A few months ago, I saw a guy get hit by a car. Well, I should have seen it. I was looking right at him, but my mind was miles away. I noticed the event when some lady tapped me roughly to ask what had happened.

I was in a matatu, and I was seated at the window. Apparently, the guy was crossing the road and he got hit so hard that he was thrown over the wire and into the flower bed. It was on the lower side of Uhuru Highway.

I looked up to see the guy lying there, in between two lines of barbs, with blood and dust on some parts of his face. The car that hit him was 100 metres away, and the driver rushed out and ran to the guy. Another guy got out, and they picked up the injured man and rushed him to their wheels.

In the process, the victim’s shoe fell off.

I wondered if the rescuers would come back to pick it up. It was a gorgeous Timberland boot, tan coloured with some suede detail. I never got to find out, because the lights changed and our matatu sped away. The [other] passengers were left discussing how it had happened while I continued to stare blankly and daydream. They thought the guy was drunk, and claimed he was staggering as he crossed. It’s possible that he had a death wish. Others thought he was distracted. He had a lot on his mind and just wasn’t paying attention … a little like me.

I wondered what would happen to him. The hit-people seemed in a hurry. Maybe they wanted the guy to be treated before he died, or maybe they were scared of crowds, so they moved him before one could develop. Maybe they were late for a meeting and they wanted to get there on time.

I wondered where they’d take the guy. Would they go straight to Kenyatta and dump him in Casualty? Would they take the time to check his wallet, call his loved ones and get him to a doctor? Would they want to hang around the ward and explain the accident, facing the possibility of cops? I figured they’d just get to a crowded space, put him on a stretcher, and go on with their day. I hate to admit it, but it’s exactly what I would do. It’s too much work to sit there, make sure he gets treated, pay his deposit, leave my details, get someone to watch my baby, then get blamed, arrested, or extorted for knocking him over in the first place. It’s expensive work being a good samaritan.

I thought about the other side for a bit. I wondered … if it had been me that got hit … would anyone have stopped or cared? Would they rifle my phone and know who to call? Would someone come to my house and meet my baby when the school bus dropped her off?

If I was knocked unconscious, would anyone know what had happened to me? If my baby got home and found the door locked, how long would she wait before she started to panic? Would she be brave enough to go to her uncles or grandad fifteen minutes away? Would she sit at their gate crying because she has no key and there’s nobody home?

When I eventually did get home that day, I sat down with my little girl and drilled her on worst case scenarios. If she gets home and she doesn’t find me, she’s to get the neighbour or shopkeeper to try calling me. If she can’t get through, she’s to call one of her uncles. They have spare keys, and should be able to do something with that.

Once my heartbeat resolved and I was more rational, I thought about the shoe. I always wondered how people got hit so hard that their shoes flew off. I suppose it’s got something to do with friction and gravity – I was never very good at physics. But it could also be from overzealous rescuers.

There was a story some time back about such stray shoes being donated to charity. I wonder if the shoes have partners, since it’d be kind of hard to be given two mismatched shoes, though it would be such fun for a jigsaw lover … you know … looking through the pile of footwear and trying to find matches in size and style. Of course, they say it’s always the left shoe that gets found, and that could present some problems.

You’re probably wondering what this has to do with the end of the world. Well, the way I see it, my story has several signs of the end times. One, I spent one thousand words talking about shoes, and they’re not even Prada, though they did have heels. Two, despite writing for a living, I failed to catch a true life story because I was too busy daydreaming. Three, I saw someone die – maybe – and all I can think about is lost shoes. This could just be a coping mechanism, but we’re drawing very close to 2012, and you do know about the Mayans, right?

There’s this story about the milkman who daydreams about selling his milk, becoming a millionaire, marrying the king’s daughter, and beating her to a pulp. As he demonstrates the beating, he spills the milk that would have borne his fortune, and all is lost.

A similar story talks of a girl who goes to the river and dreams of meeting a prince, marrying him, having a beautiful daughter, and sending her to the river. This virtual child slips, hits her head, and/or falls into a well. The offline girl then sits down wailing and mourning her lost, unborn daughter.

Both stories sound silly and moralistic … but … I’m a lot like that. I don’t generally kick buckets of milk or wail over unborn children, but I’m currently crying over my dead cat.

The only problem is … I never actually had one.

I’ve always wanted a black cat. At first, it was sort of a rebellion thing. Everybody is afraid of black cats, so I figured I could stand out by having one. Then, it became a kind of joke. Classmates in high school thought I was some kind of witch. I was fascinated with the occult and had realistic stories about witchdoctors and things like that, stuff I’d seen first hand.

A spirit guide once told me she felt I had witchdom in my past life. She was equally sure I’d been a Hindu priestess, and that at some point, I’d been burned at the stake. It explains the love of saris, punjabi suits, and tiny Indian nose rings. With that background, it would be quite fitting to own a black cat, no?

Yesterday, my brother and I were discussing my choice of cat. We realized that I’d have to get the cat a scratchy thingie to keep the sofas safe. I don’t how that  works outside of theory, but I suppose we’ll soon find out.

So this morning I was walking to my bro’s when I suddenly thought of my cat being dead [the cat I haven’t bought yet, just so you know]. I’d have to bury it, wouldn’t I? I’d have to put it in a box and embalm it and have a little going-away ceremony, probably one involving Christian Rock and a cross.

Except … here’s the thing. I don’t like dead things. I’ve been to funerals where I couldn’t view the body because I couldn’t link the corpse with the person that I loved. I’ve poisoned rats then left the house while someone grabbed them and threw them out. I’ve squished mosquitoes and left the red blobs on the wall for weeks. Roaches too. I just couldn’t bring myself to move them. Don’t even talk of the dead spiders under the bed.

So then, how would I bury beloved Ebby? [No, it’s not weird that my imaginary dead cat has a name.] How would I hold her … or him … and put her in a box and dowse her in perfume and dig a hole and put the body in?

And while we’re at it, where would I find the space to bury her in my dream penthouse? Will it have a lawn way up there on the 25th floor? Would I have to drive to some remote shamba to bury her instead? Would the shamba owner bust me and accuse me of witchcraft for burying a dead black cat in his yard? Could I drive around for hours with a dead thing in my trunk?

There’s this beautiful black cat that hangs around Chiromo Hostels. She … or he … is so regally stuck up that when she takes a nap, she lies so still you’d think she’s dead. But she … or he … is adorable, and I always wonder whether I could take him home. Could I get this cat, become attached, and then when she dies, throw her in a blue sealed bag in the trash? Really?

Hm, maybe I’m just not ready for a cat.