(Reasonable Doubt)

No one ever thought that her story would be this big. (Chuckles) It’s crazy. I know and I don’t mean to demean her in anyway, but it was that kind of a story that could bore you to death. It was that kind that the editor could easily fold then use it to scrap the surface of his testicles before making it to print because it made no sense. But who knew, that her story would one day be written in books, translated into many languages, made into films and composed into songs; That her story would grow wings, and that someday we would use her story as a mirror to reflect upon ourselves? (Inhales deeply) It’s so funny how comical life is. One day you meet one of your exes along a lonely street then end up banging each other on the wall for no apparent reason. Forgetting all the hurt you went through and the tears you broke for. Or simply because she shows you a piece of her thighs and the clavicle of her breast you get to flaunt your dick in her mouth. You are a fool. I’d never do that. I’d never cheat on a character, but some people have the audacity of feasting from the same plate that a dog had already licked.

There’s nothing as strong as memories that lies fresh, Everytime you breathe it’s like black smoke sipping its way into your nostrils. We could always sit and talk about our future plans and ambitions. She had none. We talked of our kids. She had none. But our kids called her Aunty. We talked of our husbands what they did right and wrong. She never opened her mouth to speak about hers. Instead, she sat flimsily on the couch, with a mug of coffee between her hands, wising away time, she was sobbing softly, not that we could hear her, but it was enough to tell that she was. She was shaking, then in one tingling the mug fell off her grip and broke on the floor. We turned around and as our eyes met, we saw the tears that were lined on her cheeks, she stood up and raced to the washroom. We never did ask why. We never really wanted to know, because “yeye anakuwanga hivyo”. So we let her be. And that was the last we ever saw of her, except me.

Plenty of mysteries revolved around her and no one bothered to find out. Her story begun so whimsically like a joke that she has always been her entire life. I do not hate her as much as I ought to, maybe the little hate or love I might have it’s because we shared something in common, or she was not strong enough to stand for herself but had the bravety to let what was mine rise to her occasion. It begun with a subtle touch from a man that with time grew into something more brutal. That in the end, we see a woman who was so desperately in need of affection; a woman who wanted to know how it felt like to fall into another woman’s embrace and feel secure. A woman who struggled with acceptance in a world that never gave her a choice. Her world, however small was confined to a house with a broken stool, broken bottles, a man that crossed his legs on a couch smoking cheap cigarettes as the curly thread of smokes rose up the ceiling; it had good food that was barely touched, and then there was her, sobbing on the far end of the couch. Her eyes never met any woman’s eye’s even though she wanted to break free. She always sat in silence.

There is much that silence can conceal, you’d be surprised that it works better than a secured vault. It was so unpredictable. Even though it was my mistake as well. The scary part is that it happened right in my bedroom under my nose in plain sight. Each night I have to sleep pretending that she never existed. Because if she did I could take a pen knife and curve her breast out. On weekends we could always have women’s conference in my house; especially on Sundays when my husband had gone out with the kids and she could always attend. She spoke less and more often kept to herself. She had an eye for details and as we cooked in the kitchen, she cooked better than most of us. And sometimes we made a joke about it, saying our own husband’s won’t eat her food lest they fell in love with the taste. Her face often had blue black marks that she often, though briefly said that were as a result of bleaching gone wrong. It was a lie. We knew that. I knew that. But we never bothered to ask more because, “yeye anakuwanga tu hivyo.”

She led a different form of life that no one deserved. Not in this era. Or maybe we were lucky to have been born in the other side of town where things were beautiful and glamorous. She came from that era that when you were 9 years old and signs of your breasts were blossoming, they could be susceptible to touch. Of course she was touched inappropriately. She was always touched, sometimes with the wrong people; those that ought to protect her. Forcefully. This marked series of events that made her endure folornity and obscenity. More often, once or twice maybe, she had to remove pieces of her from her womb due to unavoidable circumstances, that in the end she got a husband that she couldn’t bore kids for. The man touched her alright. His touch were sweet and beautiful, just before he rolled his fingers into a ball of fists and hit her cheeks, tearing her lips. His touch were sweet and beautiful, just before he took the burning end of his cigarette and put it off on her neck leaving her nape barbecued. She screamed. We couldn’t help her because they said that he was her husband, it was just a tough love.

Amidst the conversation I had to get up, pick up the broken pieces of the mug and throw them to the litter bin. Headed straight to the washroom, she was no where in sight. There was dim grunts coming off throw the hallway of my bedroom. The bedroom door was loosely clasped. I pushed the door open only to find him standing with front jutted forth, his hands gently held his head as he shut his eyes tight. He was breathing in exasperation and grunting all the way. God-damned it! Why do they always have to grunt like dogs!?

Beneath him, there she was, brushing her teeth against him. Holding him in his mouth like she was the goddess of suck. I stared at them and let them have their due without being noticed. I didn’t hear him walk back in, I wondered where the kids were. I understood her. Maybe she was lonely and yearned for loving and thrusting. Maybe this way she could be happy, maybe she needed it. But him!!? He had no excuse!. I looked around in search for any gun that I could use to blow his head off, even though I knew that there was no such thing in the house. Maybe she forced him. Maybe she begged for it. Her tempo heightened. His grunts grew fast and sharp as he let himself into her mouth. I stood there, watched her gag off that which was mine. She took all of him in, and licked all of him off. He enjoyed it. Lowered his hands to hold her head. He said, “you’re a good girl” something he has never told me.

When he opened his eyes, the ecstacy in his eyes met with the disappointment in my eyes. He jumped off her and tried hiding his tiny prickle self.

“Hun, it’s not what you think” he said.

It was exactly what I thought.

She got up and as usual she had nothing to say, only except she kept on licking off the wet in her mouth like a satisfied hound. I moved towards her. Fuming. She retracted back.

“Baby I can explain.”

Explain what exactly?

I looked straight in her eyes, and in that moment I tried as much as not to judge her nor to raise my voice.

” Are you happy? ” I asked her. Kept asking her till she had her back against the walls. The window was wide openned as the curtains flared in revitalizing the dump air that there was.

It was unexpected. She just vanished like a guilty cat. Turned around and made her way through the window. Jumped off like she had wings to fly. She took the easy way out. And I know you might think that I made this up but if there is one person that should have been dead in that moment without considering my kids, it would be my husband. You guys already performed an autopsy or whatever shit you call it these days and found my husband’s DNA in her mouth. And maybe possibly it would be hard to rule this for suicide and not homicide. I don’t know. It’s up to you to decide.

So can I please go home to my kids? I have a man to get rid off. I’m tired of repeating my statements after statements. I’m too exhausted.