. Young artists should teach themselves how to listen, be mentored, be teachable, build their brands, and have some values. That also puts pressure on those of us who have been around for long to mentor these young ones. The question is whether they are willing to be mentored. No matter how you look at it, the upcoming artists in all fields need to look themselves in the mirror and ask, ‘Would I love the person I can see behind the mirror?’” he says.