SIMPLE RULES

The Prologue:

Four simple rules matter in life…

 Rule 1… live another day

Rule 2… love for a reason

Rule 3… hate for a cause

Rule 4… die a happy person

 

… only a fool can choose not to obey them…

 

BOOK ONE

Rule 3 – Him

Tell me your story, then I’ll tell you mine…

Last week, barely seven weeks after my University graduation night, I buried the only man I thought was partly responsible for bringing me into this world.

It was in one of those old cemeteries by our neighbourhood, one of those that most people will rarely go to. His funeral wake was quite dim, and only a few people attended. I was one of the few who did attend, although I had a constantly nagging question over my head, which was asking what I was doing there.  And I think the nagging was called for. I had simply not known the man lying in state inside that coffin. I had known him at all. He was an old man when he died, around sixty something, I think. But I did no care. All I did was to feel glad that he was finally gone. I did not cry by the funeral wake, and neither did I have any morsel of remorse within my heart. And to make sure he was really gone, I pinched his cold body as we were doing the body viewing. It was relief to me that the man did not flinch. Later, at the cemetery, as I shoveled the grey dust into the grave, I knew that he would never trouble me again. The monster was slowly shriveling, and exfoliating itself off my life forever. This was the new beginning I had always dreamt of. Better times were on the roll.

People who knew him said he had been sick for a while now, and had seen both cough and spit during his last days. They said he had been having a bad spate of TB. Some said he had died of AIDS, and some said he was murdered whilst he came from work. They were all wrong. I knew what had killed him and I knew that this was the story most people would not believe. It was his greed that killed him. He had been drowning in it. Also his cowardice to face the story of his life had made him oblivious, and like a blinded man, he had become too reluctant to accept the mistakes he had conceived. It was all these things, and more. His weakness at the complexities of the world. His steadfastness in egotism. These, and every other thing he did led him to choose the wrong path at the crossroads. The man had failed to comprehend. This had become his pivot, and he had decided to hang on there forever.

 And that had killed him…

 My mother, who is ten years younger that my father, could not come to attend the funeral as she was still in South Africa. The family could not wait for her. I thought it was best for her. I knew that my father’s death had grieved her more than I could imagine. It had grieved her more than it had set my heart at peace. But I also knew that within her honest heart, she was just as glad that he was no more. She was glad that the shadow of the only man she had ever loved, and also learnt to hate, would never be close to her again. I knew that they had always been different ends of the stick, and their parallel lives showed from the start that they would never lead a congruent life. Him, being the boasty kind of man, head of the house, ready for brawling and drunkenness; her being the subservient woman, ever ready to bow on her knees for him; Me, being the watcher, silent, ever calculating on what his next move was going to be on her. It was always like this, and would be if he were going to be there for the whole part of my life.

 But last week, before I buried him, I also found a new friend. And so here my life begins…

***

 

Rule 1 - Rachel

What you don’t know can never hurt you…

Rachel came from a very wealthy family. She herself was never proud that her father was rich. There were always those who made fun of her, saying that her father had killed people to be where he was. Her father, himself an honoured former General of the Army, had worked hard during his prime days, and had amassed a large fortune of wealth for himself. He owned two farms, and was running a chicken rearing company in one of them, and an egg selling one on the other. He also had major shares in one of the leading companies on the stock exchange. Naturally, Rachel, who was the only child in the Adams family, was in the running to inherit all her father’s wealth. But the old man thought otherwise. He had got where he was not because of sitting and waiting for the silver platter to be served before him. He man had brought her up with a hard hand for a reason (Rachel’s mother had passed away when she was two years old) and he had made sure that she grew up knowing that the world was always going to be tough place for anyone. “The world is a cruel place to be in,” he would always say. “And be careful of the choices you make, and of the people you trust. Most things will not fall from the sky for free, they come with a price.” He told her one day, when her best friend had betrayed in class and she had been punished for something that she had not done.

When she was ten years old, their maid, a small black woman had stolen her two slices of bread to give to her son, who was the same age as Rachel. Rachel has become furious because she had see her take the slices and put them under her apron, and despite all the promises the maid told her, she had streaked to her father’s study and told the whole story to him. The man was not pleased. Without a hesitation, he called the woman into the living room, and then made her to sit on the floor. “Who am I?” he asked, staring at her frightened eyeballs.

The maid, in a squeaky voice had replied. “You are Mr. Adams, sir.”

             “And do you own anything in this house if you’re not Mr. Adams?” he had bellowed. And at that time, Rachel had begun to wish that she had not told his father about the theft. The maid could have had good enough reason to steal the slices. His father had looked at her. “You made the right thing, my dear.” These people are never going anywhere in their lives.” He had said, before dismissing her from her work without paying her.

And so, Rachel, from a small age, had grown with a hard fist in her heart. Her father’s teaching ruled her, and she knew that whoever came to work for them would be her slave, and she could say all kinds of insults at them. She was always on the lookout for their mistakes. Another thing was that she began to grow too much dependence on her father, and would not do anything without letting him know of her decisions. But then one Friday, the last day of the school term, when she was fifteen years old, she came with her school report and found him sleeping silently on his favourite sofa. The new maid had gone for the weekend, and so she sat alone and watched her favourite programs on the television. Ten hours later, when he did not wake up, Rachel began to understand the hard dawning truth. For the next years of her entire life, she would have to live without him anymore. And she would never have dreamed that what lay along her path would test her character in a way that she could not have dreamed of.

 It was one cold day, on a Monday…at Visionaries Nightclub.

***

Rule 4 – Detective John Mbali

Stay alive, stay focusing…

Day Seven…Sunday

Detective John-Lunga Mbali cocked his gun carefully. There were empty beer bottles strewn all around the small room. He glanced at the house haphazardly, and then put the gun on the teak table, where a packet of white pills lay scattered all over it. A conspicuous desperation was on his eyeballs. He went to the window, parted the faded red curtains, and peeked through. The people were still there, waiting for him. The Chief was also one of them. He called out his name one more time. Mbali did not answer. He closed the curtain. He had all the facts with him now. He had all the evidence. He would have to do this fast. They would have to wait. Today was his day also.

 Every dog had its day. This was his moment.

His alone…

They would have to wait. It was glorious time. Seconds passed.

All too fast…

He parted the curtains for the second time. The crowd was still there, and he could fell their tangible emotions choking his thinking. He left the curtain, went to the side of the bed and sat on the edge, which was strewn with white sheets. A minute later, he said a little prayer, staring into the dark metallic hole of the gun that he had picked from the table. Silence passed. The crowd’s noise was surmounting outside. It was all too much for him. His head threatened to come out of its neck.

Today they would have to wait…

***

 Day One…Sunday

 The shrilling call came when he least expected it. It was the Chief Of Police, and he did not sound pleased.

 

 “Good morn-, evening sir.” Detective Mbali greeted, faking a cheerful tone.

             “I clearly don’t see anything good with the evening, particularly not with this evening!” The Chief replied dryly, almost exploding. Mbali coughed slightly, and then nodded wistfully a second later. The Chief fired a string of instructions into his right ear. Two minutes passed.

             “You got that?”

             “Yes, sir.” The detective replied.

                  “Good. And I suppose it will it be done, this time.” the Chief asked. His voice sounding very itchy..

 Detective Mbali nodded contemptuously. “I promise, this time I will see to it, sir.” Then the line clicked dead. He cursed silently as he put the receiver down, then reclined the uncomfortable seat, and put his arms behind his aching back. This was going to be the seventh time that the Chief had spoken to him about the case. Seven was the divine number, and he knew if he messed things up this time, this would prove to be his last drinking straw. He was one of the few ‘good ones’ still available, but the Chief had been on his back for months now.

 Like he was a dog on heat…

 Ten minutes later, he got up, put the gun in its leather holder, and went out of his office. In the elevator, he asked the fat policewoman in front of him to press ‘basement’ for him. There he got into a cream vehicle, a 1982 Mazda 323 Chronos, and drove off the Central Police Station building.

 Another ten minutes later, he parked the car in front of Visionaries Nightclub, armed the Anti-Hijack and got out of it. It was, as usual, busy when he entered, and there were a lot of people within the bar area. He approached it, and said out his order, “One draught beer.” The woman smiled at him. If he was at his best behavior, all the women usually did.

 As he turned his back to the bar to find a seat, he was struck by her appearance again. There were two of them, but he saw her first. A beautiful butterfly in a dark box. She was mingled in the darkness of the smoky room and was smiling. She looked utterly lost. He smiled back as he saw them wave at him.

 Ten draughts of beer later, Detective Mbali slumped to the table with empty beer bottles in front of him. Dead drunk. The women smiled at his limp figure and ordered more beer for themselves. An hour passed, and still, Mbali had not woken up. Another hour later, he did not hear the incoming call from the Chief on his cell phone…

***

 Day Three...Tuesday

The scene of the crime was gritty as hell. They were usually like this. All of them. But for this one, it was like he was a pure virgin, experiencing it for the first time. It was as if he had never seen anything like it before. It had happened in a suburban house. The body of the victim lay in a twisted foetal position, on the tiled floor, crude and naked. She looked like an unfinished Picasso painting, obscure and abstract, painted using her blood. Detective Mbali looked at the pale still figure of the white woman and felt his stomach insides churn with loads of spilled bile. He had got what he wanted for the investigation to continue. He whistled outside, and then stared again at the grotesquely lifeless form. The body looked like a ghost already. Its eyes were still wide open in a ghastly manner, and there was the stagnant smell of blood, beer, urine and semen all over it. Her pointed breasts looked lifeless. Her tanned body, grey, and disfigured. Her teeth, red with blood. Around the neck, she looked as if some large beast had gruesomely throttled her, and there was a folk story of how her life had ended on her eyes. This was going to be her story. He wrote on his small notebook:

 Case Two: Beauty and the Beast

 This was going to be the name of the case. He underlined the words carefully.

 After, he threw up next to the body, and then called one of the medical people to clean the mess up. His cell phone rang as he was still studying the corpse. It was the Chief, and he wanted to explode. He sounded pissed off. Mbali knew the reason all too well. He had not reported for duty the day before.

                 “Don’t test me, detective. What happened on Monday? I thought I made it crystal clear you were supposed to be interrogating the other suspect, on the other case. Leave this case to the other detectives!” the Chief barked.

                 “But, sir--” Mbali began

             “No buts this time, Mbali. You have the name of the suspect, I presume?” continued the Chief. Mbali nodded a dry ‘yes sir’. He almost coughed through the phone.

             “Good. That’s progress. And what’s the name of the man?”

 Mbali remained silent, staring as the body of the girl was removed, and put in a wooden coffin. She was history now. The world would soon erase her from its memory. He would try not to.

             “You still there, detective?”

 He coughed. The girl was now being taken for the post-mortem. She was going to be treated like a guinea pig there. Opened up, cut up like a piece of meat. A sort of study for one of the lucky bastard would-be-doctors in the mortuary theaters. He cleared his throat. “Yes, I’m still here, Chief. The man’s name is Silas, Silas Mpofu. I’m seeing him tomorrow at the station.”

 Mbali heard the Chief breath angrily. “Tomorrow? No! You will see him today! That’s an order. And besides, what’s with the mood change? You’re not particularly taking a liking into your job these days. See this Silas today. I need answers on that murder, today!”

 Mbali winced. What he was going to say would not be advisable to say on any other day in the office. He swallowed his throat before he said it. “I’m afraid I won’t, sir.” He said flatly. The Chief almost chugged. Mbali could smell the fire and brimstone in his voice.

             “You will what--?”

             “The dead woman.” He went on. “I was with her at Visionaries Nightclub last night…”

***

Rule 4 – Lost and Found

Show me a good woman, and I’ll show you an excellent  mother…

 

“Pastor Michael, It’s been sixteen very long years since I last saw her with my own eyes…I will tell you everything.”

 When I was still a very young child, my mother told me something about me that I will always remember in my life. I had been out playing, when she called me to come and bath. That was when she said it, “Child, no matter what people say to you, or what they say about you, just must remember that there’s no other person in this world like you. Just remember that you are special.” She said.

 Those few words stuck in my throat throughout my whole life, and I grew up with them, and learned to wear them around me wherever my feet took me. If I had known then that what she had told me had been the right thing, never would I have trailed off into the bitter circumstances that would soon engulf me in the later years of my life. But those important words were soon forgotten, turned into a lingering memory, and diluted and dissolved by insolvency. And so sooner than later, I found myself debating and doubting upon two simple fringes of my life; whether I had been cursed at birth, and whether I was any special at all.

 The family I was born into was a small one. My father, (his name was Petros) although I never saw him in my life, had been a vociferous preacher in his times. Tales surrounding his fierce and sometimes ‘damning’ sermons would later fill my ears. The Pentecostal Church of God, a small frail and dilapidated building that stood at the corner of the township dusty road had been the only church in his days, and every Sunday, when he stood at the wooden pulpit, his brown handkerchief and Holy Bible on his both hands, people said he drove the nail ‘right on the head’. Some claimed that God himself would visit him during his ‘power sermons. “Brothers and sisters,” he would say, wiping a sweat off his grey face with his handkerchief, “Repent! Leave your evil prostituting lives! Leave the undesirable shackles of dire poverty; leave the urine stinking lives you lead! Leave all the brothelling political parties you support. Verily, I tell you, like the slimy snake, their words are nothing but poison for your soul! Leave these entire devilish traits! For it is only the Lord, your God, who truly loves everyone in this building, and His hour, is at hand! Amen!!”

 And the congregation would be filled with a Holy frenzy, and men and women would jump to the roof and roll on the floor, stigmatised by the Holy Spirit. Then he would ask for those who wanted to be saved, and the men and women would push towards the altar, and come and land, and cower at his feet, and he would absolve them of their impurities. He would heal the sick, and then bless the country, which was at a racial and tribal war with itself. He was a good man, both in character, and in his spirit.

 My mother, on the other hand was a complete opposite of him. Not that she was not good to me, but I will not prefer to use the word ‘irony’ when I mention her character. But most people said she was one when compared to the things that my father did. She had always been the quiet, soft-spoken type of woman, but was quick and sharp with her mouth if someone dared tread on her toes. People said when she spoke; everyone turned their heads to her and listened. Her words were sharp like a cutting razor blade, and people listened when she opened her mouth, lest she would rebuke everything that lay along her path. However, in all of my life with her, I never heard her utter a single word of complaint to my father. He was a good man, and she would become a timid woman when in front of his frame. I guess she had that respect that most of us can give to someone when we have known them for a great deal of time. It is self-instilled, and we do not know how to explain it but rather find ourselves conforming to it without the slightest of inclination. Another thing was that the people thought she was strange, and would often say she was not the right type of woman my father should have married. They said their marriage had been taboo, and that their first child, if it was a boy, would be severely cursed. The worst thing she ever heard coming out of the people’s mouths was that she was a prostitute. It did not deter her, and I think that I am very lucky to have adopted this trait from her.

 Being a woman of character, a woman with nerves of steel, the rumours strengthened and fueled her love for my father. She was always advising him on lessening his scathing attack on the government, and the people who drank beer and who were involved in prostitution. Of late, she had been having terrible nightmares about him being beaten to death because of his sermons. Naturally, she confirmed her fears to him, but the man would not take her advice. He was an adamant man, my father. He told her one-day, that he was on holy mission, sent by the Good Lord Himself. “And I will not bow down to these pillars of evil, for the hour of His coming is near. Let it come that is to come.” He told her again one night when someone sent him a threatening letter telling him to stop preaching about the wrongs of government. My mother began fearing for his life, and her fears were confirmed. Sometimes I like to think that she anticipated where this was headed. One day, as he was coming from a late evening service, two disgruntled people who had belonged to a certain political party attacked him, and clubbed him all over his body with sticks and stones. The man was severely injured, and the doctor said if he ever recovered, he would be a cabbage, confined only to a wheel chair, and would never know light from darkness. Seven days later, after a fight for survival and a hundred and one prayers from the members of his church, the gaping wounds finally won over him, and he breathed his last. His funeral cortège was a grand one, and I heard that it was the largely attended funeral in the history of the township. And many people did not hide the accounts of his good deeds. The man had died well in the arms of the Father, they said amongst themselves as they sat between dying embers of fire. There were even rumours that his coffin was taken up in a chariot of fire. For my father, this had been his life, and he had thrived on it, lived it, to the full…

 My mother was distraught beyond life itself. A firm believer of the Lord herself, her emotions got the better of her, and she blamed God, and wanted everything that my father had believed to be false. For the next three days, she secluded herself from everyone, and would not eat a thing, save for a glass of water here and then. My father was forty-five years old when he passed on, and he had been at the prime of his preaching sermons. His legacy, suddenly and brutally taken away from him, had left the people wondering on what was to happen to the church. But something strange was going to happen during this sad occurrence, and my mother told the Junior Pastor her fears. She said she felt that something else was coming, but she would not divulge any further. And during my father’s burial, when the coffin was being laid into the grave, my mother (who was heavily pregnant at that time) suddenly felt her muscles contracting with such a force that she almost fell into the grave.

 Nine hard and long hours later, she gave the final push, and when I felt the light slap from the nurse on my buttocks, I responded by giving out a loud cry as I let in the first breath of air into my small new lungs. I always have a recurring thought that the nurse might have looked at me, turned a bit pale, before presenting me to my mother.

             “Let me hold my child!” I'm told my mother managed to say, panting barely out of breath. She had looked at me, and I don’t remember her expression at all when she put me on her arms. For me, this was the grand entrance into a strange new world that I did not know. A lot was coming, and I would never be prepared for it…

One day, a few years after my father’s death, she told me that I was special, and then sent me to bath. And that was the last time I saw her. The woman who had been my mother for those few years had run away from me…

I’m still looking for Her, eighteen years later. I will never stop…

 

***

              “That is my story, Pastor.” I said, noticing the silence. Until now, I had always thought that my life story would make someone shed tears. But I realised that I had been lying to myself for all the sixteen years that had gone past me. The Pastor had shed none.

He only looked at me after I had finished telling him my long story. Then he smiled and said, “Don’t worry child, we will find your mother.”

***

 

BOOK TWO

Rule 1.1

He switched the cell phone on, and checked the time.

0445hrs…

Too early.

He switched it off again.

It was a cold June night outside, and the figure waiting in the hugging darkness wished he had brought a better jersey. But it was too late anyway, and besides, all that counted now was that he accomplished his mission tonight. He hugged himself, and rubbed his bitten hands together. The man that he was waiting for would be soon making his way home, and that brought a shed of warmth into his heart. He wanted to see how he was going to react the moment he saw him. It would be his pleasure to see that the man pain for everything he had done.

The minutes dragged on slowly, and the man in the darkness began to lose his patience. He leaned on the wall of the house and switched the cell phone on again.

0457hrs…

Very soon the moron would arrive from work. And he would be more than surmised to find someone he did not expect by the house yard. He checked the cell phone again, and in the glare of its shimmering LCD light, his face seemed to beam with a look of awkward countenance…

He switched it off again…

***

 

Rule 1.1

Rachel Adams shifted in her sleep. She had been having that bad dream again. She would be stuck in a deep well, and then she would see a beam of light coming towards her. As she would fly upwards from the well with it, a force would then drag her downward, and she would struggle and scream, until the golden light would subside, and then disappear completely. She woke up. She always woke up when she was falling back into the well.

 There was complete silence outside. She was not feeling sleepy, and so she checked her cell phone by the bedside. It glimmered back at her.

 0300hrs… the witching hour of the demons…

Rachel sank back into the comfortable bed, ruffled her hair and looked to her left. It was too early to wake up. Besides, what would she do if she woke up at this hour? The only sign that he had been there with her was his suit, which hung neatly on a coat hanger by the bedroom door. His side of the bed had not been slept on. Her husband had always had a thing about neatness, and it did not sink in well with her. After ten minutes, she brushed the sheets from her body, went into the kitchen, and headed straight into the fridge. The bottle of beer was still there. She took it out, and then let the smooth liquid float down her throat. Jacob would never have allowed her to drink, but who cared now? The man had died in his sleep some many years ago. And besides, she was no longer anyone’s baby. She had become a woman now. If only he could see how she had grown. Rachel knew that her father would be pleased with what she had done with her life. He would be pleased, except for the beer part, which she was trying to quit. At forty-seven, she owned a house, was married to a man she loved, and was expecting a miracle baby in the next few months to come. This would be her third child. A feeling of guilt crossed her face. Fourth child. She brushed it aside. There was also the salon that was running smoothly for her. Rachel smiled at herself, and let another swig run down her throat again. Wherever he was, he should have called him by then.

She picked up the cordless phone and dialed his number. There was the rude pre-recorded woman speaking in the earpiece again:

The number you dialed is currently not in service, please try again later…

***

Rule 1.3

Day Four...Wednesday

The coffee mug felt too hot. Mbali closed his hands around it, trying to warm his cold hands.

Cecilia…

The dead woman kept on appearing in his mind, and no matter how hard he tried to brush away her smile, it always came back. Like the dream he always had about her. Her hair would be flowing in the summer wind, and she would put her hands on his cheeks, and kiss him slowly.

Cecilia…what happened to you?

And why me? He asked himself. Why me?

            “Because she liked you, and you liked her back. And now you want to deny it, since she’s dead. A voice said. “Be a man and face the cold hard truth.” Mbali whirled, and looked up into the air. There was only the white ceiling.

He whirled again. “But we were just friends.” He said.

            “Come on! Be honest with yourself.” The voice replied. “I think you were more than just friends.”

Mbali remained staring at the roof. He removed his hands from the warm mug. “We just had a few drinks only, nothing else.”

            “Is that so?” the voice asked. “Only a few drinks? Then how come you’re feeling guilty over it? How come you’re feeling bitter that you won’t be able to see her again? How come you still have that dream? You think you caused it? Do you think that you caused her death?”

Mbali shook his head angrily. He needed a cold beer. “Do you think you caused it?” The voice pressed.

            “No! I did not!” he shouted. “You just want to turn a good thing bad. She was just a good friend!”

            “Then why the guilt? If she was a friend, as you say, then why the guilt, Mbali? I can see it all over your face. If you’re not careful, she will see it also. And they will see the guilt also.”

            “Who are they?”

            “You know of whom I speak. Tell me. Was it a good thing going out with someone’s wife?”

            “How was I supposed to know? You tell me, how the hell was I supposed to know? She only told me a month ago that she was married. And he was not treating her in a good way.”

            “And you did? Or maybe you thought you could. Yet you were also not treating her well. You know whom I mean. You could have asked her. She asked you, didn’t she?

Mbali clutched the mug tightly, and looked at the ring on his finger. He opened his drawer and took out a pair of Aspirins and gobbled them down his throat hungrily. “She saw the ring in your finger, didn’t she?” the voice taunted.

            “What do you want from me? Who are you?” he shouted angrily. He took out a photo from his pockets and studied it. She was smiling at him, her blond hair flowing behind her ears. He put it back into his pocket and gritted his teeth. That was not the same woman he had seen lying on that cold hard floor. That was not the woman he had seen smile at him. That was not the same woman…

            “I just want you to tell the truth. Did you love her?” the voice went on.

            “Look, I’m a married man.” He said. “We were just good friends. Cecilia and me. We had the same interests.”

            “So now she has a name, I see. Cecilia. Did you love her?”

Mbali tapped his fingers on the mahogany desk. “I liked her.”

            “Liked her? Did you want to sleep with her? You wanted to, didn’t you? I’ve seen the dream. I know she was always on your dreams, wasn’t she? Where she kisses you, and you are holding hands.”

Mbali smiled. “My wife would never have allowed me to do it. We share holy vows with the Lord.” The voice became silent silent. Mbali took another Aspirin and chewed it slowly. It was bitter. He needed a cold beer. He looked at the photograph of the smiling woman on his desk. She had her arms around his shoulders, and he was smiling and happy. It had been a long time since he had felt happy at all. A long time go he used to be happy…

            “You now wish that she was like her.” The voice asked. “You wish that she could go out with you often. You wish she could smile like she does? That she can allow you to speak you mind? Do things. Things she wouldn’t even allow you to even think about.”

 Mbali nodded, and then quickly shook his head. “Yes. No… Don’t put ideas into my head.” He said.

             “You are doing it to yourself.” The voice said. “I’m only asking questions, and the question on your head now is whether she will take you back, since you think she has boundaries. You’re feeling guilty being with her. You think she will see through your sins.”

 He did not reply. He felt angry; he wanted to shout at someone. He wanted a drink. He wanted to get out of the office, find a cave. Hide in it. Scream at the heavens. He felt like driving his car at a great speed and crashing it somewhere. He stood up. There was a knock at the door.

             “Don’t do it, Mbali.” The voice said. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s not your fault. You’ll get over it soon. It’s just for this day.” Detective Mbali approached the door, ignoring the voice. Before pulling it open, he asked.

             “How do you know so much about me? Who are you?”

 There was silence. Then he heard the answer in his head. “Because I am you Mbali. I am you, and I am within you.”

 Mbali stared at the door, confused. Then he said slowly, “Come in.”

 

***

 Rule 1.4

Someone once told me that if we all live for the day, never thinking what the next day would bring us, then we would all be happy. Free. Like the birds, he said. He said it would be like, in essence, living from hand to mouth. We could dine with a king one day, and sleep under a bridge the next day. The thing was to make sure that you could live just for another day. But that always brings problems, he warned. For we are human in skin, and we strive to survive with more than we could ever need. There has been this idea, and it is still waning in our minds. The strongest survive, we are constantly told. Each man for himself, the people preach everyday, and that sad mentality has engraved itself so deep within our skulls, and it has sutured us. And humans are greedy beings, he said.

I am lucky I can read, although to a certain extent. I have trouble with some of the big words though, but I can make sense out of every story in the newspaper. Today I read in a newspaper a story about a coloured woman who was raped, then throttled to death. Her name was Cecilia, the paper says. I think it is a coincidence that she has that name. She is the third woman to die in less than two weeks, the paper also says. The detective there paper says they are still hot on the heels of the assailant, and the man responsible will be brought to book. I think he is lying to himself. Besides, why is it that they think it is the men only who can do all these things? Last week a woman hacked her husband on the neck, and they called it domestic violence, not murder. Two weeks ago, a young woman was caught red-handed by a security guard dumping a foetus in a bin, and the police said she had been forced by circumstances. A small boy who was sexually abused by her sister in our neighbourhood a month ago, and what was the charge? He asked for it, they said. They just don’t want to call the spade the spade. That woman who dumped her child is still a murderer. That woman is still as evil as the man who killed Cecilia. You cannot calibrate a sin. A man who has killed one woman cannot say he is better than the one who kills ten. There is no greater sin.

 There is another one in the paper again today, next to Cecilia’s. She ran away from her child of two months old. This one makes me sick…

The woman by the Department of Home Affairs gave me a strange look when I told her that I was looking for my mother. She asked me for her name, and I bit my lip. It felt embarrassing to know that I had forgotten the name of the only woman who brought me to this earth. There was a woman getting a birth certificate for the baby behind her back beside me. The irony was too cold, and I drowned in it up to my neck.

            “Your name?” The woman asks me. She is chewing gum and is looks forty years old. My mother should be younger. And definitely more beautiful. I have seen her in my dreams, smiling at me. I still have the photograph she gave me. I give her my name.

            “And do you have a surname?”

            “My father’s?”

            “The one in your birth certificate.” The woman responds.

I look at her for a while. Then I say, “I don’t have a birth certificate, ma’am. My mother, I think she has it.”

            “Surname?” she continues. I tell her. And she types on her keyboard, and then sighs. “Sorry, can’t help you. Do you have a photo of her?”

 I nod. Things are looking better. There is still a glimmer of hope at the tunnel end.

The Home Affairs woman gawks at the woman on the parched piece of glossy paper, then at me for a second. She says, “Try the papers.” I stare at her. Is this how she earns her money at the end of the month? It is her job to reply so insensitively? I ask what she means by the ‘papers’.

            “Try putting an advert in the newspaper, see? Try the ‘looking for someone’ or ‘lost child’ column.” She explains dutifully. I turn my back on her and leave, feeling very insulted. I am not a lost child. I have a mother, and I think she too is looking for me as I speak. Besides, I don’t know how much money I have spent on these papers. All they want is your money. They are like power hungry mosquitoes, ready to suck the blood out of you. All they ever seem to want is your money…

As I am leaving the building, I meet this little girl. She says she is lost. “I’m looking for my mother. I can’t find her. She was in the building with me.” Tears are chasing each other down her small face. I look at the child and smile.

            “Don’t worry. I know where your mother is.” I tell her. “She was looking for you inside the building as well.” I take her hand, and then make my way back into the Home Affairs building. The mother screams with joy as I give her back her child. She thanks me. I nod my head, and prepare to leave. The woman behind the counter, still chewing her gum makes a sign for me to come over to her. When I get there, she smiles and then whispers,

            “Good luck. I hope you will find whoever you’re looking for.”

I nod my head gravely, and then turn my back. As I leave, the mother and the little girl are still rejoicing. She nods at me. I nod back. I take the picture out of my pocket and stare at it. The woman in the parched paper looks at me back.

 I will never stop looking for you, Mother…

***

 

BOOK THREE 

Rule 3.1

Silas  was sitting at the center of the room, on a metal chair placed close to a blank table. The detective was standing. Silas looked too calm, and Mbali did not like it. So far, all he had managed to get was his name, age and a little background. This was not good at all. The Chief was not going to be impressed with him. Silas had been brought up in a tough environment, had an abusive father. He was now a top-notch businessman and had many connections. His life story was now numbers.

 Profile: Silas Mpofu. Age, forty-one. Two cars. One house. Six figure salary. Two dogs, and one wife. A typical hero from zero. Quite a hot shot…

 Silas smiled at the detective. He was enjoying the whole show. This one had to be on the road. It would make some money. The detective who had asked for him to come to the station looked lost for words. He was sure that he could see beads of sweat circling around his neck. Why they wanted him in the station was still a mystery. He wanted to know how his father had died, and that was how they were treating him? The detective cleared his throat.

             “Are you Silas Mpofu?”

 Silas nodded slowly, a smile plastered on his dry lips. The detective coughed slightly. “I am recording the conversation. So for the record, I will need you to answer my questions, sir. Loud and clear, for the record.”

Silas smiled again, and scratched his neck. “Yes, sir.” He said. “So can I light a cigarette?”

The detective sneered, and shook his head and then pointed to an old sign on the door. He looked at him, waiting for an objection. Silas gave him none. The detective nodded.

                 “Good, now that we are clear about that.” He said. “So, Mr. Silas Mpofu, where and what were you up on the 9^th of September? Between 0300hrs and 0500hrs?” he asked.

 Silas looked at his blank face. “Do you know where you were at exactly 0316hrs the same day?”

Mbali nodded. “Actually, I do Silas. I was by my bed, having a nice dream. Let me make this clear to you this moment. I ask the questions, you answer them, right?” He said.

 Silas said. “If that’s what you want. I was by my bed also, having sex with my wife.” Then he looked at Mbali. “Are you sure I can’t have a smoke here?”

           “Would you happen to have an alibi, persons who can agree with you that you were where you are saying you where at the time in question?”There was a long biting silence. Mbali wanted a drink and a cigarette. But he could not be won over by the bastard in front of him. So he played along with the game. Silas, on the other hand was staring at the roof. He looked at Mbali. “Because if something has happened, I need to know right now. I have been away on business for the past week. So am I under arrest, detective?”

Mbali smiled thinly. “You would, I assure you, not be here, in this nice cosy room, if you were under arrest.”

***

 Day Four…Thursday

One hour later…

 

Silas had kept his cool for the better part of the interrogation. He squinted his eyes. “How long has it been since you visited your father?”

             “I have no father.” Silas replied. Mbali saw the pain as he replied.

             “And, who is the man at the mortuary? I presume you had relations with him.” went on Mbali. Silas did not look at him. He was lost in a world of his own. Mbali asked again. “Did you, or did you not have relations with the dead man, Moses Mpofu?”

             “That man was not my father.”

             “Are you angry that he is dead? That you killed him?” said Mbali deeply. He knew he was not supposed to have asked the question. But Silas did not flinch. He only looked at the roof.

             “I asked you to get my wife here.” He said after a while. “And I need my lawyer.”

 Mbali smiled. “Make sure he’s a good one. Their mistakes will usually lead you to jail. Name?” he asked.

 Silas stared at him. “Ask her to call a Mr. Thatcher. She knows him.”

             “And what’s the name of your wife?”

             “Rachel.” Silas said. “Her name is Rachel Adams.”

***

 Rule 3.2

The sound of approaching footsteps woke him up. He stirred in his sleep. He had been having a funny dream but he could not remember the details. It took him just a few seconds to be reminded of where he was. There was the howling wind outside, and it was penetrating deep into his ears. He rose from the ground. The footsteps were becoming louder. It would have to be him. This was the time that they had told him that he came from work. This was going to be his time. Everything else was going to have to wait.

He listened closely.

Yes, there were footsteps for sure. Light, weary and slow footsteps. They were definitely a man’s footsteps, and they were headed for this house. He leaned even more closer to the wall, an ecstasy of hatred climbing up his veins. The gate opened slowly, and a small, almost hunch-backed man entered, whistling a light tune. He was carrying a plastic bag. The man in the darkness stared at the hunched figure, and his fists curled into a tight ball. This was the same man who had tormented him all throughout his life. Today he was going to confront him.

He listened carefully as the key in the door rattled, and then jumped out of the darkness and grabbed the arm of the man. The man squealed slightly, but he was too fast, and the gun was on the man’s neck. “Make a sound, and you’re dead!” he hissed, forcing him inside.

They got inside, with the gun still on his hand. He switched on the light, and the small room flooded with light. There was barely anything in the room. A single bed, and a Primus stove were parked along one of the walls. The old remained quiet. The pain in arm was becoming unbearable. “Who are you? What have I done to you?” he asked. There was a tremor in his voice.

Silas faced him and smiled weakly. “I am the son you would not have, father.” He said. “And I have come to get some answers from you.”

***

 

Rule 3.3

Rachel looked at herself in the mirror. She was still as beautiful as ever. Well, except for the missing middle finger on her right hand. She liked to think that it cemented her love to him. Quite a catch, her husband would tell her every time he saw her. She smiled at herself and turned away. Her cell phone vibrated on the sink. She smiled again. It had to be him, calling to tell her how it had all gone. But the LCD was flashing another name. She smiled also, and did not answer. Let him call me so I can see his interest. She looked at the mirror, and squeezed a small blackhead on her face.

 

Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who’s the most beautiful of all…?

Five minutes later, the cell phone shrilled again. “I thought you’d never call.” She said, picking it up.

            “I had some business to care of.” Silas replied in an irate tone. “Did anyone call for me?”

            “The usual. Says you must come to see him today. You haven’t told me what that is all about.” She said.

            “In due time. Listen, can you call the guy. Tell him I’m away at the moment, but I will most definitely see him first thing tomorrow.” He said, and then hung up. Rachel smirked slowly, and then looked at the cell phone, which she put on the pocket of her gown. Silas was acting shady these few last days. All he had been talking about now was his father, how he wanted to find him, and discuss things. She was not sure that this was his intention. He was a rough man, and even she had failed to tame him. Calm and collected, the next second Silas could cut off a man’s head, and put it in a tub and proceed to smoke his cigarette like nothing had happened. Once, when one of his businesses had gone awfully bad, she had experienced his wrath firsthand. He had come to the bedroom looking really pissed of. And then he had demanded sex from her, and when she had refused, he had cut off one of her fingers with a guillotine and left it hanging by its skin. Then he had gone out of the house and driven off. Rachel had slapped marriage papers into his face, and divorced him the next day when he came to her clinic ward. Two weeks in jail later, having bribed someone in the courts, he had come to her house, pleading like a hungry puppy. And she had let him in, and that night they had made passionate love like never before.

Rachel got out of her gown, and into a warm bubbly bath. After, she put on an immaculate suit and prepared herself a lonely breakfast. The phone rang just as she was preparing to leave. It was Silas, and he sounded quite happy.

            “Honey, it’s done.” He announced in a pleased tone. Rachel smiled at the receiver. Theirs was an unending love. It was a case of the dog and the cat. Irreconcilable differences. Unending romance.

Bonnie and Clyde…

***

Rule 3.4

They say I should see someone at the police station.

I go there at the crack of dawn on the very next day, and I find that already, a considerable number of people are waiting in the queue. There is a detective there, and I have been telling him my whole story. He seems interested, and says he might help me. last week I was there with him. He says they’ll catch him soon, and then find the woman that I’m looking for. Meanwhile, I'm at the station. An old woman, with an old blanket wrapped around her ailing body is asleep on one of the benches. There is a distilled stench of urine around her. A group of police officers laugh at her huddled figure as they pass by her. One, who looks to be around my age says, “Looks like the old hag can’t get enough of me. She’s visiting me every night for it these days!” His colleagues laugh at the sick joke, and then they are gone, and the old woman mumbles something in her sleep. I think maybe she is dreaming about the days of her youth, when everything was fair and fine and then sun was bright and beautiful. Or maybe she is dreaming about her lost children, or about the last time she ate anything sweet in her mouth. I think she must have had a better life than this one. There is always that choice in our life. But fate can choose the wrong road for you once in a while, and you will stumble on it like a blinkered man, until you realise too late that you could have got the golden cup had you just turned to the right path. There is a middle-aged woman carrying a blue bucket who is sweeping the floor with a wet broom. I ask her about the old woman. She tells me the whole story. She was found raped two months ago, barely alive, by a couple of street kids on a dark corner one stormy night, she says. And there had been no one who has come to claim for her. The word claim stings me in the stomach like a strong poison without an antidote. I belch at the cleaner’s choice of words. She, the old woman, I want to tell her, is not some piece of disposable goods to be claimed. I want to tell her, but I cannot. The old woman does not belong to a small claims court. She is as human as all of us. Se had feeling and emotions. The middle-aged woman continues, quite unaware of the quiet war of feelings battling on my mind. She says the Police used to put her up in a cell because she would scream at night, and tear off all her clothes. One night she removed all her clothes and they found her freezing to death the next day. Ever since that night, she ceased to talk. I shudder at the tale, and then look at her.

            “How about now?” I ask.

The woman shakes her head. “She has been quiet in these last past days, but has not eaten or done a thing for a whole week now, save for the powdery stuff that she inhales once every hour.”

I turn my back and stare at the old woman as she awakes from her sleep. That powdery stuff is the only thing that connects her with her ancestors. She wants to get back to them, and no one is realising it. The old woman looks like a tormented ghost that has been rudely interrupted from its peaceful sleep. She smiles at me. I smile back. For a moment, I wonder where all her children might be. Here she is, abandoned at the mercy of the world, with all her children having deserted her. For that split second, I realise that we share the same plight. My story is hers turned inside out.

 The policeman by the counter whistles at me, and shouts, “Next! I haven’t got all day, especially for the peanuts they pay us here woman!” I move closer, a smile ever on my face. It is the only weapon that I have. But then turn to look at the old woman before I tell the angry policeman my story. She is still smiling at me, and the powdery stuff is on her hands. For a second, I feel the feeble light in her eyes sparkle onto mine. Then just like that, the sparkle is gone.

Her eyes were telling me something. I can always tell when someone does it. The problem is that I saw it too late.

I like to think that she was saying, “Don’t worry, my child. Everything is going to be alright….”

 

***

 

BOOK FOUR

Rule 2.1

Day Two...Monday

They were sitting in a dark corner, the two of them, laughing at a joke that she had just told him. “This blonde, you see,” she was saying, “She borrows this thick book from the library and returns with it two weeks later. She is screaming, swearing and all, to the librarian at the counter, saying the book is the worst she has ever read. “It’s got no plot, it’s too long and It’s got far too many characters!” she says. So this librarian looks at her and then checks out the thick book the blond is complaining about. She shakes her head and says, “So you’re the one who took out the Telephone Directory.”

He did not get the joke, but he laughed with her nevertheless. She was a good woman to be with. She made him laugh, and that was all he needed. That was all that a man needed when he was with his wife.

He looked at her round eyes, quite lost for words. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re beautiful when you laugh?” he asked.

She smiled like a cat, and then rolled her eyes. “Actually, yes. You’re not the first guy I have gone out with.”

He swallowed slightly, but made sure she did not see it. The woman was blatantly arrogant. She could be sweet and then the next second would be rude and could be vague and vulgar like a sour spice, but he liked her the more she did it. She was like a chameleon, changing colour at her disposal. “Are you always this nasty?” he asked “Or is it me who’s pushing you into it?”

            “What d’you think?” Her eyes were rolling again, and he was gazing into them more often than his beer mug. The laughter in them was far too conspicuous. She shrugged, and sent her hand into her long hair.

            “Well, how would I know? I think you’re faking it. Playing hard to get.”

The woman smiled, and then took a thrilled swig from her mug. After gushing effervescently, she looked at him. “Don’t think. Be sure of yourself. In that way you’ll always know which step not to take. I like that in a man.”

            “So you like me then?” her asked.

            “You’re the one who’s saying it. I didn’t say it.” There was a twinkle in her eyes.

 He put on a plastic smile. This woman, he reckoned, was reading each and every one of his thoughts. It was like the moment he wanted to say something; she would have already known what he would say. He looked at her. She was just there, staring into him, the smoking cigarette on her left hand. He opened his mouth to say something, but again, she got there first, and said, “The question haunting you now, if that the right word, is why would a woman be here with me, spilling out her life’s oddities. Isn’t it?”

He smiled. She was good. In all his years at the police force, he swore that if he had to interrogate a woman like her, he wouldn’t get far. “Maybe I’m being haunted, if that’s the right word. Or maybe I’m not.” He put it simply.

            “Cleverly put. Well, so as to clear the dust, which to me is not apparent...” She was talking in a fast manner, and he could hardly make a nine or six of what she was saying. But he got the last part. She seemed to be concluding and saying, “I’m not a racial person, and I have been… I mean I’m married to a black man.”

He looked at her. This was always the boring part. When she began to mention him. He would start getting the idea that he was not supposed to be here with her; she was supposed to be with him. The other guy somewhere in a dark lonely room. And he was supposed to be with his wife. She was a hard one, this woman. He whistled for the woman wearing a skimpy tight leather outfit that was showing her big breast rather too much, to get to their table. Then he ordered two more beers. “To celebrate our first meeting.” He said with a wide smile.

The woman nodded, her face hidden behind thick curtain of cigarette smoke.

He had met her one crowded Friday night. The moment he had entered the club, it was as if the whole place had had its lights switched off, and there, under a bluish halo of a halogen light, she appeared. A beautiful golden angel, alone, sitting at a dark corner, lost, cold and afraid. For him, the music that had been playing had stopped dead in its tracks, and all he could see and hear was her, under that pool of light, downing bottle of beer after bottle of beer. Her glossy eyes were telling all her story. He removed the tie on his neck, and calculating, approached silently, and sat close to her. Smiling she had put up her head, and wiped the tears off her eyes. She had been crying for hours, he thought. He had looked at her, and then had said, “I’m Detective Joseph Mbali. How may I be of service, ma’am?”

She smiled wistfully, and he noticed the red bandage on her right finger. “Everything ok?” he asked.

Ten minutes later, the two were chatting like a flock of migrating birds. Like they had known each other for years. And she had told him about how cruel he was, and how dangerously close to death her life now was. She showed him the severed finger, and told him about how she could not put her ring there anymore. “Good for him anyway!” she said during the course of her story. After, he looked at the time, and said. “It’s getting late, I think we got to be going now. They’ll be closing the place pretty soon.”

And they got out, and he made sure she got into her car. “Same place, tomorrow?” she asked dreamily, her thick eyelashes dancing on her face.

            “Same place tomorrow.” He had replied. And just like that, she was off. And he had no name. No address. No number. Nothing. Just her face, and her smile. He shouted after her. “Are you sure you can drive?”

She nodded.

He looked at her face, paused for a few seconds and then said. “So what do I call you?”

            “You call me Rachel-Cecilia Adams.” She answered drunkenly, before disappearing behind a corner and into the dark cold night. She was too drunk.

He got into his car, and decided to follow her.

***

Rule 2.2

It was a small room.

There was a single light bulb handing form an electric cord that snaked along somewhere along the roof’s beam. He studied the room for a while, remembering the days in the cell, when he had spent those harrowing fourteen days there. But this seemed worse. Therewas a plastic patch for a window. A wire for a key at the door…

He looked at the eyes of the frightened man. The years had long worn him out and he was not the same man that he had run away from all those twenty years ago. This was it, the ultimate time that he had been waiting for all his entire life. The man in front of his eyes was the reason why he had become what he had become in life. This man here was the reason why he had run away and told himself that he was going to be better than anyone else in the world. This man here was the inspiration that was still driving, haunting him on up to know.

The small man looked up at him, his frame crackling with obvious fear. “Do you remember me, father?” Silas asked, a fire in his eyes. The word ‘father’ had a ring to it. It was strange. All those year had passed like a wind, and he could only to use the word ‘father’ now…

            “Do you think I can forget any son of mine?” he heard him reply. There was a tone of mockery in the voice. Silas wanted the man to know that he was going to be asking the questions, and not the other way round. He cocked the gun, and made sure the man heard the bullet slide into its chamber. This accomplished, and understood, he began. “All I want to know is why, father? Why?”

The old man remained sullen. There was no hint of remorse in his eyes, only a tight lump on his throat. He was sure that if the man was not careful, he would choke on it. He cleared his throat. “Why, father?”

The old man looked at the roof, and then into the eyes of his son. Then he told him the whole story…

It had been a stormy night, and the season of rain had taken its time to go away. He had been from work, when he found the door of his house wide open. Thinking that an intruder had broken in, since his wife had told him she was going to see a doctor, he had picked up an axe, and entered cautiously. There was a noise, and it was coming from the bedroom.

The man stopped, and looked at Silas. “What happened then?” Silas asked.

He continued.

The sound increased as he got nearer to it, and with a fury, he had opened the door, and then stood rooted to the same spot, the axe clattering on the floor. There, in front of him, two figures were wriggling about on the bed…

Silas remained quiet. He could only see the pain etching the man’s face. “Who was it?” who was it on the bed?” He asked.

His father remained quiet.

            “I will tell you the story. I know you have always wanted to know why I behave the way I do. Today, you will go back knowing that every dream you ever thought was not real, has in fact been real. It’s just taken enough time for you to grasp the truth. You know why you are here, only that one part of you wants me to tell you something that you want to hear, and yet the other part forbids you. You wanted to know it, didn’t you?”

Silas nodded, quite unsure of himself. He coughed slightly. “Yes, father. Continue…”

            “Do you want to know?” the old man asked again.

Silas nodded. His nerves were stretching now. Like iron wires…

The man looked at him. “Are you sure?”

Silas nodded. The gun was on the floor. He wanted to pick it up. “Speak, old man.” He said.

               “I’m not your father.” The old man said.

***

Rule 2.3

Day Five…Friday

 

Mbali looked at the child in front of him. She was standing by the office door, looking all lost and confused. He smiled at her. She reminded him of the child that he had never had in his life. He ushered her in, and then told her to sit on one of the uncomfortable metal chairs lying adjacent to his untidy desk.

            “How do I help you, little girl?” he asked.

The child shifted on the chair, her eyes looking unsure of themselves. Mbali’s sharp eyes caught her in the act of fidgeting with her hands. “How may I be of assistance?” he repeated.

She looked back at him, unsure of whether to tell him or not. It had started happening again, and this time she wanted it to end. “He came to my room yesterday.” She said.

Mbali remained silent, but only for a while. He was digesting her words carefully. “And you did what I told you to do?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I couldn’t. He threatened me with my life.”

            “But did you use the recorder? The one that I gave you?”

She shook her head. “I was too afraid. He says he has to get rid of the demons in me. He says that if he doesn’t, my life will never be clean. He says they’ll taunt me forever.”

Detective Mbali remained quiet. This was the case that he wanted to solve. But he could not help feel that she deserved what she was getting from him. Women were strange. They did things they way they wanted them to be done. But if you came up with an idea, they rebuked it, and called you a patriarch; a man who wanted things to run they way he wanted. He studied the figure of the huddled child. What was going through her mind right now?

            “What must I do next?” she asked, dissecting his imminent thoughts.

            “Wait.” He said.

            “Until he comes again?”

            “Yes, until he comes again.” Mbali said.

The girl looked unsettled for a few seconds. Then she got hold of herself. “Any news about my mother?” she suddenly asked. There was a quiver in her small voice.

Mbali’s face turned into a serious stern. “Yes.” He said. “We have found your mother.”

 

***

   

Rule 2.4

Last night he came to my room again. Then he got on top of me, and we made hot passionate love. I have never felt like this before. It’s as if I am just discovering a part of my body I have always had, but never known. I have been to hot valleys and come back, only to find him close to me, and smiling. The smell of his body, his sweat and muscles of his arms are always on my mind when he is not there. This is the second time this week that I have indulged myself into this new kind of sin, since our first meeting. He has made me feel special. But last night, I felt a lump grow on my throat, and realised that I must not be doing this. As he lay on top of me, grunting, I suddenly lost all feelings, and told him to stop. But he refused, and went deeper, and I felt pained and used. This is the second time that I have told him to stop, but each time he continues to hurt me, and I scream a silent scream to myself. The strangely good feeling that I have felt is not there any more. It’s like it has gone and departed forever, and left me in a soiled void. Of late, I have been scrubbing myself harder than usual, because I want to make sure that his smell is not sticking to my body. But this does not surprise me because I have told him that it must stop. The only problem is that he does not want. But last night, after he had warned me not to tell anyone, and that I might lose the room I am using if I mention our ‘secret’, I resolved to disobey him. This must come to a stop.

So tomorrow, first thing, I am going to report at the police station…

***

 

BOOK FIVE

Rule 3.1

Get what you want, no matter the risks…

The pastor was a huge man. Almost a giant. He had been successful throughout his entire life, and he believed that his motto, Get what you want, no matter the risks was the only thing that had led him to where he was now. He had two beautiful sixteen-year-old girls, and they were the ones who kept him going. His wife had cheated on him when they were still inside her stomach and he had vowed that she would never hold their hands when they were born. But she had done so, and then later died in an unclear car accident three days later. Then from there onwards, life for him had never been the same again. It was pure bliss. He had no woman challenging his decisions. He had no woman complaining about money. He had no woman ransacking his wallet every now and then. Life was good since her departure, and he intended to keep it that way.

He looked at the photograph of his two beautiful angels. He had vowed that he would never let anything harm them. For them, he would get to the bottom of hell if he had to. Just for them. 

There was a knock at the door. It had to be her. Feeling a tingle of strange excitement drawing up his veins, the pastor stood up, and positioned the collar on his neck. “Come in!” He almost shouted.

She entered slowly, shadow first, like an afraid ghost on its first night of haunting someone with whom it had a grudge. In full view, she was pale, all throughout her body.

An albino.

He smiled, and then told her to close the door behind her. “No one saw you coming?” The smile was still confined to his lips. The albino woman shook her head.

            “Good, then sit down.” He said, showing her a small wooden chair in front of his mahogany desk with his outstretched arm. “I’m Pastor Michael, Michael Nyongo.”

She nodded contemptuously, and her whole body followed the movement of her head. “I know, sir.” She replied, and was about to say her name but the Pastor nodded silently.

            “I know your name.” He said. “Cecilia, I know everyone who comes to my church.”

Her voice hardly reached his ears when she said; “I make sure that I always come to the church every Sunday. I believe that one day all our prayers will be answered.”

            “And so they will, my child.” The Pastor concluded her statement. “It is good that you attend church. The End of Days are near, my child. Many who seek His kingdom at the eleventh hour succumb a minute before that hour. That is the horrific truth. How may I help you?”

Cecilia sniffed, and her small head looked at the roof of the Pastor’s office. She did not know how to tell him. Would she start with the story of her father? How he had been a great man and all? She had to start from somewhere, and her father seemed to be the best part;

            “Pastor Michael, It’s been sixteen very long years since I last saw her with my own eyes…I will tell you everything.”

 As she told him her sad life story, he listened. But his mind was already soaring somewhere else.

 

Get what you want, no matter the risks…

 

***

 Rule 3.2

Silas put the gun down. He was in his bedroom, and his head was whirring like a spinning top. How had all things come to this? How had he let circumstances rule his life? Why had he done all he had done? Why was his perfect life suddenly turning into a dark and empty cul-de-sac? He removed his sweaty shirt, having no redeemable answer for all his questions. And then he had a very long hot bath.

Ten minutes later, he had jumped out of the tub, feeling very refreshed. Next, he went to the fridge, and opened himself a can of beer, and sloshed it down his dry throat. In the bedroom, Rachel was still sound asleep. She must have just come from Visionaries Nightclub. He entered the bedroom quietly, almost tiptoeing. She had heard him.

            “All went well?” she said sleepily, part of her blond hair glinting from the satin sheets. He could see the outline of her breasts, heaving up and down.

            “Yes.” He lied through his teeth.

            “So the man won’t be bothering us again, I hope?” Rachel said, turning such that she faced him as he slid onto the warm sheets. Her breath had a slight whiff of alcohol. He nodded, and then held her warm body to his.

            “He will not be bothering me again.” He said, and then stared at the square tiles of the ceiling.

Rachel smiled behind the sheets. Silas must have been feeling free at last. He had confronted his worst fears, and yet here he was, still managing to breathe and talk with her. “So he confessed that he left you and your mother for dead when you were young?”

Silas nodded. The guilt rose up his spine like a thirsty succulent potometer sucking up a bowl of water. This woman would never understand him now if he told her the whole truth. His life, she believed, had been a spate of mistakes because of the father that had brought him up. She based all the difficult yardsticks that he had overcome in his life on his father. He had made her believe that all he had earned now simply resembled the shadow of the man who had brought him up. She based his temper on him. His obsessive drinking with him. His nature, his whole being – with him. But now all this would change if he told her the real truth. All the ideologies about his character would shrivel away like an orange peel if she got to find out the cold truth. Silas swallowed alone, tasting the bitterness of the truth for the first time. Truth hurts, and he knew why now.

            “He confessed.” He lied, looking at her big eyes. “He confessed and said he was sorry for the things that have shaped my character up to now.”

Then he rolled over and fell into a deep, winding, dark and dreamless sleep…

 

***

(To be continued...)

(November 2009)

Mbonisi P. Ncube©