SOLID SLIDES

There are times you just let things be and focus on what’s available. I, on the other hand, don’t really get stressed on all the matters; instead, I just sit quietly in one dark corner of my brain reflects on what I should be doing next to ease my day. 

This, many at times, has helped me cross rivers of doubts, oceans of fear and lakes of low self esteems. This is an apathy and I have decided to live with or without pestering around looking for a shoulders that are not there to lean on. 

Talking of shoulders, it could be from a friend or a family: you know there are three types of friends, don’t you?

There are those who moulds you to become a better person, those who destroy you and those who waits to celebrates with you. 

Same thing with families. We have rebellious types, the patriots and the two in one; as in, those who are rebellious and patriotic about their families. My aunt is that one complete package of all those things in one. So since I didn’t have a father to call on the Father’s Day, it’s up to you my readers to let you know that she has always played the role of a father in my life. So here is the letter I have written to her. By the way, she doesn’t read or write; but is that a barrier to keep me away from expressing how much I feel about her? 

Dear Father Figure,

This is my utmost love I have for you as my father, big sister, a role model, and second mom. I write. I know you don’t know what writing is. I, too, have no idea how they called a writer in Dinka. Anyway, does it really matter? I don’t think so because writing is not a career anymore. It’s for passing time because I am from a lazy generation. If I don’t write at my free time, who knows, maybe I would be a cattle raider, bank robber or rapist (God forbid!).

You have been a good friend, a mentor, and a father to me. I know feminists will applaud me for this when they come across this but I’m not doing it for them, dad. I’m doing it for myself, and for you. Remember when I told you last time; that I want to have a daughter as my first born and you said you want a son for me because you want my son to feel the hollowness that was created by your brother's demise? Well, the reason why I did or want to do that is because I want to have another you in me. We’re two people of different worlds. And when you live in your house, I will be with another version of you in my house. I pray she inherits your traits so that when you’re not with us, she will be your ambassador me and her mother. 

Dad, you have done so much that I don’t think I will ever repay back. I know African aunts have always been headache but you’re an exceptional. You have been pain reliever. I know you don’t like me with afro hair, in fact, you have ever forced me to shave it because you thought I will go astray. When you realizes that I was following the teaching of the world, you dropped and accepts me the way I am. I don’t know now what you will do when you see my locks grow though they're still up facing heaven. Anyway, I am not going to cut it. I hope you will  understand that you and I are people of different worlds and neither my locks nor the type of a woman I will marry would ever slide share of love I have for you. Haha. Anyway, that’s a story of another day. If I am still supporting Arsenal after years of disappointment, what will ever make me change? Nothing!

Dad, you don’t know how much you mean to me. You have always love me equally with your children. I sometimes wonder why you have vested your entire budget of love and give it to me all? Anyway, I’m an aunt boy and I love it. 

The other day I told a friend of mine that my aunt can get sick when she miss me, he tried to disputes it. Thinking I was lying. This guy doesn’t even know that we talk everyday like new couple. 

You’re forty-six, mom is forty-nine. I haven’t seen any gray hair on neither of you. Do you know what worries me? That one day you will grow old and when I come home to see you with my two daughters and one son (inshallah), you will start asking me who I am and what I’m doing in your house. Even if old age is gold, I’m not buying that mineral just to risk you to old age. I hope I will meet marry a woman with 8GB RAM to accommodate both you, me and Arsenal. 

You and mom are very religious unlike to me who thinks Christianity is a business with beautiful name. Dear dad, don’t give up on me. I’m just a young man trying to explore the world. I hope, the other traits I have inherit from your brother and you, I will make an impact when I'm at your age.

Good health, happy living, these are things I always wish for you. I will love you in style each year. Happy Father’s Day, dad and quick recovery. 

Your beloved son,

Z. Mayul.

IF I EVER HAVE A FATHER

If I ever meet him, I mean, my father, I’ll tell him that I got robust love for knives – I'm mean, I’m no longer afraid of knives and lighters. I have been handling many knives. Not the rogue guy’s knives, anyway, you know. Just any other knife. I know I might be tempted to tell him to teach me how to swim in a river, fish in a canoe with him in a fresh water lake but it's okay, I don't eat fish. Maybe I’ll just tell him to show me how to look for bush meat before the country adopts punitive measures on poachers and all other petty crimes related to wildlife.

These are the things I would tell him if he ever shows up on our door. I remember that day when he enters the house and his eyes were heavy as death and felt worn out. His tie was sagged and his mud-like shoes wear torn. He didn’t say a thing to any of us. He threw his laptop bag on the couch and then went straight to the room. “Dad!” My brother called him. He feigned a smile and then didn’t say a thing as he eases steps.

Mother, on the other side, didn’t say a thing, too. With undivided attention, she looked at him like a new ad on a commercial break. She continued with her book for a while to kill that awkward moment created before she goes to the room to and finds out what went wrong. She held the doorknob; still in decision whether to ask him where he has been or to let it pass like other things that have never been discussed before.

My heart leapt when I saw her standing in dilemma. I knew, right from that moment, that our peaceful evening was in a full scene of jeopardy- or, should I say, would be a dark evening. I made a short prayer though it never bore any fruits. When I saw her opening the room with force and closed it with a bang, I knew, for once, that things might never be the same.

“Taban, what are you doing?” she asked, as if she expected him to give her the best answer. “Taban, I’m talking to you,” she repeated. He looked at her; like he wanted to say something and then he continued to pack his clothes.

No matter how much she shouted at him. No matter how much she pleaded with him. No matter much she cried, went down on her knees -begging him not to leave us alone; that we are too vulnerable to grow without a father, nothing ever crossed his damn mind. All he wanted was to go far away from us. Live a new life where nothing reminds him of us. A new lover: a whole brand new wife and kids, a new job, new friends, name them. This is what came to my mind.

As he walks to the door, it flung wide open. This time, two men in uniforms walked in. “Mr. Taban, you’re under arrest for the murder of Angelo Francis.” They hissed. We couldn’t believe what we heard. Taban, the then father to me and little Billy, could never do anything. All we knew was that he was a heavy drinker and love his job. This was the other side of him, which he never shown to neither my mother nor us. Well, I was twelve, which mean, it wasn’t necessary that I would read all the signs; but, for the case of mother, she could even swear with her mother’s cloak that she has never known he was a criminal. He was taken away, anyway, despite our numerous pleads and threats to the officers.

My mother tried to trace his family, thinking they would appreciate her efforts for letting them know whereabouts his hiding. All didn’t goes well. His father, a retired nurse, and the mother, a retired primary teacher, too, slumped the door on her face. “We know our son is wealthy. We know who his wives are. He has never mentioned anything about you,” they said. Indeed, my father was a rich criminal. He had mansions, successful businesses, he was a business guru. And we finally came to know later, that, he had murdered his friend, Francis Angelo over a gold business.

Anyway, this is when she fully realizes that her husband has turned her into a secret lover. The man has bigger and successful families with happy kids than us. It’s further rumored to us that he leaves his family in the name of working in a nearby town. Same thing. Whenever he bids us goodbye, he would say that he was going for work and would stay for days. This, he means a week or two before we could see him again and then life continue like that.

The truth is, we weren’t very poor nor very rich. When the report later came to us that he was going to spend thirty years in a government facility, we couldn't stand it. Moreover, he, too, couldn’t stand it. One morning, he was found dead in his cell. He took his life without looking back. My mother was never invited nor ever informed about the incident. His wealth was shared among his other three wives and children.

Mother struggled with us. Years passed. We grew up into strong men with her pain. Thanks to the power of a single woman. I graduated, and started working. When I met Isabella, I introduced her to my family. On the night of our wedding, a phone call came through from Lukudu, my childhood friend. “Sam,” he called. “Are you alone?” he asked.

“Yes. Any problem. Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?” My heart was already pounding inside my chest.

“Well, I don’t know how to put this but we have a real situation here,” he said.

What came to my mind was that his elder brother, another Angelo, had opted for suicide.

“What happened?”

“Calm down. We’re coming to the house.” And then he ends the call.

As I walk up to my mother’s bedroom, I met her on the way going to the kitchen.

“Aren’t you supposed to sleep?”

“I have no wink. Why are you up?” I asked her.

“I just want to take a sip of this tea.”

The door open and I saw Lukudu, Mama Isabella, aunt and Isabella herself.

My mind almost blow up. “What’s going on?” My mother asked in her usual tempo of curiosity asked.

“This can’t go on,” says Mama Isabella.

“What can’t go on?” We asked unison.

“The wedding must be called off immediately. Isabella is also Taban’s daughter.” Literally, she was one of those girls that my father lured into love and confused her with a lot of money. She impregnates her and then dumped her immediately. And since we come from different cultures: us being Madi and them being Dinkas, nobody ever bothered to ask which Taban of the “tabaniin” was the center point of the entire confusion.

When the whole thing came to our usual senses, and us, who have already committed incest more than a dozen times, we reunites with my half sister and we went back to writing apology letters for calling off the wedding.

The following day, I sat on the same corner where I always finds my solace and then wished, if only I ever had a father around, I would make a list, a list of things I would tell him. But since he wasn’t there, I ought to turned the pages of the Bible until I found the following; “there is a time to grief and the time to celebrate. There is time to cry and time to laugh..”

“The air conditioner is too cold, take this cup of tea.” My mother gave me cup fill with hot kedekede and then walked to her bedroom to find some sleep.

WHO ARE THE CARBONATED DINKAS?

Are those who were born or grew up in Khartoum (Sudan), Kakuma (Kenya), Rhino Camp (Uganda) or in the West. Majority of them holds a refuge status. Majority of them are in Canada today because of their academic brilliance. They don’t forget home. They didn’t forget their friends and families back in South Sudan and East Africa.

Carbonated Dinkas are less concerned about politics. In fact, before the 2013 and 2016 war, they were never bothered about the politics of South Sudan. They just knew President Kiir, Dr. Riek and Wani Igga. One of the many traits they’ve is that, they’re less than forty years of age. Another trait is that, those who went to USA, UK and Australia are working in the meat factories, some are Uber drivers and others are running Day cares. They rarely buy cows unless they’re marrying.

Talk of marriage. What they do best is to convince their families in the village to look for Aluel, confuse her family with few dollars and then she becomes an automatic new bride. After the marriage, figure out how soon he would take the her to stay with him and be a helper and then their kids forget their mother tongue. And the chain of continues.

The carbonated Dinkas in East Africa somehow holds the status of the Lazarus and the rich man in the Bible. (It’s in the Gospel of Luke) find it by yourself. Others have joined Church Ministry. They’re called Jol Wo Liech (mind the spellings).
Whatever comes their way, they will grab it with two hands. This is where you and I belongs.

Carbonated Dinkas comes to South Sudan to look for jobs. Before we go deep, you know Dinkas are divided into two majors: the Dinka and Muonyjang and, now, we have the Carbonated Dinka. So can we go continue now? Thank you.

Anyway, they comes to South Sudan to look for jobs. They will take any available job they will get: boda-boda riding, they can be waiters and waitresses, Rickshaw drivers, etc, etc. They study promising courses like engineering, medicine, public health, economics, journalism, accounting, among many, but they will have to stay for a period not less than eight months without finding better jobs.

Carbonated Dinkas are minority. They’re few in numbers. They walk in groups. They rarely rent in big houses like “Special Dinkas”. I know you want to ask me who are the f*king Special Dinkas. Wait, I’m coming there shortly. They don’t know connection. They try to be honest because they don’t know the system. They have clean CVs.
I think, should the world gets the vaccine today, I have a feeling they will be the last group to get vaccinated.

Carbonated Dinkas don’t speak Arabic or not even fluent at all. They know fifty percent of their mother tongue. They aims to sustain their lives first and then goes to developmental issues. Their CVs are in every office. They’ve uncles, in-laws, close members of their families in big public offices but don’t give a hoot about them. They have three jeans and four faded t-shirts. Two shoes with harden soles. They don’t have soft skins. When they get good jobs, it’s the NGO sector that’s capable of employing them.

The last group is the “Special Dinkas”. They don’t have the brain but holds the power. They’re found in comfy offices. They reports to work between 9-10am. They takes their lunch between 11:00am-2:30pm. They call their country Southern Sudan. They mismanage public funds and they don’t care. They live in lavish apartments. They’ve V-8s but don’t have their own houses. When every African is going for holiday in his or her village during festive seasons, they becomes direct occupants of those cities.

The truth is, 2020 hasn’t been that bad, had Corona Virus stayed back in 2019. Doors were beginning to open for Carbonated Dinkas and every youth in South Sudan. Now that we’re being narrowed down on the expenses of God-know-how. Let’s just keep nursing our wounds.
Thank you for your wishes on the 15th.

A Woman Like A Lion

Even with her semi-skilled education or almost to equivalence of nothing, my mother was never that educated like my neighbor’s mother, the girl that I shared the same class with and a wooden bench in a desolated government school. What I know for sure is that, she was, and still is a smart woman. Before she enrolled into motherhood and started raising us single-handed, she managed to train herself on how to sew in a nearby vocational school. After she perfected it, she started commercializing the required items; which later bled her more money to enroll for a clerical course. On top of this list, too earned her a good PR to work in a big white man’s office.

Her duties, first, were to work as a tea vendor to the boss and some “VIP” clients and later promoted to the reception where she did secretarial work.

After five years or so, she got another well paying job with a Jalaba tycoon (the supposed to be our loving father), at the request of her white boss on a better paycheck. Mother, though she loved (and still loves) money like any other human being, was not okay with the idea work with him. But she had no choice. What she wanted was to secure some financial securities. Of course, not just the business of giving and taking but a secure job that will cater for her needs and that of her ageing grandmother abandoned by her other well of kids. After all, she was being tormented in her residency and the only thing that could eradicates that was money, plenty of money to make sure that she compensates the lost valuables. Sharing of knickers was a common practice in her residency; shoes were never worn for more than a month without going missing and, it was a taboo to keep money in the house.  The safest place she and other girls could keep their money was their braces. It doesn’t matter which currency it was or which denomination.

“Eunice, I know you’re great friend to Mr. Abdullah, right?” he asks with his German accent that she always struggle to get.

“Yes,” she replied holding bunch of files unto her chest.

After all, it’s the money and oxygen that makes man livelong. “I want to work with him,” she said as she makes eases to her desk.

“I know that the two of you are in love, too. But should you feel irritated by the working environment, please do not shoulder it; my office is always open for you. I will welcome you back like a prodigal son.” He said.  And of course, my mother was and still not the woman whose the word called regret has ever existed in her living dictionary.

Eunice, my own mother, went to work with Abdullah. It took a few years for things to taking a point of no return. My mother, after all, wasn’t going to be neither the first wife nor the last wife of Mr. Abdullah. On top of that, she [mother] was forced to abandon everything she had: her Christian name as Eunice and her religion (the mighty Christianity).  She complied for a few years, too, taking the name of Fatma Gori. When my little brother, Young and I were born, she gave us her Bari name and later parlay with them even after she separated unceremoniously with the Jalaba monster. My younger brother took the name Anthony and then I was name after her former white German boss, Benjamin.

In school, I wasn’t the brightest kid in my form Three-West Class, but my academic tempo didn’t drop by any sheer unreasonable graph. I was busy focusing on my poetry and it’s earning me a little fame in school and in the neighboring schools around my academic jurisdictions. One day, I walked into our living room holding my biology paper with inscriptions on top-left with a B+. It was something to call for celebration because this is the best I have ever got in my entire academic career. I was expecting pleasing words and, maybe, receive countless accolades because this is what she always does to us when we do well in school.

As I walked in - to our compound, I saw a car. By the way, he walked out of lives when we were just shoots. We barely knew him and our mother have refused to show us his pictures by all cost. “But mother,” retorts my brother, one evening, “we don’t want to know him so that he could come back to our lives. We just want to know who the devil is,” he complained.

“One day I will collapse in this house if you two don’t stop asking these stupid questions.” She roared and then walked away. We were left with nothing to do than to through our hands in the air as a sign of defeat.

Two days before, I overheard this man and my mother arguing as I enter the house. “But they’re also my kids? Why are you denying me the chance to let them know me?” and then I walked in and they all pretended like nothing has happened when they heard my footsteps tapping.  I pretended like I heard nothing and then go up to my little brother’s room whom I found playing a brick game.

At first, I thought this man was a client to my mother because for so long, nearly two years, my brother and I have been seeing so many expensive cars parked in from our gate. It’s never news to any of us because our mother was an insurance dealer and a real estate broker. When she is not in her small office, in down town, clients come up to her and park big cars beyond our small dreams.

At first as I enters, I though I would find my mother holding a cup of Jenzebil (my native coffee) and the Holly Bible in front of her on her favorite corner of the dinning table. I was wrong. I was wrong that this was never that moment I would finds a broad smile on her face until months later. The smile. Her tight hugs. The uncountable love that she got for all of us. All gone. All gone in the hands of a jitter that thought lynching her cold blooded was the best solution to solve the problems of not being part of our small and happy family.

Abdullah did not know when I walked into the house. I opened the door. “Huh! You have come?” he said while standing up. I saw the blood running on her mouth as she lay down helplessly in front of him. She was saying something but I couldn’t hear them. “Benny help me! Benny Help me, my child.” This is all I could hear.

I looked at the man like it was the first time to come face to face with him and then I started screaming as I sizes her in my arm. Young, my brother, enters and then saw me crying right before her. Abdullah said she was going to call the ambulance and then never came back. Young rushed to call the ambulance and then we took her to the hospital. She was taken to an emergency room and then stayed there for a couple of days. Abdullah came by but none of us notice or even gave him the attention. Our mother, after she had told us everything, finally told us that, he was our supposed to be our biological father. But as we all know, blood is no longer thicker than water, is it?

Two months later, after transferring her from hospital to hospital, she was discharged and we were advised to let her stay in the wheel chair for eight more months or so. Meaning, she would not do heavy tasks like cleaning or cooking for sometimes. Which was okay with us. It didn’t shakes us a bit. After all, this is what we have been doing during her schedules. As long as she was alive, we didn’t care.

As we walk her to the car, we saw Abdullah, who came by to have a word with her. My mother looked at him for nearly two minutes and then hissed: “boys, let’s go.” I gave him a demeaning look, too, and then didn’t say a word. We thanked the doctor for the extra care she gave us and for making sure that my mother had everything she wanted.

When we reached home, we sat her on her favorite couch and then made her, her favorite Jenzebil tea. I walked past the same spot that I first held her in my arms as I called on Young to come and help. Then, I saw the biology paper that I have ever passed in my entire life. I smile and then picked it. I showed it to her.

“Wow! You did well. You know you can be a good doctor in the future and treats people like the lady who just saved my life.” When I heard this, I was fill with joy. We hugged and then ran to the respective tasks she just allocates to us.

Happy International Day

PUBLIC SMOKING

Before this millennial era popped in with it’s Gideon boots, smoking was a strange thing, a very rare activity. Highly condemns and criticizes. People who used to smoke were few in numbers and were respected: one, because they were never easy to meet or seen smoking; two, they were rare to be seen, especially by kids. When the kids are sends to go and light their pipes, they were strictly advised not to puff.  There is a short story told of one Deng who was a fresh graduate and landed a job as an accountant of certain organization and; who, had never seen anyone in his entire life smoking.

His job mainly navigates around balancing the accounting books of the company and finding solutions to reconcile those accounting figures if they don’t agree at all.  If not cash receiving after he has applied his skills in bookkeeping, he would go out and chat with the cleaners and cooks. This was pre smartphones so don’t even think of asking me why he didn’t have a phone. I’m sure he would have enrolled for advance certificate in WhatsApp Groups Management because accountant’s life is boring when there is no loss and profit being calculated.

Anyway, serious organizations or companies do basic orientations to their new staffs. That’s a grantee. Deng was taken through the entire process. Right from knowing which office to report to, who is the quickest driver of the company, geographical location of the convenient room. Other things that you will never find during your orientations, for the sake of those who have never worked in serious companies or are self-employed (including myself); are, who is dating the boss, who was employed through the back door, what time does the boss leave for lunch, and much more. You will never get them until you meet someone who is kind enough to leaks you through.

Just because not everything is said in the beginning ends with a smile or a pat on the shoulder, Deng one morning nearly wet on his hard-earned academic papers with a bucket of water out of naivety. His boss, who we will baptizes here, as Mr. S, was a complete package of a good manager. He was ever jovial and a very understanding fella. Even though, at times, his bureaucratic mood swings changes in a way, he was a good manager. At his personal level, he was empathetically a good friend and someone that the society can look up to. However, his smoking habits never luster well on the other side of the same surface.

Deng was standing all-alone in the compound, hands akimbo, wondering what to do when he saw a smoke sneaking to the air. Having been under the tutelage of a house where both parents had medical backgrounds, he was taught the importance of first aid. But, because he was new and knows nothing about where he could easily find fire extinguishers and first aid kits, he ran to the tap nearby, grab a full bucket that had been filled with water by a cleaner and took to his heels. Folks, you might want to ask me where he was going. Well, his boss, Mr. S was busy puffing in his favorite corner of the compound and the smoke had consumed him to the brim.  Deng emptied the full bucket on his poor manager. The puff on his lips, the wet suits, the shoes sock in water, and that wondering look he gave Deng. No sane mind can even have the guts to wait. He dropped the bucket and then ran. Anyway, what happened next is a story of another day.

The truth is, smoking in public, in this country is a sign of boldness, where you show your untouchable side of you and sends a sign that your shrinking muscles can do wonders, especially the men that smoke in public vehicles or when riding bodabodas. If you’re a boss, you don’t give a hoot. If you’re a common citizen, you smoke to show your sign of despair to the entire universe. If you’re a student, perhaps, a high school student, and you smoke, it’s a sign that you have advanced in life more than the rest of the students.  This is normal. Many have seen, we all have seen it.

There are too many lives that are being killed slowly, at least, everyday in Juba and beyond. A CEO of company A don’t shy off from smoking in any open space. Be it in a restaurant, Church or in a parking lot. And at the end of the year, he cries that the company is not making any profit. Where do you expect profit when you kill five potential customers in every year?

Hotels and bar owners are reciprocating this, too. It’s is rare case to see any section scribes in these promises with words like “SMOKING ZONE” for as long as I have lived in Juba. Environmentalists, I don’t know what other professions you have chosen but there is an open field to explore your career that’s being abused leisurely.

I’m not about defaming the hoteliers or bar owners, but on a serious note, though, you can prove me wrong by visiting these social places. I wont mentioned their names, for the love of God, but take an evening walk one of these weekends and tell me what you find. I’m not talking about poor consumption of shisha alone in this case. I’m talking of smoking in general. Be it weed or cigarette or both.

Although I might not be with the idea of giving a proposal of shisha banning, but there should be some grand rules taken for one to deal in this business or consumption of these products. For example, if one decides to smoke in a wrong place, which is not a smoking zone, there should be a heavy fine impose on them. This is to discourage the few turning the entire nation from back door smokers to active smokers out of their consents.

A friend told me last weekend that there is a shisha for as low as SSP 150 in this same Juba. Can you imagine? Whilst there are areas selling it at four times higher than that price. It tells you a lot about so many toxic contents that people are consuming in this city.

If I were the office in charge, I would impose this as soon as possible. How? By establishing smoking zones first around Juba and other major cities in the country. And anyone who doesn’t cooperates with these regulations, should he or she be found smoking, has to pay a fine, let’s say, of not less than SSP 150,000 or go to jail for a period not less than three months. Bar owners and hoteliers, should too, establish these sections in their facilities. And it should be one of the requirements for anyone setting up a new place.

Abas, a Lebanese friend of mine in Aweil, would not just control the BeIn Sport TV remote when we watch soccer, but smoke and tell you to open the windows when you’re not comfortable. I think he should be one of the people to get this message first, loud and clear. Not one cigarette he would smoke, or two, he can go up to ten cigarettes for the whole ninety minutes of the game. Those who don’t want would go away and finds where to watch, those who are used to problems like Arsenal fans would remains and endure the smoke.

Smoking in open spaces doesn’t just come with the risk of recruiting others to share cigarettes, nor injecting heart and long term lung infections to their health conditions, it has more than that. Not just soot lips and black hands, too, but, imagine your puff that you didn’t crashed on well mingles with the Somalis petrol tank that has not been dusted thoroughly after filling in a nearby petrol station. Just imagine how many people will pay the price because of your puff.

ACHOL

I would never lie that I have never cheated on a woman I loved so much. I never once or twice have I ever done it.  Four times? Five times? Ten times? I cannot remember, but maybe a dozen of times before I got jibe by a Christ’s follower. Anyway, all I know is that I have done this several times. I was just a young man. I was living the life to the best of my knowledge.  I have been out on a date couple of times. Even with my receptionists and any other beautiful waitress that attracts my attention whilst on another date. I would winks at them when I’m with another woman. This was a tradition and I was living to practice.

But however, despites all this, I knew deep down that I was never going to make it to heaven if God was taking all of his people by what number of times they not have lied to someone special. I mean, things like “I love you with all my heart, with all my mind, with all my soul.”  I knew I had done it. I have done it more than enough. And if there were key people that needed the salvation, they’re cousin devil and myself.

I remember back in college when I would stop paying my rent for a semester and will hoover in between girlfriend’s hostels. I would spend a week in Tabby’s hostel and then next week I put up at Zippora’s. This didn’t happen once, or twice, this was my college’s life until the day I worn a gown.

When I got my first job, I had focus on settling for once. I felt like I should face the reality of life. The same life that has been about drinking and dating back in college. “You have now become a man,” my mother would always heeds to me with such warnings. “You’re no longer eighteen. You’re twenty-four,” she would complains. And me on the other side would give her a deaf ear. “Mom, why do you keep reminding me on how I should run my own life? It seems you want the CEO job.” These are the words I would vomit right into her face when I’m tired of her boring platitudes.

I did not know what love was. If at all, it existed, then, it must be in fictions. Nothing else. I had read most crime books; back in primary and high school. John Kagia Kimani, and all his books were on my fingertips. John Kiriamiti: all his three biographical books and the two fictions he wrote after he gave up on crime; and, the main center of focus was how he survived in all atrocities. Not love. Love played a small percentage in my daily life and I didn’t even care if the pipe that waters this shoot dies. I would have no any sheer sigh to mourn its demise.  Not even a little.

Jualian, a girl I have known for almost half my entire life, iwas one girl that almost sunk me deep in the abyss of trouble before I converted. When we started. I knew that she was a reserved girl. She never drank anything beyond a glass of juice and Fanta Orange. Throughout our uncountable dates that I remember the venues, she would only order tonic water and a glass of juice to water her meal. On weekends, I would pick her and then we escort the sun as it sits on my mother’s village. Later, I would instruct the driver to take her home because she was the only kid from a single-parent family just like me.

Few months later, she starts leaving her knickers and bras in my bathroom. She later advanced into heels and handbags in my cloth set. By the way, I’m not that guy who reacts at the things from the beginning. Instead, I always wanted to be sure who left the things. “Babe, are you the one with that dress in the cloth set?” I would ask innocently. This is because I was used to buying things that are never that important to my cousin who’s at the university by that time.

“Yes. Any problem?” But this answer almost makes me jump out of my wit when she answers with confidence. I would frown and then take a mouthful of a drink I’m holding in my hand.  She attempted to put her hands on anything: loving me extra more than the other girls, wash for me, cook and clean my house, but she never managed. At last, she said that I was pregnant for me. I was scared in the first place that I was going to be a father. Not because I was not able to raise it, but the fact that I was going to be expected at six in the evening. Someone has to monitor my moves: where I am, who I am with and what time I will be home to babysit my daughter or son t be. My WhatsApp has to be free to her access. For a week, I was dumb founded. One evening, I went to the bathroom and then found the pregnancy test kit and the full episode of lies. I asked her and she said that it wasn’t hers. That she was pregnant and then there was no need to do more tests again. But, I wasn’t convinced. The following morning, I dragged her to the hospital. And, by God’s grace, she wasn’t pregnant. My heart kept thumbing for a diamond in the dust.  I never knew what I was going to do.

I had request for a day off earlier from my Indian boss and he gladly granted me two days off plus weekend. I went to the house and then locked myself in. It’s my ending world and me.  I did not care who wanted to check on me. The company WhatsApp was snoozing with over thousand messages and counting. But I was at a point where I wasn’t giving any fuck again.

I cannot tell how long I have been sleeping when I heard the bell intruding with my peace of sleep. It’s the lady who washes my clothes that came to do her job.  I woke up with lazy eyes. My white vest was soaked in the content of Red Label Johnny Walker.  I peeped and saw her. She was my distance relative, which, at some point, she is a vector carrier of any information between my mother and me.

I opened the door for her. She scanned the living room with her swanky eyes and then told me to Seek Yeah First. “ Seek Yeah First.” I was never that good with scriptures. The moment I stopped going to school, I have never opened a Bible. But this old school Elizabethan English can’t still go without notice. I stood there embarrassed. I looked at the company’s calendar that I had on a coffee table. I realize that it’s Sunday. I went to the shower, and then came out of shower naked.  I saw her folding my bed sheets. I went back to the shower, this time, more embarrassed than before. But, this time, I didn’t care anymore. I found one of my wet Calvin Klein underwear, put it on and then I walked straight up to the guest room. I found one of my old suits that I have never worn in a very long time. I search again and then got something better than the wet underwear. I dressed up and walked out as a proud adult.

I came to the room and then my cleaner was still busy doing her job beyond her job description. There were condoms, both expired and the active. I have never taken a good look at an expired condom. What in the world would the condom be expiring? Is the company serious enough? What if they take long without coming back and the sexually active like me run out of stock? Won’t it be a serious danger and mass killing against humanity?

By this time, I did not care what it takes. My mother will eventually know what has just happen. I drove a girl out of my apartment because she lied to me.

“Can I come in?” I asked. My goal was to catch up with the English mass as I rushed to church. “As you wish!” she growls. This is how people you don’t pay talk. My mother was her boss, not me. And at so many times, when I complain to my mother that I did not want her scent in my apartment, she always shuns the topic like the Egyptian plagues and the stammering Moses in the Bible.

I calculated my steps as I went to apply a lotion and perfume and then walked to the door with confidence.  I went to St. Peters and then sat at the back. “Our reading of today comes from Mathew five.” Said a lady who was wearing specks that were matching her blue dress. Remember, guys, this was my time in eight years; that I have not been to Church. But, all in all, I was able to catch up with them. The scripture talks of beatitudes: the teaching of Jesus when he was on a small mountain with group of people. “Blessed are poor in heart for the kingdom belongs…” and then she continues to read the scripture until I slept off.

I cannot tell how long I must have slept there when I was woken up all over sudden. When I looked up, it’s the same girl. I must have ignored her beauty when she was meters away from me. But, here she is, waking up a half-drunk sinner. “You should go home,” she says as she waited for me to give any excuse.

I looked around and then found no one to sympathize with me for my own embarrassment. She tossed her card in my hand and then walked away.

I changed almost everything from that moment when I met her. I resigned from my then job and then took a PR job with one of the local companies that were just setting up. We were exchanging emails almost on daily basis when she was overseas and phone calls when she is around. She wasn’t in the country for more than a month. She had a scholarship that was paying tuition for her full-time for media studies.

This time, my mother had seen the better side and now she was telling me to get married. “Son, I’m happy with your progress. Please give me an heir. There is nothing else I want from you.” She laments. I was still thinking about this girl. From her emails, she wears the same attire that I first saw her in and I knew she loved me. When I got tired of waiting, I went to the newspaper, wrote a full-page article, paid for it and I proposes to her. I took the same copy to the blog. I knew she was going to read it since she had subscribed to it.

That was on a Wednesday. On Friday, at eleven o’clock, I received a phone call from one from a stranger. “Is this Emmanuel Kenyi?” the caller asked with a faint voice. “Yes! Whom am I speaking to?” I asked with curiosity.

“My name is Francis.”

“Mr. Majok, how can I help you? You want to place a quotation. I can refer you to our sales team. If this pleases you.”

“No! I call to tell you that there is an accident that has occurred around St. Peters Church. There is a lady; we have found that your number was the last to be dialed. Please come quickly and help us. If you’re a brother or any of her family members.” And the he ended. I wasn’t sure which one of the Achols that I knew.

I closed my laptop and walked out without informing my boss of where I was going. When I reached the gate of St. Peters, I was told that the victim was in the Church compound. I walked in and saw a group of girls. The familiar faces that I have been seeing since I last became a member of this great Church. They were happily chatting. I walked very fast. “Hello, ladies?” I was breathing very fast because I have been half-walking. “Hello,” they said as they all looked at them.

“There is an accident that has occurred and I’m told the victim is here in the compound. Where exactly can I find her?” They direct me to the church. As I enter the Church, I saw something amusing. “The same woman I have been dreaming for one year and half was standing, facing the alter. I was shocked. Why would someone fake an accident?

“Hey?” I asked.

“Hey.”

“I didn’t know you would do this? I mean, calling me to come to this place in the name of accident.” I said.

“Because this is how quickly you would be responding to my desires and needs.” And then she turned now.

“Emma,” she called me. This is how she always addresses me. “I like you. I love you and I wish I could make it up to you.” She looked at me in the eyes and the she continues, “but….,” and then she allows a small wind to pass before she resumes talking. “But what?” I was impatient to give her any second to pass anymore. “But how,” and then we heard the footsteps. We both turned. It’s Pastor Henry. She left my hands and then walked some steps ahead of me. I noticed something. She was two or three months pregnant and her protruding stomach was showing. I did not say anything. I reached for the door and then walked away.

Three years later, my wife and I started our very own PR company and it was really dong well that we even sponsored two orphans in a nearby private school. She was another Achol but this one, to me, was an updated version of lose Achols in the world. I was fond of her to a point that I wouldn’t spend a single day without seeing her or talking to her.

“Excuse me, sir,” said our secretary, “there is a client that want to see you. She had booked her appointment.” I looked at it and then saw the name of the client company she was coming. A very reputable company.  “Let her come in.”  When she opens the door. I recognize her once.  My heart leaps. Luckily enough, my wife was out. She recognizes me at once and this almost killed her. She was not herself throughout the whole of our business talk. As she opens the door to leave, my wife entered.

“Honey, who was that?” she asked.

“It’s a log story. I will tell you when we’re home. Now let’s get to work.” I told her as I got up to pick a file from the shelf.