Continued from day three
Sandra sat on the ground listlessly staring as the paramedics lifted Kenneth’s body from the ground onto the gurney. She didn’t feel the rain as it started to fall. Her bridesmaids tried to pry her from the ground. But she didn’t put in any effort.
She started to cry when his body was put into a body bag.
But then she saw the man who was responsible for Kenneth’s death. The man who was now looking so remorseful, his eyes downcast. Surrounded by his co-conspirators. Her brothers. She was filled with rage. One that she had never felt before.
She shrugged off the concerned hands that held her and matched to the man, her dress hindering her. If the situation were not sad, it would be comical.
“YOU KILLED HIM! YOU KILLED HIM!” She shouted as she struggled through the mud to where they stood. The shoes she wore became too cumbersome she kicked them off and walked to them.
When she got to them she gave him a resounding slap. The man she was supposed to call father.
Ours was a love doomed from the start. I see that now. We were what the world calls star-crossed lovers (I hate that term) But the giddiness of the notion we bought into, “Us against the world” urged us down this doomed path.
Its funny, and I’ve just now realised this, our story is like one of those Nigerian movies my mother used to love so much.
I met Sandra one fateful day. Rather, she ran into my bodaboda. She was the kind of girl that I hated on sight, but that were good business for me and my ilk. We could over charge them without feeling any remorse. Not that we did feel remorse. I know I didn’t. I figured, I had child to feed so I shouldn’t feel bad that I had an extra buck in my pocket.
I’m rumbling, where was I? Right…Sandra.
Rich kid, daddy’s girl, with a lot of attitude, who thought the world should bend it’s knees just for her.
One that fateful day, she walked straight into my parked bodaboda, too busy on her phone to notice the world around her.
“Nyabo, watch where you’re going,” I told her.
She looked at me with disdain. Rolled her eyes and jeered, that long jeer that girls are really good at. The disdain in her eyes though…I had never felt less of a man than in that moment that she laid those big disdainful eyes on me . She was good at that, my Sandra.
In that moment I wanted, no I needed her to know that I was more man than she had ever met. So I did something I am still not proud of.
I unleashed abuses, profanities. I didn’t even know the meaning of some of the words that I said. And all my fellow bodaboda guys were supporting me.
She did not say a word, just continued walking on, essentially ignoring me.
I attempted to shrug it off, but the memory of the inadequacy I felt stayed with me for along time.
Two or three weeks later she flagged my boda down, I was tempted to not stop but I remembered I couldn’t afford to be proud. My child needed to eat and go to school….
To be continued, seeing as I am currently in a taxi and I’m afraid my barely-smart phone will be snatched.
(Newly christened) Mabelito
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