Kolanut Insurance Policy
Jean John-Edo
Let me tell you something about Nigeria: this country runs on pure energy. But the village? The village is a different kind of current, one that is ancestral, mysterious, and non-refundable. Lagos may have traffic demons, but the real devils roam the bush, where juju moves freely like a phone network.
We do not just live life; we negotiate with it.
Everything – love, grief, birth, even walking down the street – is a transaction between you, your ancestors, and the unseen forces that may or may not be trying to ruin your day.
Take juju, for example. Nobody really believes in it… except for everybody who does. It’s not about faith; it’s about precaution. Like locking your door at night. You might say, “God is my security,” but you’ll still turn that key; twice, before sleeping. We don’t debate it, we don’t theorise it, we don’t hop on X to argue, “juju is fake, science explains everything.” If that’s the case, my brother, explain it in the grave.
In the village, belief is not a conviction; it is a survival strategy.
You don’t carry kolanut in your pocket because you are hungry. You carry it because you like being alive. A small, bitter insurance policy against witches and spirits and whatever else might try to slip into your bloodstream through a single handshake.
I learned this lesson the day juju tried to humble my Aunty Maria.
First, let me give you a backstory. My grandmother – Mama, as we called her – was not your average old woman. She was sharper than any motivational speaker, a war general in a wrapper and head tie. Mama lived in Benin, Edo state, and had outlived husbands, children, and even the Biafran War. She was ancient in the way only African matriarchs are; no birth certificate, just oral math. We thought she’d live forever.
Then came the trip to the village.
Then came the hug.
There was a woman there. Nobody really knew her, but everybody knew her. The kind of presence that made people whisper once she passed. According to Aunty Maria, Mama had gone for a house-blessing ritual in her newly built village home. She was strong, alert, laughing. Then the woman hugged her. By the next morning, Mama was in pain. No fever. No injury. Just pain.
And soon after, she was gone.
Aunty Maria has never forgiven that hug. In her mind, it wasn’t death; it wasn’t age. It was juju. Full stop.
Me? Lagos-educated, sceptical – I didn’t believe her. I thought it was village gossip. The usual superstition doing laps.
Until we returned to that same village.
We were standing at the front door of Mama’s house when we saw her – the same woman – lingering too close to the gate, like she had unfinished business with our bloodline.
Aunty Maria stiffened. Her face tried to look brave, but her eyes gave her away: wide, frantic, cartoonish. She looked like she’d seen a ghost carrying a cutlass.
“NO, NO, DON’T COME IN. GO BACK!” she screamed, waving her arms like she was trying to swat spirits.
I joined in, shouting too.
The woman stared a moment too long, then vanished down the path.
That is when it started.
Aunty Maria froze. Then she began scratching her arms, slapping her body, jumping on one foot like the ground was on fire. “Something is crawling inside me!” she yelled, wriggling, shaking, peeling off her clothes.
Imagine it: a full-grown Nigerian woman, half-dressed, hopping and hollering about invisible things crawling on her skin. It was the funniest thing I had ever seen in my life, if it weren’t terrifying.
We saw nothing.
Eventually, she calmed down. We hurried inside.
But round two came anyway. On our way out, it hit again.
Aunty Maria slapped her back, doubled over. “It’s back! It’s crawling again. It’s in my back! BLOOD OF JESUS! REMOVE IT!” she screamed, shaking so hard, tearing off her clothes.
She shook so hard her whole body vibrated like a Nokia 3310 on silent mode. Clothes torn, breath ragged.
This time, I saw it.
Something moved inside her clothes. Something small. Something alive. A lizard? A spirit? A hallucination?
I don’t know.
But it was real enough for my fingers to touch.
It was fast. Slimy. Gone before I could catch it.
One moment there. The next? Poof. Nothing.
Just the silence. Just me, panting. Staring down the path where that woman had disappeared, trying to explain the unexplainable.
Did she send it? Was Mama’s death the same thing?
I still do not know what I believe about that day.
But in Esan land, belief does not matter. You just obey. You do not test juju.
When my father died, the elders gave me kola nut to carry in my pocket as we transported his body to the village.
Strict instructions:
- Do not let anyone touch you.
- Do not cry. Even your tears can be weaponised.
- Keep your kola nut close. Always.
You would think grief is sacred. That the death of your father would grant you space to cry, to mourn, to fall apart.
Not here, because mourning makes you soft, and soft people are easy targets.
So there I was, burying the man who raised me, scanning the crowd like an FBI agent. Dodging hugs, side-stepping shoulders, clutching that dry kolanut like a loaded weapon.
Not every hand that touches is a hand that comforts. Not every presence at a funeral is there to say goodbye.
Some people show up just to collect your weakness.
And juju? Juju does not respect your pain.
You obey the rules, not because you believe.
Because what if it’s true?
This Is Not Faith. This Is Policy.
In Nigeria, superstition is not gullibility – it is insurance. A way to navigate the parts of life that science cannot explain. Where whispers move faster than truth. Where a single hug can undo a legacy.
So, you carry the kola nut. You stay alert. You follow the rules. Not out of fear; out of protocol.
Because what if the stories are real?
What if the whispers are warnings?
Can you afford to be wrong?
You think you are smart?
You think you know better? Fine.
But you will still slide that kola nut into your pocket – just in case.
You will still flinch when someone brushes your shoulder during mourning. Because you have heard too many stories of a single touch changing a life.
We live in that tension.
Science cannot explain why Mama died after that hug.
But tradition does not need proof to name a culprit.
And superstition? It does not just live in dark corners.
It’s in the way we pour libations like gravity demands it.
It’s in traditional weddings where prayers sound like ancestral chants.
It’s in how we dance at funerals like they are weddings, because that is what the dead demand.
We live in contradictions without flinching.
People fornicate on Friday, confess on Saturday, and sit front row in church on Sunday. They’ll call your soul lost because you missed service, but side-eye you for not greeting the village witch with respect.
Juju doesn’t need proof.
Religion doesn’t need logic.
Culture doesn’t need permission.
We just do.
So laugh, if you must. Call it backward, foolish, or even primitive. But I’ve seen things in that village I can’t explain.
Things that crawled and vanished.
Things that turned mourning into warfare.
That’s why I say:
When you visit my village, don’t ask questions.
Don’t argue.
Just put the kola nut in your pocket and keep moving.
Because juju doesn’t care whether you believe in it or not. And neither do the people who use it.
In Nigeria, superstition is not belief.
It is a seatbelt you wear on a road where you don’t control the steering. You do not buckle it because you believe in accidents. You buckle it because you have seen the wrecks.
And if you think you can take it off?
Ask Aunty Maria about that lizard that wasn’t a lizard.
Jean John-Edo is a British-Nigerian writer of lyrical nonfiction exploring queerness, faith, and cultural memory. Her debut, Nobody Prepared Me For This: 4 Deadly Sins, was a 2025 Kindle Storyteller Award submission. She is currently working on The Aisle, a queer literary novel exploring shame, survival, and the courage to live openly across generations. Jean writes for those living between silences, continents, and selves.
*Image by Pharaoh Fontain on Unsplash
