The room was eerily quiet as I rearranged my notes again, nervously this time. It was getting to two pm and I needed to be back in Avonston before dusk, before my husband became suspicious. I had convinced him I’d be in Higali to see my aged mother.
The journey to Guda was filled with grim expectations. The road we took was an endless river of tarmac baked under a brutal, relentless ball of fire, and stretched into the blue grey horizon in front and behind as far as I could see. For the most part it seemed deserted, a black velvet ribbon draped over the sunlit highlands of Guda, gay, cracked and laced with ringworm potholes. When we arrived at the prison complex in Guda, we were escorted straight to the Warder’s office. Colonel Liffrang was hefty in every way, wide and tall, and had legs as big as an elephant’s.
"Your Excellency", he greeted subserviently. Apparently he knew who I was.
"How are you and the prison?" I asked.
"Everything is fine ma’am", he replied. "Really I am surprised. I wasn’t apprised about your visit", he said, confused.
"It’s not necessary", I said. "Anywhere, there is a certain inmate in your prison that I want to see".
"Who?"
"Muhtar Ndelele".
" The journalist?"
"Yes, the journalist".
The Warder shook his head. " Sorry ma’am, but you cannot see him’, he said pleadingly. ‘We are under strict instructions from General Aszo not to allow him visitors."
"And this prohibition is supposed to include the wife of a high ranking Army Chief in the government?" I asked, trying to reassert my influence.
"Are you threatening me?"
I smiled. "I’m not. Just give me what I want, Warder’", I said, my voice rising.
He paused, still debating on what to do. I had hoped for his sake that he understood the implications of not obliging. Clearly, he didn’t.
"You’d have to come back next week", he softened. " All inmates are in the fields working."
I was furious. "I’m sure you still do not understand. If I walk out of this room without seeing the journalist, well, let’s just hope they spare your life."
"Are you threatening me?"
"You would bet I am!" I rasped.
He grinned and scratched his pear-shaped head.
"Fine then", he said resignedly. "My men will escort you to the waiting room. He will join you shortly. But you shan’t be allowed to bring anything in. And, you will have forty five minutes only." he begged.
"All fine. I agree," I said.
I stared out of the window for long, watching as the birds fluttered overhead, some black, some white, slicing their way through the silver linings of the clouds. Inside their fragile tiny bodies I’d imagine hearts beating, lungs expanding, muscles contracting, bones dancing. I watched until they became specks on the horizon, until a door creaked and I turned. For a moment we stood, our eyes locked in disbelief, wondering if it was real. No, it wasn’t just the stubble that stretched over his scalp, thicker than a freshly harvested field. It wasn’t even the wolfish amber eyes like limpid pools of gold, or the blanched russet cheeks. No, it was the effervescence of old memories tucked in between silent, dusty years, of what was, and what could never be.
"Miranda", he said finally, recovering from the shock.
"Rikki", I called back.
"Come here", he said, shooting forward, arms flung apart. We stood there, lost in the swirl of emotion, his arms encircled round my waist and his head lolled to my shoulder. It was real now – his breath, the rise and fall of his chest and the warm blood, and the silent wish that things were different, that things never ended this way. I gently pushed him away and gazed at the floor, fighting back the oozing tears.
"Where do we start?" I asked rhetorically, mopping my eyes.
"You left," he said. "Why?"
"It wasn’t my fault", I replied, recalling everything.
"But it happened. You left."
"It wasn’t that simple for me. My father had other plans," I said. "Two years after we left school, he betrothed me to his friend’s son, a Major General in the army."
"And you accepted!" he shot back weakly.
"It was forced. I tried stalling but it didn’t work. I waited, hoping that you’d one day come through for me all that time. But you didn’t. You never did show up. Perhaps I should ask you why."
I watched as he sat down slowly, eyes draped in pain.
"Why did you change your name?" I asked. "What happened?"
"Long story," he said. "Sometimes I wish life was a bit less complicated than it is."
I nodded in support.
"My father disowned me after I was kicked out from our church," he said, smiling painfully. "Two years after high school, my father conscripted me in a Bible College owned by our church. He said it’d help me grow. But it did the exact opposite. It ruined my life," he said, wiping his face. "I was sexually abused by the College Administrator, my roommate and I. Every Wednesday night he’d come over to our room and beckon on us to meet him in his office for ‘vigil'. And when we did, in turns, he’d ask us to bend over while he slid his penis in our anus."
"You don’t mean it!" I exclaimed, utterly shocked by this revelation.
"He had other victims as well."
"And nobody filed a report?"
"Nobody did. They were all scared of what he’d do if we went ahead to report him. So I decided to take the bull by the horn. When I did, I got the shock of my life. I was promptly asked to drop the allegation or leave the school. And I was pretty scared of what my father would do to me if I were expelled from school."
"Really?"
"Yea. They accused me of trying to smear the good name of the school."
"Did you tell your parents?"
"My parents are quite unreasonable. My dad is a blind believer. He would hear none of it. Nobody believed me. Nobody!"
"Did you go to the police?"
"That would’ve been suicidal. Our church, apart from its strange religious beliefs, had a history of never cooperating with the police. That is how they’d successfully shield from police prosecution serial sexual abusers, pedophiles like one Peter Basco, who interestingly served as the secretary to the Elder’s Council. So I became a rebel. I rebelled from everything my father represented. I left the church, left Christianity for good. That’s why I changed my name to Muhtar – rebellion – and switched over to Journalism. He wanted me to read Engineering."
"Hmmmm….," I sighed. "You really are brave."
"When last did you see your family?" I asked.
"Twelve years ago. They all left me, all because I dared to expose the sickening practices of their cult." He said. "I’ve lost everything. I’ve got nothing left and each passing day, my life hangs on a thread, one that could snap easily."
I reached out and touched his freckled fingers.
