It's a vague statistic, but every electricity pole in every market centre across the country has a witch doctor sign poster. Ever seen someone pin it? No? Thought so. They just appear.
It's Sunday, market day. It's officially the villager's off-day. Sunday, everyone rocks their best clothes. Christmas Day clothes. Yes, it's still a thing. As I stroll into the market square, I notice some excitement in the crowds. Some harried tension.
I bump into a handful of people - some familiar to me. Each tries to borrow money. The strange thing? All of them are asking for 300 bob. Apparently, they have one hour to pay the money, or they lose their eyesight. No kidding.
Oops, I told the story from the end.
Soon enough, I get the full story.
Apparently, around noon, a stranger had appeared at an empty spot in the square. He'd started playing a weathered Wandindi. A Wandindi is a local stringed instrument, a distant cousin of the acoustic guitar. It's common in school music festivals. As is sure to happen, an idling crowd gathers.
It's free entertainment, and people got time to kill.
The man is a curious sight. He has a piece of raw leather, seems like leopard skin, draped over his shoulders. A monkey-skin hat, with a few feathers sticking up.
Well, looks like he'd make a good, lead soloist in a traditional Luhya folk song presentation. He manages a few practised jigs in sync with his Wandindi sounds. The crowd is in stitches.
He pauses. Then, declares himself a witch doctor.
Half the crowd thins out. Locals, especially the women, have better things to do. Families to cook for, it's almost dusk. A witch doctor dancing at a crowded market square? That's insane.
A local, a young man dishes out a challenge. Prove it. Well, that seems like something he'd expected. He agrees. He asks for volunteers - but, attaches a condition. As many as are willing should be willing to pay for his efforts. Another half of the crowd thins out.
The remaining crowd is mostly idling youth. Some bus terminal 'managers'. Every bus terminus has them - those loudmouths that make you board a specific Matatu. There's a few women, quite brave, I'd say, and a few kids.
The self-acclaimed witch doctor says he shall need to be paid, if he proves himself. Ok.
He strips naked. A man in his late 60's stripping naked is not a pretty sight. Some odd bulges, a few tribal scars. It's embarrassing. A few more women leave the gathering.
He calls for an aide. An incredible thought. Yes, every witch doctor worth his weight has one. An aide - tall, youthful - appears from the crowd holding a basin. Bright red plastic, looks new. He has a 10 litre jerrycan, seemingly full, with water. The aide takes a cupful to prove it.
By now, the witch doctor is chanting, slowly working himself into a frenzy. He's shouting gibberish. He's stark naked, remember. The silence from the crowd is pin-drop. Even the loud, rough market idlers shut up. The basin, all bright and red in it's glory smack at the middle, halfway filled with water.
Everyone draws back. The naked, chanting stranger has a wider circle. It's like those circles we made in PE classes - except, this is no singing game. The chants suddenly stop. The man stands astride the basin. Then, sits in it. The halfway water level comes to the brim.
Nothing happens. A few pregnant seconds. A full minute.
The crowd is getting bored. Some start to drift off. It's Sunday, we have to show off our Sunday best Kaunda suits. No one has time for a lunatic.
Then, there's a shrill sound. A little like a Boy Scout's whistle. A bit of the sound people make with their lips trying to sip hot tea from a melamine cup.
Somehow, incredibly, the water starts to... I would say, disappear, but the right word is SUCKED.
And his tummy starts to bulge. In a few minutes, the basin is dry. As dry as the Kalahari. Or, closer home, the Chalbi.
The crowd is paralysed, literally. Jaws drop in astonishment. Eyes grow wide.
The witch doctor stands up. Not a drop of water drips from his nether regions. He methodically starts to dress. No one dares to move. Everyone now really looks at him.
He's bald, with bulging eyes and a white goatee - stained with tobacco. A lot of people had never seen a witch doctor before - but, they'd rush to rebuke anyone stating otherwise.
The man, raises his hand, and makes a declaration. No, sort of swears a decree that neither invited debate, nor begged for consultation. He says:
"My people, if your eyes have laid witness to my nakedness, or the water - you owe me a debt. I've paid my debt. Pay your debt. You have to give him (he points to his aide) 300 shillings, before the sun goes to sleep... Else, your eyes will go to sleep with the sun. You'll go blind."
What? Everyone goes blind if they don't pay? The sun sets at 6pm!
In the confusion and shock, he disappears into the crowd. His aide remains, awkwardly holding the bright red, plastic basin.
A lady throws some notes into the basin, and a couple of coins. A man hands the aide a live cockerel, saying he had missed a buyer... and didn't have money.
Panic breaks out. The people are frantically trying to pay off the witch doctor. Else, this town becomes a BLIND TOWN.
