Abolishable traditions

Most traditions are passed on from generation to generation, others are invented to suit a situation.  Some are good some are evil, invented only to torture the righteous.  Others are rubbed on, or copied or stolen from one community to another.  Kenyans in the diaspora have traditions carried on from Kenya into their countries of residency, especially the spirit of harambee (togetherness).  This togetherness is especially evident in matters concerning health, death, new-borns, weddings, and graduations etc.  Sometimes these gatherings present the perfect time for some people to come out of hibernation.  They get a forwarded text from a friend of a friend of a friend whose someone significant has gone to a better place: or they receive a card to be ‘my-plus-one’ to a wedding of a friend – given the choice between the wake and the wedding, people almost always chose the wake, you know, because of because (BTW people in my generation used to get severe beatings for this kind of answer to a teacher or parent or adult neighbour).

One tradition that is decidedly wrong and horrible is people turning up to these gatherings with empty plastic containers concealed in their handbags, to carry leftover food (save the waste, they say) or bones for their non-existent dogs.  This is especially horrible for habitual latecomers who believe fashionably late is fashionable, and because it’s traditionally ‘wrong’ or frowned upon to refuse food at a wake or wedding, these latecomers come on empty stomachs only to go home on even emptier stomachs because the early comers ate and took ‘leftovers’: they have no shame leaving the wake with carrier bags stacked with obviously full plastic containers.

Another tradition is one where every ‘mourner’ turns up with sugar, bread, milk and tea bags, and expect to eat goat ribs and ugali.  It’s pointless for the bereaved to have 14 pints of milk, 20 loaves of bread, one hundred kilos of sugar and a million PG tips and still expected to feed a multitude with real food. These mourners want to eat maandazi, jollof rice (which most can’t cook), lamb stew, chapati and every exotic food any African country can offer, and….. that’s right – take some home!!  In my opinion, anyone grieving should not be expected to cook; people should bring cooked ready to eat food to be shared among ‘on-time’ mourners, and any ‘leftovers’ can be left for the family to do with as they please.

This reminds me of a baby visiting occasion I heard about, women from a country that shall remain nameless, turned up with lots of plastic toys and no food, yet they expected to eat even though the mother was recovering from a C-section:  this is not only shameful but it should be categorised as a crime.  You do not turn up foodless and expect to eat, toys are meant for toddlers and not newborns, and most importantly people should remember this is not Africa where a baby is born to a community – this is England where neighbours don’t give a flying rat’s ass if you’ve had a new baby, just keep the noise down!!.  These kinds of ‘traditions’ are just bad habits.

Back at the wakes, there is the obligatory pastor, a Steam Bar veteran, who officiates the gatherings.  This guy wears two hats to perfection.  At the wake, he lives on very high moral grounds as the pastor, come Friday night at the SB, and he is the man busting the latest moves and hitting on all the skirt wearers to quote whispers. The problem with this is that the drop from high moral grounds reverberates around the globe for several months.  The last thing anyone wants is to be caught up on the path of the impending cyclone – a topic for another day.

After prayers and some sing songs, people queue with plate in hand – it’s time to dig in and eat.   Depending on how much one has contributed (financially, as judged by the holier-than-thou-front-row-ticket-to-heaven bearers) you fill your plate to reflect.  You are suddenly aware that someone is behind you and uncomfortably so, it’s the pastor.  You turn around slowly to give him that look that needs no words.  That look that says ‘whatever you want to say, say it to the hand’.  He senses this but ignores it because he’s that kind of person.  He proceeds to initiate a conversation that makes your throat feel like the devil has lodged his pitchforks on either side.  You swallow saliva (or is it vomit) with great difficulties but you engage him anyway for politeness’ sake.  Deep down you know you never want to meet him ever again.  The conversation goes something like this:

Pastor: “so where exactly do you live?”

You: “Guildford in Surrey”

Pastor: “Oh wow, that’s a nice neighbourhood.  What is your postcode”

You again feel the devil dig the forks even deeper, this time you actually force vomit back!

You: “Why do you need my postcode?”

Pastor: “You know….. just in case I’m in the neighbourhood, I could….

You scream inwardly as you run away because you have no intention of opening your door to any tom, dick and harry who thinks it’s a good tradition to walk up to someone’s driveway/door knock, be invited in and spend hours eating and talking much about nothing. I don’t want to make a federal case out of petty civil cases, but the tradition of popping in people’s houses unannounced should be abolished.  I, however, do admit there are those who are like a second skin to you, these ones won’t even call or knock, they simply send a text “put the kettle on” and 10 minutes late “open the door”.  Then they spend a week and you still don’t want them to leave.

The reason most people, I have heard, don’t want random people knocking on their doors is because most of them know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who works for KQ or BA, and they hoard a constant supply of managu, terere, omena and other delicacies that they do not want to share.  They eat these delicacies in the middle of the night when it’s unlikely anyone will find them, even their family.  They never send random people to the freezer in case they see the hundreds of Brookside butter blocks and decide that’s what they want for their next birthday.

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