Unbonding

My balcony geraniums are glistening in the warmth of the mid-morning highland sun. They are a perfect cover from which to observe him from my third-floor apartment. He keeps clenching his fists and looking upwards, unsure of my location. I can well imagine his trepidation about the perilous mission he is undertaking, of informing me that my sister has hired him to kill me.

“What if she has reported me to the police?” I can almost hear him scolding himself. “What if she doesn’t believe me?”

Actually, under normal circumstances, I would not have listened to such a fantastical tale by a total stranger on the phone, let alone agreed to meet him outside my gate. But then, it was obvious he knows a whole lot about my private life, including where I live. My instinct told me to put aside usual caution and meet him in person. After all, I am under no illusion about what my sister is capable of. Rumours of her membership in Muhiriga, a ruthless extortion gang have been circulating on the family grapevine for years. With this in mind, my choice of this street outside my apartment for our rendezvous was deliberate. It is the kind of security-conscious neighbourhood in Nairobi where little goes unnoticed, courtesy of my all-seeing neighbours and CCTV cameras.

Behind the studied look, his eyes light up in recognition as soon as I open the gate. I too had composed myself to appear as unruffled as possible. We dutifully shake hands.

“Uh, I don’t know… don’t know how to tell you this but…”, he begins in Swahili. My cool gaze appears to unsettle him, tiny beads of sweat are shimmering on his brow. Yet the searing heat of the afternoon sun is till hours away. He clears his throat and looks furtively around, as if fearing that eavesdroppers are nearby. Seeming assured, his posture straightens and he looks me straight in the eye.

“The truth is that your sister Wanja approached me with a very unusual request”. He pauses to prepare himself for what is to come. “She offered me a large sum of money to kill you”.

“Why you?” I prod, almost casually.

“Because I am a former police detective… she said I can do a professional job”. Anticipating my next question, he momentarily averts his gaze”. “I did not leave the force under the best of circumstances. She figured I am desperate for money”.

I know my sister’s weaknesses and they are probably the only reason I am still alive. Her considerable wealth was acquired without the normal restraints imposed by a moral conscience and formal education. This modus operandi has helped her prosper in the criminal underworld, but when it comes to plotting the perfect murder, she’s bound to make mistakes. Plus, she has a reputation to maintain. I mean, even Muhiriga assassins balk at murdering their members’ close kin. African kinship ties matter, it would seem, even among mobsters. Her fellow “business tycoons” must also know about her explosive temper and how it fuels a reckless, homicidal compulsion for revenge. In my case for example, she has clearly miscalculated, imagining that a financially desperate former cop will do her bidding without the slightest hesitation. Actually, I doubt the hapless man has received more than a paltry down-payment. Once the mission is accomplished, she would have silenced him by threatening to let loose her Muhiriga gang on him. And what options would he have? Report her to the police?

“And why me? I am her sister after all”.

“She said that she loaned you a lot of money and you have refused to repay. She said that her business is now collapsing”.

“I see. So, why have you not done your job? Why are you here?”

“I found out who you are… you are not like her. The murder of a well-educated woman will not go unnoticed. There will be police investigations, stories in the newspapers.”

“What now?”

“She’s now threatening to kill me for not doing the job. She said she will send Muhiriga to finish me, then I will know who she is. Your sister is dangerous. I fear her.”

His shoulders are now hunched, eyes bloodshot. I sympathize with him. For an African man to admit fear of a woman, it’s a dignity-sapping exercise. But his haunted look shows something else – a kind of vulnerability. From his faded, oversized brown suit, it’s obvious he’s financially in dire straits. I can see how this must have attracted Wanja’s predatory instincts. He’s the perfect hired killer, desperate and dispensable. And in his current predicament, he sees me as his only salvation. My mind is clear on what to do. I have already talked to my lawyer.

“You realize you are in far more danger that I am?”

“Yes, that is why I have come to see you. Together we can find a solution.”

“If you want to stay alive, we have to expose her by reporting this matter to the police. Today if possible. You will only be safe once she realizes the police know about the murder plot. Of course she will deny it and play the victim. But she will leave you alone.”

Momentarily, his face lights up with hope, then darkens again with apprehension. No doubt, the thought of meeting his former colleagues fills him with dread. But he also realizes that I am right. He might not be alive for much longer. I seek to reassure him.

“You have done nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, your courage has probably saved our lives.” He nods gratefully.

And so, I give him some money in gratitude and we part company. I have no intention of accompanying a complete stranger, especially my would-be assassin, anywhere. Later, I will make my own way to the police station. He is no longer of any use value to Wanja and neither is he a threat to her. And for that, he gets to live. I must now try to save myself before she conjures up the next murderous plot. I steel myself and dial her number.

“Makena my sister! Why are you so lost? How I have missed you!”, she proclaims with childlike exuberance. In her mind, her terror tactic has worked. I am now back in the fold, ready to continue our slave-master relationship. Surely, I now understand the price of defiance and therefore, I am calling to verbally prostrate myself before her.

“Why did you hire Wafula to kill me? Which is this loan I have refused to repay?”

“Ati what? You are a mad woman Makena! You really belong in a mental hospital!” the sudden fury in her voice is triggering my trauma response of fawning. I feel the compulsion to start apologizing. But my self-awareness is stronger and I persist.

“Today, we reported you to the police. And if you ever contact me or try something like this again, I will make another police report about your criminal activities”.

A loud gasp, laboured breathing, then silence. I press the disconnect button.



And how does this make me feel, to go “no contact”, as my therapist would ask? Relieved mostly, which is always a confirmation in my heart that my decision is right. But from years of therapy and spiritual growth, I also understand that both the victim and victimiser share a similar karmic energy. That our decades-long abuser-abused relationship was a conscious choice we made for this lifetime. Above all, I now know that there really are no victims, only creators. A sudden wave of compassion for her sweeps over me, leaving a searing ache in my heart. But there can be no turning back. Her clearly evident personality disorder is almost certainly antisocial, more popularly known as psychopathy. It is her way of coping with the horrific childhood trauma that we and our other siblings endured. For our mum, much–scorned for being the village “mad woman”, lived in a tortured world of her own, filled with paranoia, wild hallucinations and a toxic parenting-style which scarred all her children for life. It was only years later in my college psychology classes that I finally understood her mental illness. She has since passed on, her mind still tormented. But today, my heart aches with forgiveness and understanding for her. And for myself, for all those years I judged her so harshly. How I wish she had received the help she so desperately needed, and that this generational trauma would end…