What I am going to say next may have some of you write me off as being crazy, while others may want to try and convince me I have some sort of spiritualist calling.
For now, I am not ready to investigate either option for myself too keenly, so I will just dismiss both groups with the saying: What you think of me is none of my business.
That said, I cannot understand how or why, when it comes to the death of people I am close to, be they family or friends, I often have some sort of premonition, for lack of a better word.
Of course, I only figure out it was premonition in hindsight. Some might say that this happens because I have not had sangoma or traditional healer training, which might help me tap into these presentiments.
For instance, as I may have mentioned previously, I recently moved house and part of the process, as I have moved to a smaller abode, has been sorting out all the stuff I have accumulated over the years.
I have always known I was a hoarder. I have great difficulty throwing away anything, even if I have not used it for years or have clearly forgotten that I even have it.
However, since paying to put stuff in storage is not an option, this time I have had to give away clothes, shoes and books that I have amassed over the years, some of which I have been hanging onto, literally, for decades.
In the last few weeks, I have discovered a charity that has a division that receives donations of books, which they then sell to fund their activities.
They have another division that does the same with shoes and clothes, and so I am happy to know my stuff will find good homes.
Before I ramble on anymore, I should get to the point. There is one, I promise you.
On Friday, as I went through my last pile of books and decided which I could afford to get rid of and which ones would have to be pried out of my cold, dead hands, I came across two books that were decidedly in the latter category.
Both were by my dear friend Rasna Warah. As I put the two books aside, I thought fleetingly of Rasna and how, during my recent year and a bit in Kenya, I did not manage to get down to Malindi to see her and her husband Gray Phombeah.
Gray is an old friend and colleague of mine from the beginning of my journey in journalism, when we both worked at the Kenya Times. Years later, we worked together again at the BBC.
Rasna and I spoke on the phone and messaged each other regularly on X (formerly Twitter), where she was very active and had a following of like-minded social justice warriors.
I knew she wasn’t very well, but I was planning to be in Malindi in the next few weeks and would make my long-postponed visit to see my friends and share a cup of tea or whatever. I was looking forward to surprising both of them.
Late on Saturday, I received a message from a mutual friend, who had heard from someone else, the shocking news that Rasna, one of my favourite people, and a great Kenyan, had died.
My first thoughts were for Gray. However, when I began processing the awful news, I remembered that just 24 hours earlier, I had been holding Rasna’s books and thinking fond thoughts.
Coincidence? My logical mind says yes, but a little voice somewhere reminds me this is not the first time something similar has happened and the little voice wants to know why and how come?
However, there is another little voice that says I don’t really want to know and should just leave well enough alone. Maybe I am a little crazy after all.
