Let me tell you a story.
My entire childhood was an extreme sport. I grew up dodging curses, chasing coins, and whispering to toilets.
And I believed every single thing they told me. Why?
Because elders don’t lie. Even when they do.
It all began one evening…
The sun had just dipped, frogs were rehearsing their choir set, and I was outside the kitchen with my cousin, roasting maize on the jiko.
The vibes were vibing.
Then I whistled.
“Wiiii—”
Before I could finish, my cousin slapped my lips like I’d insulted her ancestors.
“Acha hizo! Unajua unaita mashetani?”
Ehh?! Whistling at night? Apparently, that’s how you send a spiritual group text to demons.
From that day on, my lips feared freedom.
Moments later, my little sister came skipping past…
She jumped over my stretched legs like it was normal.
It wasn’t.
“Woi woi woi! My cousin screamed. “Hutakua mrefu!”
That night I begged God to save my height, even though genetically… the odds were already against me. Because clearly, her jump had snatched my future height. I still blame her for my 5’2″.
I mean there was always a sibling or cousin waiting to jump over your legs and ruin your NBA career. If they jumped once, you’d panic. Twice? You’d retaliate by crawling between their legs to “reverse the curse.”
Sometimes, if someone swept near you while you were seated, and especially if they touched your legs that was it. Your height would be permanently stunted.
We were basically witches and wizards without capes.
The Winnower and the Stammerer
One Saturday afternoon, we were pounding maize with my cousin when my uncle—a soft-spoken man with a stammer came by to greet us.
Someone, trying to be funny, flipped the uteo (winnower) upside down.
Bad idea.
The uncle started to greet us—“H-h-h-h-h-hallo!”—but mid-sentence, his face twisted. He gasped. He choked. His eyes bulged. Everyone froze.
“Rudisha uteo! RUDISHA!!” someone screamed.
We flipped the uteo right side up with the fear of God and all our ancestors.
He calmed down instantly.
Just like that, the air returned. His speech flowed. But bestie? The trauma lingered.
I never looked at a winnower the same way again.
And I learned that in Africa, taboos had layers. Some were superstition.
But some… were just respect wrapped in warning.
Then came the dreaded shekera…
You know that embarrassing swelling on your eyelid that makes you look like you lost a fight?
Grandma had options:
- Laugh into the chungu (mortar) don’t ask how.
- Rub a one-bob coin on the eyelid and throw it on the road. Whoever picks it? Good luck to them.
- Bend over a pit latrine and laugh inside.
I went with the coin.
To this day, I sometimes wake up thinking, “Is the person okay?”
Now listen… if you wore red during a storm?
Ah. You were inviting lightning for tea.
I once wore my bright red sweater proudly on a cloudy day.
My grandmother nearly fainted.
“TOA HIYO SWEATER! Unataka kupigwa na radi?”
I changed faster than a chameleon in church.
She gave me my cousin’s grey pullover that smelled like Omo and old juice.
But hey at least I lived.
Then came the fire incident…
One evening, I got creative.
Lit a few matchsticks behind the house. Drew circles in the air like a baby witch.
That night?
Let’s just say… the river flowed.
And let me just say this: it’s true. That wasn’t a threat. That was a spoiler. Every child who laughed too hard while playing with fire ended up waking up to shame.
Bedsheet: soaked.
Dignity: vanished.
Auntie entered the room, looked at me like Judge Judy and said:
“Ulichezea moto, si ndio?”
No further questions, Your Honor.
Guilty as charged.
At night, mirrors were forbidden.
Look into one after 7pm?
You’d either see a ghost or wet the bed.
There was no in-between.
Then came the owls.
You hear one hooting near your house at night?
Start making funeral arrangements.
“HOO HOO—”
“Eh woi! Kifo!”
Grandma would rush out, shaking her slipper at the darkness like it owed her money:
“Tokaaa! Watu wetu hawajakuita!”
And somehow… the owl would leave.
Honestly, elders had powers.
But the most haunting superstition of them all?
Being called by name at night. From outside. Softly.
“Charity… Charittyyyy…”
You don’t answer. You don’t breathe. You don’t even exist.
Why?
Because it might not be your mother.
It might be something else.
I once held my pee for 8 hours straight.
You think that’s a bladder? That’s resilience.
In conclusion: I survived.
But barely.
Childhood was just a long list of warnings wrapped in love, fear, and deeply questionable logic.
Just belief.
What about you?
Did your people say the same things?
Did you survive the fire, the owls?
Comment yours. Let’s cry-laugh together then check under the bed. You know, just in case.
This has been an Afrika Tale. No exaggeration. Only inherited fear.
Next one loading… once I remember more
