I debated with myself for quite a while before I sat down to write this. You see, I don’t believe in the supernatural, you know, ghosts, talking cats, and mangoes that order you to take them back to the market when you unpack them. I am also amused that there are actually people who believe that there is a world, demonic of course, that exists under some ocean.
When I was told this story I am about to tell you, my first reaction was to roll my eyes with disbelief, wondering why I had wasted five minutes of my life listening to a make-believe story, I mean, it is not like we live in biblical times, where the dead come back to life. The problem, though, was that the story-teller is as sane as any human being you will ever meet, and he had no reason to make up something like this. Here is the story like it was told to me.
This man was dropping off a friend home after a night out in town. As they approached the turn to the Carnivore Restaurant, they saw a young woman flag them down. It was about 3 am and it was drizzling, and she was only wearing jeans and a short-sleeved blouse. Now, in normal circumstances, you would think more than twice before stopping to give a lift to anyone at 3 am, man or woman, because the fact is that you might just be signing your death warrant.
But these were not normal circumstances. The two young men had been drinking, and were feeling reckless. They also thought the young woman was good looking, so why not? They stopped and she got into the back. She told them that she lived somewhere near the Nairobi National Park.
She was shivering, and feeling like a gentleman, the story-teller offered her his jacket.
By the time they got to her stop, opposite the Lang’ata Cemetery, they had exchanged numbers. It is only much later that the story-teller realised that the woman had alighted with his jacket, which had his wallet, and in it his identity card and other important documents, as well as some money.
The next morning, he called the number she had given him. After a couple of rings, a man answered, an elderly man, from the voice. He assumed he had dialled the wrong number, hang up, and dialled again, only for the same voice to answer.
He introduced himself and explained that he had given a lift to a woman, let’s call her Elizabeth, and that she had given him this number. Did he know anyone by that name? He asked the man on the other side. There was a long pause, and finally, the man told him that yes, he knew Elizabeth because she was his daughter, and yes, he could come for his jacket. He then gave him directions to his home.
Relieved, the story-teller drove there. The man he had talked to welcomed him into the house, and without further ado, opened a photo album on the table and handed it to his visitor, who was getting puzzled by the second.
“Is this the young woman you gave a lift to?” he asked, his forefinger on a photo of a beautiful young woman.
“Yes,” he replied, his confusion mounting.
The man let out a drawn-out sigh, sagged in his seat, ran his hands over his face in a weary gesture, and then finally turned to look at his visitor.
“My daughter died two years ago,” he announced.
Before that could sink in, he added,
“We buried her at Lang’ata Cemetry – come with me, your jacket is probably there …”
By then, the story-teller’s head was reeling with shock, confusion, disbelief and a sense of impending doom, and at that point, he prayed that he was having a bad dream, only that he wasn’t.
He followed the man out of the house, heart in his mouth, his legs feeling like lead. The drive from Elizabeth’s home to her resting place was short and, sure enough, like her father had predicted, his jacket was lying next to her grave. Feeling like he was involuntarily starring in a horror movie, he shakily retrieved his wallet from one of the pockets. His wallet was intact, and so was everything that had been in it. He could not bring himself to take back his jacket though.
As the two men walked back to the car, Elizabeth’s father informed the story-teller that over the two years she had been dead, there had been several sightings of Elizabeth.
Tell me, how would you react to such a story?
It is true Carol, thieves are becoming bolder by the day. They don’t seem to care any more. In places like Githurai, they remove your baby’s shoes when you’re carrying the baby on the back. It’s only when you get to the house that you realise your child has no shoes.
Your article was on point. I did not even bother leaving my lights on. In April (last year), someone, who I still believe was working in cahoots with the guards, broke the padlock, stole my stuff, even clothes, then switched off the lights. Osuna
We have no hope if someone can have the guts to con an armed KDF man. I think the level of unemployment is pushing people into hopelessness that they are willing to do the unthinkable. Anyway, we hope things will improve in 2017. Mildred
Indeed, you have diluted our Christmas fun. Next year, try and write something hopeful to lift up our spirits in December. Otherwise, I really enjoy reading your articles every Sunday. Keep up. Lucy
