A popular comedian-pastor once admitted that he wore several caps, some of them quite unholy. In his own words, he is only a pastor in church, but beyond. Anything is possible, including being a crooked businessman. Who could blame him for the latter? It’s near impossible to make it in business without bending a few rules here and there – families need to be fed.
Amidst laughter from his audience, who could have been congregants or a comedy audience, he warned his listeners not to refer to him as pastor if they ever bumped on him in the big, bad city, especially if he had company. He said the probability that he would be negotiating some shady deal were quite high; and invoking the word pastor could cost him contracts. Fair enough – the good book encourages honesty, and I think it is only fair if people likely to be looked up to should emulate him by reminding us that all saints are dead.
There’s no shame in having mild multiple personality disorder (or severe) for that matter. It’s a medical condition, we all have it. It’s normal; the same way it is normal to have best friends for different occasions. There are those we go to club with, others to ruracio, others we run to when we need to off-load. So this neighbour, a long time ago before I left the village for the first time, I bumped into him in the streets of Nairobi having a very animated chat with two white men.
I stopped to say hello, but I got a blank look, even unfriendly, if you looked closer. Then came the bombshell, “sorry lady. You must be mistaking me for somebody else.” I apologised and walked away, convinced it really was a case of mistaken identity. I was once mistaken by an old woman in a busy market. “Njeri,” my name is not Njeri. We do not even have a Njeri in the family, but she was definitely talking to me. “I didn’t know you returned from America.” I hadn’t just returned from America. “Why haven’t you come to see me? I thought we were friends.” In the end, because I was feeling cornered and it was clear she was convinced I was Njeri, I gave her some money, told her to buy herself a kilo of meat, that I would go and see her soon. So, yeah, such mistakes can happen.
That evening, this same neighbour apologised for earlier conduct, then explained to me that the nature of his job requires him to use a pseudo name and pretend to be Congolese. I know how to read between the lines, so I nodded in understanding, promising him never to recognise him again unless we were in the village.
Fast forward to a few months ago. Another neighbour – nemesis, for lack of a better word. We do not even acknowledge each other, a rare thing because in the village, you acknowledge even those you do not like. It is not for lack of trying on my part. I used to say hello but her responses were always cold, detached. I stopped.
On Nairobi streets, she was in the company of two men, and then lo and behold, she seemed excited to see me, even hugged me, continued to introduce me to her companions by my two names and told them what I do for a living. I didn’t even know she had all that information.
It may be overreacting on my part, but I believe every third stranger who talks to me wants to fleece me. To be treated with even more caution are unfriendly neighbours who become suddenly overfriendly, especially while in the city. Red flags were flying all over and I did the only sensible thing in such a situation – quickly excused myself and walked away, into a hotel, and sat down for an hour, until I was sure they had found someone else to drug and rob.
A couple of days later, I bumped into her on the village streets. I held my breath. She looked away without acknowledging me. Oh well, back to factory settings.
