I was eight years old when I took my first trip down to the coast. Before then, I’d only ever seen a beach on television, and I was excited to swim in the warm salty water and build castles in the pristine sand. When we got to the beach, my mother turned to us and said, “Don’t pick up anything from the beach or from the ocean.”
I knew she was worried about us bringing home a jini. Back then, you couldn’t afford to dismiss anything as superstitious. We’d lived next to a mchawi in Nairobi. If we are being technical, she lived in the neighbouring plot but when you are that close to a powerful witch, do semantics really matter?
Whenever I imagined a jini, I always thought they could be found in a Coke bottle. Perhaps it was because the song ‘Genie in a bottle’ was all the rage back then. I’d heard that they were always a shadow, following you around and wreaking havoc in your life. You would have to return the accursed object back to the ocean if you ever wanted to be free of the spirit.
Sometimes, according to some victims’ recollections, a jini would take the form of a cat. I laugh as I remember the trip to MombasaI took last year with a few friends. We’d taken to calling the cat that hang around our short stay apartment Fatuma. I think we all had a sense of apprehension though, every time we stepped out at night and caught the cat staring at us with those piercing green eyes.
I am shaken from my reverie by the familiar jingle that comes before an announcement. The train is pulling up to the station and my weekend of debauchery is about to begin. I take hold of my duffle and exit the train, feeling the shift in my spirit as I make my way out of the station. Being down at the coast does that to you. Makes you forget your troubles like all you were ever born to do is have fun.
I make a beeline for the first taxi driver in sight, bidding my brain to summon my best Swahili accent. I do my best attempt at one as I haggle with the driver over the fare but I still sound like a Nairobian. It’s my vocabulary. Even with perfect mastery of the accent, you’ll sound foreign if you don’t know the right words to say.
I pay the taxi driver the fare as I alight at my accommodation. He doesn’t budge on the amount, but I don’t split hairs over it. I’m at the coast and I feel like a king. Mombasa will do that to you, even if you have just five thousand shillings in your pocket. It engulfs you in its warmth and charms you into parting with the little you have. You will return home broke, but very happy.
I take a nap and it’s early evening by the time I wake up. I freshen up and head out for a night on the town. The club is full of Nairobians. I observe them as I nurse my drink at the counter, careful not to drink too much too fast. They are loud and rowdy and scantily dressed. I silently pass judgment; I am not one of them. I shed my Nairobian status at the train station.
After a few hours I decide to head out to Bob’s. You’ve not partied in Mombasa if you’ve never been to Bob’s. It is your closer. After the club scene, you’d come down here with your friends, have beers and wait for sunrise. It has a chill vibe to it; a parking bay turned into a bar with large barrels for tables and no roof.
It is 3 a.m. It is early for Bob’s but I don’t mind. I can’t do the club scene without my friends. There is only a small crowd here when I arrive and from the look of them, they are local. I saunter over to the bar and order a beer.
I survey the crowd as I sip my beer and that’s when I spot her. She’s looking at me and when our eyes clash, she smiles. She is the most gorgeous woman I have ever seen: honey-coloured skin, brown curls cascading around her face, perfectly sculpted curves enveloped in an olive-green dress. Olive-green is a strange colour, but it must have been made just for her.
She walks up to me, her hips gently swaying beside her and it’s enough to send a jolt of electricity down my body. I put down my beer on the counter beside me and wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts.
“Hi! I am Binti,” she says, smiling sweetly with her head gently tipped to the side.
I shake her hand and introduce myself. She smells like coconut oil but not the regular, pungent kind. It smells like the expensive Kentaste brand; the one that smells like cookies. I buy her a drink and we make small talk for half an hour. I cannot believe my luck when she invites me to tumble with her. I down the rest of my beer in one gulp and lead her home.
The ride home is short and I spend the majority of it fighting the prickle of hair standing on the back of my neck. I cannot remember the last time I felt such unease but I dismiss it as performance anxiety.
On our arrival, I offer her a glass of water, which she accepts. As I busy myself grabbing the glasses, I chide myself for not having more distinguished refreshments. When I turn around to hand the glass to her, she is gone.
In place of the exotic beauty is a looming shadow, black as night, with white slits for eyes. For a moment that seems to stretch into eternity, I am frozen in place as those white slits pierce through my eyes as if looking to see into my soul. I will myself to move but I only manage to widen my eyes further.
It advances towards me and the glass I am holding slips from my hand and crashes to the floor. I let out a whimper as the shadow forms a long thin arm and makes a move to grab mine. I hardly process the cold clammy grip because at the same time, the shadow is forming a mouth. The mouth widens as it inches closer to my face, turning into a gaping hole that threatens to consume me whole. As my knees buckle and everything turns dark, the last thing I hear is a distant, blood-curdling scream.
I wake up to the sounds of waves and the caress of sunlight on my skin. Where am I? I half open my eyes and register the silhouette of palm leaves above me. Is that laughter I hear? I force my eyes open and the most unmanly scream leaves my mouth. I am stuck amidst the branches of a coconut tree and I am completely naked. My palms and feet are getting sweaty, as they do when I am nervous or afraid. And I am definitely afraid of heights.
I twist and turn as carefully as possible so I can assess how high up I am and also to hug the branch as tightly as I can. There is a crowd of beach boys below me. They are falling over themselves with laughter.
“Huyu kapatana na jini usiku!” One of them opines. They nearly choke as they laugh even harder, slapping knees and each other’s backs.
They help me down eventually, after helping me battle my intense fear of falling from the branches. One of them climbs the neighbouring tree to retrieve my clothes. A middle-aged man gives me a sympathetic look and tells me not to worry. At least I think that’s what he said.
I learn from the boys that I am in Kilifi. They tell me I am lucky I didn’t wake up in a cemetery like other unfortunate men. They do not hesitate to repeat the story of my misfortune to any passerby curious as to the cause of the commotion. My dignity must mean nothing to them.
I don’t even bother going to collect my things from the apartment I had let for the weekend. I am on the train back to Nairobi by the afternoon. The moment I woke up on that tree, a chill settled within me. Despite the warmth and the humidity, it hasn’t left me and I know it never will because I also feel it in my soul.
END
