The culture of hunting imaginary witches

KEN IS A FRIEND I have known for about seven years. He is a constructive person.

He believes in doing things the right way. When last year I delivered my twins, he called me aside after taking the baby shower uji and handing me a healthy jogoo to eat and drink soup for recovery.

He advised me that I should shut my womb. “Five boys are enough... don’t push so hard to get more.”

I got what Ken meant. I was weak. But that is beside the point. One day as we were waiting to go home, Ken fell on the ground and started foaming at the mouth.

That was a nervy moment. We thought the public hospital we took him to had the answers to his illness but, after putting Ken on a saline drip, they wanted more information from us before they could go any further. As we tried to figure out what had happened, Ken woke up and asked for a glass of water.

He was given medication and an appointment for the following day when the lab tests, including HIV, would be done.

The art of shadowboxing 

We dropped him at home and were all looking forward to the following day, when we would know what the problem was. However, the day did not provide the answers we wanted. The tests results were out.

They were clear and Ken had no known ailment, including HIV.

So we all wondered what could have been the problem. When we were alone, Ken tried to explain to me what he thought the problem was. 

“Asunta, it’s about that shamba ... my shamba in Murang’a is what’s causing me all this,” he said in a hushed tone.

“Mmm, so what about the shamba?” I asked. “How is your shamba connected to the ailment or your passing out?

“I knew from the start that one of my brothers was against my progress in life. He was even against my son who recently joined medical school. That’s not all. He talked extremely ill of me when I planted an additional 1,000 coffee plants on my Murang’a farm.”

All that, combined with the fact that Ken now had a permanent job, made him jump to the conclusion that his older brother was, in his own words, “eating me”. 

“He was the cause of this ailment of passing out,” Ken lamented. “If this continues unchecked, I will die. I know of another family that had such issues and one brother ended up dead.”

This was unlike the sober-minded Ken I knew. 

Seeking professional opinions

I did not know exactly how Ken wanted me to help him, but I told him that we could get another opinion on his health before he concluded that his brother was behind his downfall.

“There’s no point,” Ken insisted, but I finally convinced him that he needed at least three different opinions before he could rest his case.

“Importantly,” I went on, “it’s important always to base allegations on facts and hard evidence.” 

Against his wishes, Ken visited a doctor that he proposed. After several tests, it was found that one of his arteries had clogged and cut oxygen supply to the brain, making him to pass out. He was given medication and after two weeks, he was as good as new.

Story of my life

This is not just Ken’s story. It is a Kenyan story. A story about our culture of witch-hunting nonexistent enemies. This is my real life story. I personally have heard people talking ill of me as if I am some witch flying around on a broom. I have been blamed for countless things — from bad to downright ugly — which went awry in someone else’s life, yet I knew nothing about what was happening. 

I later asked Ken what he had to say about his brother since we had found out that he was not the one who was “eating him”. He just laughed as if it was nothing. I wondered: if Ken had tested HIV-positive, would he have blamed his brother for “eating him”?

Ken should count himself fortunate. His case ended well. When such matters are taken to a higher level or people take the law into their hands, lives and relationships can be wrecked. 

“You should apologise to your brother for slandering him,” I advised, knowing the pain of being the fall guy.

Ken could not bring himself to do that. That does not surprise me. People who are quick to cry, “I’m being eaten”, are always unwilling to eat humble pie.