32 Days of Christmas: Day 24
In festive seasons past, when my grandmother could still clearly tell the difference between white and black, our family marked these holidays with abundance. We would prepare huge feasts: half the healthy chickens in the compound, a few goats, sometimes even a cow. Then we would sit together under a wide, generous tree, sharing food and laughter. It was a simple tradition, with no pomp or spectacle, only the richness of old folktales told by elders whose voices carried wisdom laced with bad breath.
Every once in a while, passersby would be invited to join us. That was the communal way of living. Some, however, invited themselves. Men in big, pointed akala sandals that seemed to know how to read the movement of the sun, arriving precisely when it was lunchtime. Especially on ceremonious days like Christmas.
I have never liked these men.
Not because they came to eat our food—food was always meant to be shared—but because they never came for the food. They came to gather secrets, to measure how the family was faring. Whose daughter went to which university? How old is the son now? Is he seeing a girl suitable “for their area”? How well are they really doing, and how can that success be disrupted?
They always assumed that anyone not living nearby must be in Nairobi. To them distance automatically meant prosperity. And prosperity, especially when it belonged to others, offended them.
They were devils—devils in akala sandals, gathering dust as they walked from homestead to homestead, carrying envy disguised as curiosity. They hated to see the success of their peers or their peers’ grandchildren. They feigned kindness to gain entry into peaceful, beautiful families, only to plant seeds of unnecessary chaos.
They often preyed during festive seasons, hiding behind the shield of goodwill, because you cannot chase someone away when it is a season of good cheer and glad tidings.
Devils.
Be wary.
✍🏽Reagan.