FATE IS CRUEL MY FRIEND

FATE IS CRUEL MY FRIEND

The sun was attempting to climb on the eastern horizon. But the correct time was six hours when the clock hands stretched out like the legs of a squatting ballet dancer. That same time the alarm shrilled cutting into the stillness of the morning coolness. The sound banged Monica’s ears causing her a mild headache for discomfort and significant annoyance for tempers.

She started by jerking like a startled rabbit, throwing about a pair of eyes widened to look like dark ringed balls. Her hands, by the instinct for self-preservation, went into slapping anything nearby in a desperate attempt at locating the source of the sound.

But, upon identifying it, she cursed under her breath; “what a nuisance you are, useless clock.” She then threw off her blankets and dropped long legs to the floor before heaving a huge bust of hips to stand up. Something immediately shook her confidence, though.

The haggard face in the mirror on the wall opposite was the ugliest she had ever seen of herself, it resembled that of a cat in the pains of labor. The rumpled bushy hair made her look ghastly like the feathers of an angry peacock. The bleary, burning eyes were like a pair of holes filled with boiling oil. The figure was not improved at all by the cough shaking her ribs with a sound like that of a broken radiator. And the sneeze fizzing out of her nostrils could wake up the dead in a cemetery. The reason was simple; she had not slept at all.

And there, just there, she remembered why she had not slept a wink that night and the other nights before. The thought jolted her, as if it was a new thing to her, something unknown. Her heart again started pumping; an urgent pounding one feels when the results of a medical are about to be announced. Cancer medical. Except for this time, it was not medical results or any of those startling far off statistics that worried her. It was something that made her helpless and powerless over the unfolding events. It was something that made her squirm uneasily, endlessly like a tilapia fish thrown out of water.

She walked out of the bedroom into the sitting room and dropped into a sofa like a log. And now there, a picture, stuck in a frame on the wall, ambushed her, reducing her already jarred nerves to jelly. It was the picture of her husband. He was wearing a military cap that covered most of his face. But whatever it showed, it was clear that he was a very handsome man. His sharp blue eyes stared steadily, straight ahead like the firing squad. His flat forehead jutted out majestically like a king in command. His lips were pursed on a mouth that looked like it would require a lot of effort to make it smile. He was a dyed- in- the- wool Yankee warrior, the conceptualized epitome of American excellence. But away from home and out of her embrace, he was now the cause of her sleeplessness. He was currently fighting with the Marines in a place called Nasiriyah.That is in Iraq.

She wanted news from Nasiriyah.The news about her heartthrob. Fate was cruel to her; the news was not coming at all like everything had conspired to keep her in the dark. It was the news the whole nation wanted to hear, about the fate of these marines trapped by the enemy. Her husband, Colin, had failed to answer calls for the fourth day running. The wait was killing her. She now broke down into tears.

But fate would not let her mourn freely, quietly. Just then, the door opened and in, walked Charity, her three-year-old daughter. Her face was haggard too, but for different reasons. She was crying too, but for different reasons. She was coming into the sitting room too, but for different reasons.

“Ma, where is my pony?” her blonde blue eyes similar to her mother’s, were twinkling in a questioning manner.

“Have you checked your room, darling?”Monica asked while wiping her face with the left hand in a desperate attempt to clear the tears streaming down her face.

“Course I did, that is why I am asking you Ma,” Charity was now pulling her mom’s ears playfully, the way she saw her teacher at school do it if any pupil offended. The earrings on Monica caused her severe pain and then Charity saw the tears.

“Ma, you can’t cry before you give me my doll,” she shrieked while pulling with a little more force.

“I will find your doll, darling,” Monica said standing up. She was barely holding up, “I am even going to search for it just now, see?” she swung her ample bosomed chest, rolled her eyes in an indulgent wink, and curved her mouth into a bow shape to reassure her daughter.

As soon as the mother left the room, Charity, sitting where her mom had sat, saw the picture as well. It was dad’s picture, in military uniform. Her priorities immediately changed.

“Mom, come back!” she commanded. “I want my dad here now. He has been gone two weeks now.”

Monica halted at the door to her daughter’s room; looked back at her daughter pointing at the floor with her small finger for emphasis. Her little face was contorted into a mask of pain, childish sorrow. And her small eyes were burning hot, unblinking like tiny headlamps. She could not hold herself together anymore. She burst out crying, now loudly, “Colin, please come back.”

Now, Charity realized her mom was not in some kind of game, she also joined in crying, howling like a jackal in the woods, “Dad come back home.”

The two cried until no more energy remained to continue the exercise. After the crying, both were so exhausted that they just flopped down on the sofa and went back to sleep.

It was twelve hours when Monica woke up. She stirred, opened her eyes, and then yawned. She was hungry but had no appetite. Then she saw Charity sleeping soundly next to her on the sofa, coiled up like a dead cat, except that her chest was rising and falling.

“I must be a good example to my daughter,” she warned herself. Than, gently, she stood up to go into the kitchen. She wanted to prepare a quick sandwich for Charity and a hamburger for herself.

After making the meal and just before sitting down to eat, she went into the bathroom for a bath. She was there for close to thirty minutes by which time the food was stone cold. It was not in the warmer. Her nerves were torn up like a splintered mirror; she could even forget such simple hygiene.

She ate her food haltingly, just nibbling away at the hamburger like a chicken pecking away at a lump of Nshima. The pain of missing her husband gain tore into her soul; she could feel the blade cutting her heart into two every time she looked at his picture. It was becoming increasingly difficult to just sit there and wait for news about her man. Suddenly an idea came into her mind, a horrible one.

“I can’t live without Colin,” she mused to herself. “If he is dead, I better also kill myself.”

Women whose husbands go to war usually go through three types of reactions. Some are excited about the freedom they will enjoy when the man is out of the way, freedom to go jiving without anyone putting brakes on what they want to do. Others are worried about the husbands they cherish so deeply dying out there and leaving them in the agony of mourning. Yet others are excited about the possibility of getting into millions in case the man dies in battle and the government pays compensation. Monica was in the second category.

With that resolution, she walked to the balcony. But quickly came back for the last look at her daughter.

“Goodbye! Darling,” she pushed a strand of hair back on the girl’s face and then left her. She went to the balcony, her face stolid with determination.

Her flat was on the fourth floor, almost sixteen meters above the ground. A fall from there would accomplish what she considered to be the final solution to this problem. She folded her T-shirt and pushed it into the trousers. Then she climbed the rails.

But just as she reached the last parapet, someone held her from behind. She was so startled at the intrusion that she hurriedly swung round, was already fighting.

Summoning something from her one-month karate lesson, she unhooked a vicious taekwondo kick in typical karate combat. She was turning round to continue the attack when the intruder started groaning in a familiar voice. It was a man. She looked at the nape and was horrified to discover that she knew the man. He was now keeling over with both hands holding the stomach. The deathly pale face that turned round to stare at her in deep pain was not new to her. What a horror?

Colin had arrived just when Monica was leaving the room going into the balcony. He dropped his bag and took a few seconds kissing his daughter on the forehead before he hurriedly followed his wife into the balcony. His dagga was still dangling on the side. He reached Monica just as she reached the last rail. Hoping not to startle her; he walked quietly behind and grabbed her in a delightful embrace. Monica reacted fast, in fact, faster than the man. She snuggled out of his embrace and immediately unleashed a kick that completely took him unawares. And then, he keeled over when a sharp object smashed it into his belly. It sunk up to the hilt. The injury was severe.

The shock on Monica’s face was phenomenal, and for the next ten seconds, she could hardly do anything. She kept her hands plastered on her mouth both in surprise and disgust. Then she went into angry self denunciations.

“Why did I do it?” she cried. She was slapping her thighs in self-deprecation. She was pounding her feet down on the wooden floorboards making the whole balcony shake.

“What did you do ma?” Charity shouted from the sitting room. She had woken up.

This horror was worse; Charity would condemn her for killing her dad. She couldn’t live with that. That would be living hell. She picked Colin and started calling for help. But just one shout and then she crushed to the ground with sharp dagga plunged into her stomach as well.

When the police came they found the two were cold, already dead. Three-year-old Charity was missing and all her belongings.

The maid called Fiona, who became pregnant with Colin’s child, was hiding behind the curtain when he came into the house. Fiona was not very beautiful and this had caused Colin an embarrassment. He, therefore, chased her from home but adopted the child without his wife, Monica, knowing who the mother was. To kill all evidence, he had arranged for a hitman to kill Fiona.

But somehow Fiona survived and was waiting for a chance to revenge and get her daughter back. This day it was easy for her to kill the two because no one expected her to be in the house. After killing the two, she escaped with her daughter, Charity.

Fate is cruel my friend.