About eleven years ago I got chickenpox, I genuinely felt like my ancestors had sent me a “missed call” and were waiting for me to return it. Let me tell you, chickenpox in adulthood is not a disease; it is a full-time punishment program.
My workplace took one look at me and immediately granted me leave. Not out of compassion, but because I looked like a biological weapon under development. At the plot, people scattered whenever I appeared. Even mosquitoes respected social distancing.
As usual, Kenya is never short of medical consultants. Every person became a specialist overnight.
One advised me to bathe with Stoney soda. Apparently, I was no longer a human being but a soft drink promotion campaign.
Another told me to boil eucalyptus leaves and sit under a blanket inhaling the steam. I followed instructions faithfully until I looked like a giant samosa being prepared for Christmas.
Then things escalated.
Someone advised me to boil soil from a molehill(mchanga ya fuko) and use it as treatment. Looking back, that probably explains why I occasionally behave like a political mole, always digging where I shouldn’t na kuongea matope
Another expert informed me that the ancestor I was named after died before completing some traditional rituals and was now demanding a follow-up meeting through my skin. At that point I was ready to believe anything. If someone had told me to negotiate directly with the ancestor via Zoom, I would have requested the meeting link.
I tried every remedy except common sense. Meanwhile the chickenpox was thriving like it had received government funding. Every morning I woke up with fresh spots. The disease was expanding faster than Nairobi estates.
Eventually I decided to take actual medicine. The problem was that the instructions clearly stated: “Avoid alcohol.” Now that frightened me more than the chickenpox itself. I stared at that warning like it was a court summons. For a moment I considered whether recovery was really worth such sacrifice. 🤣🤣🤣
Then came the grand finale: a family meeting in Nyeri.
You would think I had arrived carrying radioactive material. The seating arrangement looked like a crime scene investigation. Everyone kept a safe distance. If I moved one chair closer, they moved two chairs away. Some relatives were leaning so far back I thought they were attempting to return home without standing up.
Nobody said it directly, but their body language screamed, “We love you, from over there.”
I survived the chickenpox, but the emotional damage of being treated like human pesticide remains. To this day, whenever someone sits too far away from me, I don’t assume they are shy, I assume they remember the Great Chickenpox Pandemic of my life.
