In my short life under the sun, I have seen a lot. This happened back in the early 2000s. One fine afternoon, a fast-talking stranger appeared in our village with a briefcase, a 1000 Watt smile, and a foreign accent.
More importantly, he had a gadget strapped to his waist -a shining black thingie that blinked like it contained state secrets. We gawked at it, mouths hanging open like village goats seeing an airplane for the first time.
“It’s called a pager,” he said, chest puffed out. “They give it to important people so the office can reach them while in the field.”
We nodded solemnly, pretending to understand. But deep down we were sure it was either a walkie-talkie to God or a miniature TV that only rich people could afford.
The smart guy gathered us under a tree and lowered his voice like he was revealing a state secret. “These precious seeds,” he whispered, displaying some sweet smelling seeds in his hands, “are used to make medicine that cures the dreaded disease.”
We didn’t ask which disease. But like a congregation of fools, we just gasped in unison. “A single grain goes for ten dollars in the market,” he added with a smile. “But I will sell them to you at a dollar each.”
Kamaley and I stepped aside for an “executive meeting.” We did some rapid village mathematics on a scrap of paper. If we bought ten kilos each, we’d be millionaires in four months flat-we reckoned. We could already see ourselves donning Tommy Hilfiger jeans and Nike caps while giving interviews to Kameme FM.
So, naturally, we borrowed money from friends, parents and anyone who cared to listen. Uncle gave us a small patch of land near the river, and Aunty Jerusha came to bless it. She prayed with the vigor of a Pentecostal storm, her voice scaring the goats grazing nearby. “These boys will prosper!” she declared. Even her fellowship group was praying for us. Failure, clearly, was not an option.
Weeks passed. Not a single shoot. Uncle, who had been farming since the Mau Mau days, scratched his head and suggested watering twice a day. Nothing. His friend Gicheru came, squatted like an expert, sniffed the soil, and declared, “Add some ash.” Still nothing. The seeds lay there like stubborn stones, mocking us.
Aunty Jerusha returned, horrified. “You boys must be under the spell of pepo nyeusi!” she said, before sprinkling holy water on the soil. She even laid hands on our jembes, commanding prosperity in the name of Jesus. The soil drank the water, burped, and remained barren.
Two months later, Kamaley unearthed the crumpled paper with the seed seller’s number. We pooled the last of our coins, dashed to the shopping center, and called him. The phone rang-and a drunk voice slurred, “Eh… this is Kĩrĩma Bar, Lodgings and Restaurant.Unataka nini?”
And just like that, our empire of dreams evaporated. The miracle seeds had turned out to be perfumed pebbles, our investors were already demanding their money, and Aunty Jerusha was praying even harder.
So one chilly dawn, before the sun and our creditors rose, we packed our belongings into a single bag and tiptoed out of the village. We only came back home when we were sure the villagers had forgotten our names.
Some lessons, my friend, can only be learned from a good con man.