Protect your own and save them shame, even if from the grave

Today, I want to reflect on life and sin, not as an editor but as an average African man of middle age, who has seen a few sunrises and sunsets.

It is not my wish to make light of grief or loss. I’m just trying to marvel at the weakness of a man’s soul and the drama that attends our lives; even the mere fact of expiring unleashes a torrent of the most outrageous quarrels and contestations.

WEB OF DEBT

When a Kenyan man over 30 years old dies, five things happen.

First, and this is only natural, it breaks his mother’s heart and sends his family, friends and community into grief. This is a normal, human reaction to the loss of life. There is, of course, nothing worse in life than dying or losing a loved one. Grief, and I speak from painful experience, is a bad place.

The second thing that happens is that those whom he owes money get palpitations, a dry mouth and welling up of panic, as do all those who have guaranteed him cooperative loans and the friends with whom he has been buying land and junks.

Much of the panic is not justified, however: Formal debt is written off at demise. However, most men and their circle of friends are a web of debt and interrelated property ownership, which no widow can hope to disentangle.

I own a small piece of land in Narok, which I have never seen and for which no document — other than the records in my friend’s and my head — exist. There could be two other guys in my quarter in Kitengela.

And my junk’s logbook could be hanging in a bank in Kiambu, where my friend hocked it for an emergency loan. This is fine; most friends will not con each other and the property cross-owned is not worth stealing.

Until somebody dies.

The third thing that happens when a middle-aged man dies is that family and good friends come together in an amazing display of love and community to plan the funeral and give comfort.

One of the most beautiful things about our lives are these circles of family and friends who give of their time during good times and also bad times. They are precious and more valuable than all the gold in the world.

ATE GOATS

Fourth, fake, bar friends will pause the travel of their keg from the table to the mouth for a beat, then proceed as if the “friend” never existed. They may idly speculate about the cause of death, and not in a kind way.

“Nilisikia alitoboka kichwa. Ni stress ya kushindana na watu,” they will say.

A friend tells the story of his experience following the death of a close friend. The close friend was a member of a drinking group, where he went every day, including Christmas.

For these drinking rings, the only difference between Christmas and a normal drinking day is that members donate goats, to be eaten in the same bar, served by the same barmaid, on the same trays that they have been eating off for 50 years.

So, this friend was really tight with the drinking group. Never missed a sitting, never skipped a Christmas goat. When he died, the drinking group never missed a beat. They quietly drank and ate goats. None attended the funeral meetings or the funeral.

So, when a middle-aged man dies, nothing happens at his “local”.

The fifth thing that happens — and this is the point of all this — is that the true size of a man’s family, which he has kept obsessively hidden for decades, is revealed in all of its glorious shame. Women, children, con men, con women, dubious relatives and profiteers all crawl forward with an eye to the main chance.

WRITE WILL

For the record, I strongly disprove of the many men who keep secret families from their overt family. It is unfair and selfish.

But one can understand why fellows keep their shenanigans hidden. Can you imagine what would happen if a man sidled up to his strong-willed better half and confided: “You know, Mama Kevo, at the last count, I now have eight children by six different women and all of them born after we were happily married”?

He would acquire so many dents on his head that the mortuary attendants would have difficulty telling which soft part is his head and which is his potbelly.

But if you are a coward (most men are where their spouses are concerned) and can’t face your wife and reveal the full extent of your wrongdoing, don’t punish your children and, for heaven’s sake, protect your wife from predators — a Kenyan specialty — intent on defrauding her of your property when you are dead.

Write a will, confess your sins (since your wife can’t dent your forehead when you are dead) and leave her your money as an atonement for the many years you deceived her. Recognise all your children and provide for them — probably the only decent thing you could do.

The best thing, however, is not to sin at all. If you already have, be a man and manage the drama even from the grave.

How many Kenyans can judge Ken Okoth and Anne Muthoni Thumbi with a clean conscience?

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