I love coffins. They are closed, fitting, silent, cold, peaceful and inviting. They are homes to everyone who seeks peace in another world. They possess an amount of mystery only darkness can solve. They are silently loud, and invisibly intrusive. They breathe life into beings, long after life itself has bowed out of bodies.
They are everything I have ever wanted in life. They are home. The first time I saw one, I was six years old, oblivious of what was happening around me, lost in childhood, my vision clouded by fantasy, running around in our compound, wondering why the hell people were streaming in. People whose faces I had never seen. People whose faces spoke of sadness, shame, hopelessness and fear. And when they struggled to caress our cheeks, we who were playing oblivious of what was happening, their smiles did not reach their eyes.
They were forced smiles; teeth showing, dark circles under their eyes, silent screams in their eyes.
They continued to troop. Women with headscarves. Men in suits. Children in flowery dresses. The elderly with walking sticks.
"It seems we have visitors today," said Akinyi, seeing that all the strangers were heading to their house.
"Why?" I asked.
"I don't know," she answered, then ran off to the direction of their house.
Silence.
More people. More sad faces. More games. Tense atmosphere.
It was six p.m., and our mothers were yet to come out of the house, screaming our names accompanied with threats.
"Ayoti! If I raise my voice again, you will sleep on an empty stomach!"
"Baachi! You think you are the only child I have? Continue playing, then go to your own house thereafter!"
"Zilizala! You would think having a big head translates to having brains!"
Ah, it was a day of freedom.
We rushed towards Akinyi's house. Playful smiles on our faces, freedom in our hands and a dose of excitement in our hearts. Then I saw it. The coffin. Big. Rectangular. Dark brown.
It looked like a well-manicured box, placed on top of their sitting room table. People walked towards it, silently stared for a few seconds, did the sign of the cross, then walked away.
Then another. Then another. Then another.
"Do we have a church service?" I asked Baachi.
"Ssssssssh!" He nudged my side and placed his index finger across his lips.
"Why? Are we not supposed to talk?"
"You silly girl. It is Akinyi's father." He whispered, so much I had to cup my ears so as to get a gist of what he was saying.
"What do you mean Akinyi's father?"
"They say he is sleeping. And we should not make noise in case he wakes up."
"But why? Why are people looking at him while sleeping? Sleeping should be a private affair."
"Mscheeeew. You ask too much! Go check then."
I scuffled my way past the headscarved women, finding my way towards the 'box'. A few people tried to hold me back, but I was determined.
I wanted to see the mystery that happens when one sleeps. The mystery that makes people look at you, then pray silently.
I wanted to learn from Akinyi's dad, so that when I grew up, people would look at me while sleeping, and pray. Lots of people.
When I reached the table, I struggled to tip toe, falling mercilessly back to my feet, before stranger arms held me under my arms, and lifted me.
Sweat. Cotton wool. Warmth. Peace. Closed eyes. Bare chest. Blackness. Peace.
Before I could take in whatever I saw, I was back to the ground. Scared, I can turned to see who hoisted me, my eyes met my mothers', and I instantly sprung into a run towards home. It was the first time I saw a coffin, but the memories of that night, seated in my bedroom against the door, weeping uncontrollably, wishing all that never happened, beating up myself for letting silence torture me, for not being able to defend myself, those memories have never left me.
On that night, I knew we would never see Akinyi's dad ever again. I learnt that when one lies within the coffin, it is a point of no return.
***
We met at a waiting bay. Those ones which are haphazardly erected from the ground, and lined against walls within town. Those where you scuffle and force your hips between two men with bad breath, who in turn peek at your texts before finally saying, "Na wasichana wa siku hizi mtatuonyesha mambo kweli."
It had rained heavily the previous night, which explains why in his white trousers, he sits momentarily, before he shoots up, touches his butt, turns to look at me and realises I am sitting on a scarf:
"Unaweza nisaidia hiyo nikalie?"
"Hapana."
"Mbona?"
"Ju umeona mimi sina matako ya kuchafuka?"
"Sio hivyo, madam."
"Ni aje?"
"Ni vile trouser yangu ni white, na hii place ni chafu."
Silence. I can still feel his stare hot on my face. I think. Fast. He would look so beautiful in my arms. He would taste so warm in my mouth. His eyes would send butterflies into my stomach when they close. His skin would feel home against mine. His hopelessness would feed my otherwise empty soul. His fluid, in my mouth, would taste like fresh warm blood in a vampire's mouth.
His life, definitely, would look so much in place inside my abode.
Think Bedie! Think! Fast!
I stand up, and for a moment, he thinks I have given up the scarf for him, evidenced by the huge smile that suddenly manifests on his face. He starts to inch closer to me, his arms already outstretched.
"I am actually leaving. If you do not mind, we could go together. It is cold out here, and it will rain in a few minutes." He glances at his wrist watch, then at me, then fiddles with something in his back pocket.
Silence.
***
Lying naked in bed, I stroke his now flaccid penis. I know it will not get another erection, but I still stroke it. It feels satisfying, stroking a weapon of destruction after war. I look at his face, his closed eyes, his sweaty brows and huge nose. I look at his black hair, shining against my white bedsheets. I look at his life, begging to be let go, eying the coffin. You look so perfect for my abode.
One last time, I take his penis into my mouth, hoping there would still be blood within him, and would get one more round of satisfaction before I finally let go. He stirs, shortly, tries to sit up, before falling back on to the bed, just as the skies outside open up, paving way for a huge thunderstorm. It worked! It worked!
As I wait for the body to turn cold, I pull out my notebook to record my victory.
Number 26: Faustine Diwali
Next time, in your next life, you will smell a bad idea from miles away. You will know that there lies a darkness in every soul, and it takes little provocation for the darkness to engulf you. You will know how bad an idea it is to follow a woman to their house, because they promised you sex. You will know, albeit in a low degree, that there is pain in death, but an everlasting peace thereafter.
Maybe, just maybe, you will read through my notebook and realise why I chose you. Why I led you on, and most importantly, why you chose me.
I push the notebook back into the bookshelf, and pull my wardrobe away from the wall to reveal a gaping hole.
Welcome to the abyss, Faustine. Men like you belong here.
Faustine's body disappears, head first, just as my phone rings.
"Hey Bedie. This is Alex. We met last week. May I see you?
I smile. Widely.
They keep coming. They won't just stop. And they get easier as they come. The void never fills.
"Yes. See you in a few minutes. Same spot."
***
I am standing next to an old bus; those which homeless people turn into their homes during the night. Or those in which people scramble to quench their sexual thirsts when they do not have much to spare for a hotel room. Or those in which, surrounded by darkness, people find their way to dump used bodies, slit-throat bodies, poisoned women, raped children, deadbeat parents, crashed dreams, wet habits.
The kind of old buses in which you take a dump; a big hot one, when you think we are not looking.
There are slight drizzles, but I do not shelter because I have been so dirty on the inside that my soul craves wetness. I have always been, but today, I need the rain to slightly uncover the ugliness beneath. To water the remaining parts of my soul that are still alive. To remind me that I am a human being, living each day as it comes, without craving perfection.
The umbrella in my hand is making small dips in the sand, to the rhythm of the music in my ears.
Girl, we nah go talk anymore,
This nah we postpone,
After we leave from the party,
I'll be taking you home,
Been holding on for so long,
I've been waiting,
Time for the real ting.
No retreat, no surrender…
It has been two weeks since Alex reached out. So yeah, now was time for the real thing.
"What is taking you so long?" He had asked after a week of silence.
"Nothing. I am not just ready to meet you."
"Why? If you do not want me, I will bow out."
"Look here, man. We work with my timelines, not yours."
"Why?" He asked.
"Do I need a reason?"
"Alright, you are the boss. Hit me up whenever you are ready."
The drizzles begin to turn into rain just as I spot Alex making his way through the crowd. I always know how they look. Slumped shoulders. Fallen cheeks. Thirsty, if not angry, eyes. Dark stares. Rugged jeans. Unfolded collars. Trembling fingers, with darkness under the nails.
He reaches into his pocket to get his phone when I tap his shoulder.
"Bedie?"
"I presume you are Alex. Let us go."
He follows; just like they do. Unlike the others, he does not care for small talk. He offers me his jacket, places his hand around my waist and begins to speak.
"So now, what do you have to offer, Bedie?"
"I do not know. We will find out with time."
"Come on. Are you sure? Don't you want to give me a teaser?" He presses.
"No, I like surprises more."
"Are you not afraid?"
"Of what?"
"Of tagging along a stranger."
"It is not the way I was born."
He giggles, then tightens his hand around my waist.
Patience boy! Patience!
***
It is half past 3pm when Alex unzips his trousers and lowers himself into me. I sigh, so deep that he looks into my eyes and asks "Are you okay?"
I grunt. He is bigger than I expected. Wider than I anticipated. Fuller than I had hoped.
Thrust. Moan. Sigh. Repeat.
"Wait, can we start this over? May I have you in my mouth?" I ask.
"Why? Am I hurting you?"
"No. I Just prefer starting from below."
"What do you mean 'from below'?"
"You know, I take you in my mouth, then vice versa, before we get to the real thing.'
"Do you like that? Does it make you happy?"
"Yes."
"Well, I do not like that."
What does he mean he does not like that? Does he know how many people have moaned their ways into my mouth? Does he know how many have craved the tenderness so much they had to beg me? Does he know how many have died, literally and literary, while inside me? They did not like it, they loved it.
Silence.
He thrusts, deeper, so deep that I feel my insides churn, and a queef escapes me.
Does it feel good? I do not know. All the time, I am thinking. How do I get him? My trick has always been in my mouth, in the saliva.
No! I cannot put the powder inside my vagina. There is no room for spitting when it comes to the vagina.
Think Bedie! Think fast!
"Stop! You are hurting me!" I scream. I try to push him off me, but then again, he is stronger than I anticipated.
He does not stop.
You are running out of time, Bedie. Think!
"I said you are hurting me!" I scream, driving my long fingernails into his naked back.
He stops momentarily and looks straight into my eyes. There is anger and rage in his. There is a silent sadness beyond the darkness. What is wrong with this guy?
"Does it hurt more than death?" He asks, lowering his upper body so that his voice is directly in my ears.
"What?"
"You heard me right, does it hurt more than death?"
"How would I know? I have never been dead before."
"Ah, for a person so tiny, you lie too much. Too much!" He retorts.
"Where is this coming from? You do not know me." I feign anger, and ignorance.
He pulls out, shakes his penis, wipes the white against my thighs and turns to give me his back.
"Do you see this?" He asks, pointing to a scar just above his left butt.
Then it hits me.
He is the one. I know him. He knows me. Oh shit! What have I done?
***
We were five years old when we first had our encounter with a madman. Outside our house, on a chilly Friday mid-morning, we took turns at reading out stories to each other. It was hard; reading English, but was fun because of the laughter. Because of the beautiful shame brought about when we mispronounced words, and everyone else fell back in stitches.
In the middle of it all, a silent Baba Akinyi had walked towards us and asked about his daughter.
"She is not with us, she left," Alex had said.
"Where did she go?"
"We have no idea. She did not say."
"At what time do you think she will come back?"
Silence. We had no idea. All we wanted was to go back to our reading.
"I asked you a question!" He retorted, catching us by surprise.
Then anger. Rage. Rough hands. Blue skies.
I remember the ordeal as painful and empty. The cutting of skin. The penetration. The weight against my tiny self. The pain. My friends' screams in my head. The blackness thereafter, and the long walk of freedom back home.
"I am already a troubled man. So, will you keep calm and let us get over with this?"
Baba Akinyi, together with two of his friends, took turns at forcing themselves into us. Shirley, Alex and I. We all screamed, but none was louder than Alex. Was it his stomach? I did not understand why they had Alex lie on his stomach, yet Shirley and I were lying on our backs.
With gagged mouths and hands tied behind our backs, we watched, helplessly, as the men snatched our childhood from us. They took away our innocence, leaving behind traces of hurt, trauma and emptiness.
"Henceforth, the three of you are mine. So, this is a bond that will make sure this remains a secret among us."
Baba Akinyi had then used an old nail to make the cross-incisions just above our left butt cheeks. There was pain. Blood. Dizziness, and a heart slowly turning into stone.
"Hello Mama Bedie. The children got into a small accident, but do not worry. I have taken them to hospital and they are already bandaged."
That was the last day I ever saw any of the persons in that room.
The last day I saw Baba Akinyi, he was lying at peace in the coffin, his sins unknown to the world. He was at peace, yet he had left behind chaos within the heads of six-year olds.
***
There is silence between us as Alex dresses up. Too ashamed at the memory, I clutch at my nakedness.
"Isn't it weird that twenty-five years down the line, the memory of what happened still hurts? That we still live with the ghosts from our past?" He asks.
Silence. He buttons his shirt and runs his hand through his hair.
"How did you find me?" I ask, brushing my index finger across my lower lip, still buried in shame.
"I kill people. I know you do too. Killers know each other. Most importantly, killers with the same motive know each other."
Silence.
"I am not here to scare you. Rather, I am here to ask whether killing them moves you a step closer to healing."
Silence.
He moves and sits next to me on the bed.
"Does it feel better?"
I think about it shortly, then slowly nod in affirmation.
"Good, then we keep doing this until we heal," he says casually.
"What if we get caught?"
"If we die, we die. After all, we are already dead inside."
Silence.