Unanikumbuka Kweli?

And why I will be saying no from today henceforth.

This question never bothered me before; seeing how I don’t have a problem with honesty most times, I’d respond truthfully with either a yes or a no and nod along somewhat absentmindedly as you tell me where we (you) know each other from.

That all changed last week, though, because people are either unfamiliar with the concept of ‘right time and place’ or they’re desperate for some form of human interaction, so they hope this question will lead to a lifelong friendship… or whatever goes on in people’s minds when they’re chatting up someone.

Let me set the mood for you: I’m back home- in Imenti- for my grandfather’s funeral. The patriarch of the family is dead, at 93, so this means the whole family, and almost the whole community, will be in our home multiple times throughout the week. From the maombolezi to the funeral itself, it’s giving TRM, only that there is no mall and instead, it’s tents set up to bid the man goodbye.

I’m prepared for the amount of socialising I’ll have to do, so I’m armed with a polite smile and ready to nod my head so many times I might turn into one of those little toy dogs they sell in traffic to place on your dashboard. Plus, I know if I get overwhelmed, I can just retreat to the room and watch a few TikToks or call a loved one to bring me back to centre.

Cool.

That’s when the questions start, and I can tell you exactly where I snapped and had to bite my tongue to avoid spewing all the mother-tongue insults I learnt in my one year of high school there.

“Na unanikumbuka kweli?”

Here’s the thing. The answer to this question is probably a no, so wouldn’t a re-introduction of yourself be easier?

So I answer no, mostly, and then they proceed to say they’re not surprised because the last time they saw me, I was the height of their knees.

Dear gentle reader, riddle me this. That means the last time this person saw me, I was about two years old, give or take (I’m not sure if I was as height-deficient as a baby as I am now). Do two-year-olds keep photographic memories of adults they meet and remember them over two decades later? No, I don’t think so. And if your answer to this is yes, maybe you should have a talk with a therapist about your love for trains and such.

So at first, I think it’s people doing that awkward thing where they don’t know what to say to you when you’re not a child anymore, but you’re still not as adult as they are.

But after I chuckle, they turn back to my mother, or whoever I/ they were with who was watching that interaction, slightly amused. So I’m left there wondering if I should ask about how life has been to this person, or if I should just walk away. I choose the latter, always, because despite being a good listener, I still have the ability of getting insanely bored when people talk about themselves too much, so I choose not to subject myslf to that. Also because I don’t care.

Now, if this happened once or twice, at most, I’d chalk it up to coincidence. But I swear to you four people expected me to remember them yet they last saw me as a toddler, and I’m getting suspicious that my mother may be telling people that her daughter in Nairobi has some kind of superpower because how else do I explain this? Or are people getting a bit too used to the kids being raised by Miss Rachel that they forget I’ve never had a diaper on my body and my mother had to wash my nappies, and my only form of entertainment was staring at absolutely nothing till I learnt how to crawl and eat dirt?

Let’s get to the part where I almost snapped, and if I wasn’t surrounded by a tent full of people at his last maombolezi, I might have said some things that would have solidified the rumours about 29-year-old girls living alone in Nairobi with strange jobs like ‘writer’.

A neighbour that I’ve known since childhood asks me if I know the man seated next to him. I say yes. He asks me if I remember his name then. I almost respond by calling him a little twat but I figure it would go over his head, and a wated insult is apainful thing, so I say no, I don’t remember his name but I do know him (I actually do, and not because he has one of those faces that just look familiar, dear reader I actually know this man). He doesn’t stop. He asks me if I’m so sure I know him, then which homestead is he from? I have an answer in my head, but I’m not too sure of it, so I say I’m not sure.

If you’re wondering why I stood there trying to defend the fact that I know some guy instead of just walking away, I want you to imagine someone walking away from a conversation midway, in upcountry, in an African setting, infront of people who’ve come to mourn with me.

So I stand there, wanting to slap this stupid man’s head. The other man that I’m being interrogated about is just seated there smiling awkwardly, and probably a bit hurt because he knows me by all my names and I seem not to be aware of his existence.

So I resort to using the only card I have.

“You’re asking me so many questions yet I just lost my dear grandfather, don’t you have any pity for me?”

This seems to work. Reminds this person that reading the room- or rather the tent- is very important, and he smiles sheepishly then tells me the man’s name and where he’s from. Turns out I was right about his homestead but, oh well.

If I ever meet that man in the dark atakula ng’oto, because I fail to understand the obsession with asking the ‘Nairobi’ folk wa kupewa viti na soda wengine wakikula mchele kavu na soup nyuma ya tent wakiwa wamesimama, questions that will just make the both of you uncomfortable.

The next time I’m put in this awkward spot is the night of the funeral. When our eyes still feel a bit weak from the crying and my grandfather’s children have all been overcome by the realisation that they no longer have someone to call ‘Father’.

I’m serving some juice to take to my mom’s room, she’s too stricken to socialise anymore, and the table with the drinks is smack in the middle of a living room full of older men who’ve just come from accompanying my uncle for a drink (or several) to numb his pain. They’re drunk, and I can tell this by the fact that their faces are too close to their plates and and their voices a bit too loud.

I’m almost out of the room when a man I honestly don’t know starts asking me if I know him. I say no. He asks if I know his first born. I say no. He asks if I know his second born. I say no. Third born. No. Last born. Oh yes I actually know her, cool girl. He asks how I know her, and I wonder whether it’s not enough for Father Abraham here that I know his daughter, he now has to know how. My uncle looks up from his plate at me and half smiles, half laughs. My family gets humour from situations like this and I’d honestly laugh if I was him too.

This man starts asking me if I know where his home is located, and I say a bit further down from ours. He asks if I know where exactly.

FOR PETE’S FUCKING SAKE BRO.

I see my cousin pass to go to the kitchen. It was either the scenario itself or the pitiful look in my eye (probably this, because some months back I was in a matatu with my friend and the guy seated next to me had the worst breath ever, and he was singing along to every Kikuyu song that was playing in that mat. Since my friend was seated at the window, it took her some time to smell it, but whe she did she turned to me then burst out laughing because according to her I had the most woiye-inducing look in my eyes. So it was probably that.)

Two minutes that seemed like an eternity later, my cousin calls me to the kitchen saying that her mom needs me. I go, grateful to be given whatever task as long as I’m not being asked questions only a chief should be submitted to. Turns out no one needs me and she was just saving me from that because why am I expected to know this random man’s entire seed?

So the next time someone asks me this question, I will say no, unless I’m very familiar with you, which means there’ll be no need to ask this question.

I will not care, and I will look at you dead (no pun intended) in the eye, and say no. I won’t giggle, or hesitate, and I will lock your hand in a firm handshake until you tell me how I’m supposed to know you (okay this sounds like the beginning of the speech the protagonist in an anime makes before they begin their revenge journey against those who murdered their entire family… I should rewatch Demon Slayer).