The Watchman
Moses Abukutsa
Moses Abukutsa
He slumps near the bed and startles her. She stumbles out of bed and knocks the tin lamp, which sets his dreadlocks on fire. For a moment his dreadlocks illumine the blood stained face.
She fetches a jug of water and empties it on his head. She stares in the darkness, as the smell of singed hair fills the room. She strikes a match re-lighting the lamp and wipes the blood on his face with her bed sheets. He doesn’t stir. She notices white foam in his mouth. Slowly, she sits on the bed while looking at him, taking in the sorghum plastic whisky bottle lying emptied between his legs. This is Tito the night watchman.
What has her father taken from that empty bottle? If only she knew.
*
Earlier in the night her father had ventured out after the evening meal of smoked fish and bananas.
Had she known he had been a little tipsy? Perhaps!
Nine years of living a lie, is what he felt his life had encompassed.
Had she trailed him to his bedroom before he left, Vanessa would have heard her father rasp under his alcoholic breath as he read the text message again and again before banging the phone against the wall.
It is not going to be long. I have never gone for chemotherapy at Kenyatta. Where is the money? I am rotting and in the last stages. I am rotting. It is time my husband and your daughter know. Bring a cow and talk as our tradition demands. Man to man. She is yours.
But here he lay.
In the past three days he had doubled his bottle to cure the anguish he felt. His wife’s death was still raw and the earth on her grave still fresh, but it was the betrayal that was like bitter lemon juice on a fresh wound.
Much had been brewing in that head on hunched shoulders, if only Vanessa had known.
Earlier that night in his room he had walked to a metal box that lay open and retracted his omukabuti. The dusty trench coat was long and broad enough for his hunched shoulders but more importantly for his brittle long knife unsheathed from his thin mattress. He was full on sorghum whisky.
He had made his way through shrubby acacia pathways. A bridge he was to cross was five barbed wire fenced farms away from his unfenced little parcel. He took a swig from his bottle and lumbered on like an old soldier wearied of battle. Of all his night watching days, this was the most important one.
If only it were possible she could have intercepted him then.
The night watchman off duty, intoxicating himself, crossed the bridge.
Had she gone after him she would have now seen him cross into a courtyard.
The locksmith cum medicine man – dealer in crocodile bile poison, love portions and all sorts of alchemy, the owner of the courtyard – was oblivious that a strange visitor lurked outside. The strange visitor took a double swig from his bottle and a certain unfettered fever skyrocketed. The last time he visited, he had bought crocodile bile poison to euthanize his late wife. Cervical cancer the doctor had said. Stage four.
Upon realizing who the stranger was, they left and hurriedly disappeared together onto the path leading to the river.
Robbers and sundry had required the service of the medicine man at odd hours of the night. He was the only medicine man in the village. The only one able to cure a philandering man, so legend had it. More legend had it that he turned into a bat at night and watched over his wife while hanging on the roof. There were many deaths blamed on his medicine, but there were also many miraculous cures credited to his powers. Many scoundrels paid him handsomely for love portions and all sorts of protections. Some people said he kept a big snake and fed it on white rats only, black rats were abominable, it was argued.
But the watchman didn’t care. He was on a delicate mission. To wipe out any memories.
The medicine man was curious that at that time of the night, a man had dragged him from the warmth of his family into the indifferent cold of the night. Even his experience in all sorts of alchemy failed to prophecy what lay ahead for him. Vanessa’s father on the other hand was excited when the two descended towards the bridge. He lit a cigarette.
Vanessa was not aware he purported her sick.
The two men made their way to the bridge silently before a cough came up the smoker’s throat.
“That thing will kill you. You should stop smoking!” The medicine man laughed nervously.
“It’s like saying Esimuka should stop practicing healing!” The medicine man was startled, perhaps it’s the drink, he thought.
“It’s quite different.”
“Quite the same,” he coughed again, “a religion.”
“Blasphemy! Healing is far far far away from smoking.”
“The more things are far far far the more they are near near near.”
They crossed the creaky bridge.
“This thing has outlived any usefulness. When shall we have a proper bridge in this village?”
“Forget it! If after independence, forty four plus years down the line we have no tarmac road, no electricity, not even a pole here. Why dream of a Chinese class bridge?”
“Surely not Chinese class but something more serious than this. It can be done.”
“Not in your lifetime.’
“There must be hope.”
“Don’t cheat yourself.”
“You are quite hopeless!”
“To be hopeful is to be a fool.”
“You are quite a difficult man.”
“I am hard on myself because life has hard realities. So I have learnt to be hard. To be uncompromising.”
Unexpectedly, Tito stopped in his tracks. The unfettered fever and his heartbeat had grown intolerable.
“Worthless, witchcraft practicing pig!” the watchman coughed. “You filthy philandering scum. Hypocrite robbing people’s wives with your charms.” he coughed again and discarded the cigarette, “you are Vanessa’s father and I am going to kill you for sleeping with my wife.”
Before the medicine man could react, Tito had struck the knife into his chest. He groaned and stumbled back as though to turn and run away, then fell. The medicine tool box fell open and spilled its contents into the river. Tito was even quicker in his next move. He stabbed with greater intensity, greater violence the second and third time. Blood splashed onto his hands, face and coat. A couple of planks ripped off the wooden bridge into the river as the victim made his last kicks. Finally the kicking stopped and Esimuka’s corpse fell into the river. There was a loud splash, water sprayed up onto the bridge.
Spitefully, he spat after the body as it sank slowly into the water. He turned away. The knife remained firm in his grip. For a few seconds he stood like he had been struck by thunderbolt. What had he procured? Was it not justice? The knife was crimson with clotting blood. He let it go after the corpse.
The first raindrop had then fallen on his head. More raindrops fell and slid down his face. He started wobbling back to his house to catch the last moments with Vanessa. Perhaps by the time he got home the rain would have washed the blood off his hands and face. Perhaps the poison he had consumed would not have worked before he said goodbye to her.
*
She takes the bottle, turns it in her hands and then hurls it away having no answers. Not having known what had been in that bottle. If only she had known the blood she had just wiped was not his. That her father had taken sorghum whiskey laced with crocodile bile poison that night. That her father would never wake up. He was dead, childless and her birth father had just been murdered by him. If only she knew. She sits staring at the body until the police arrive in the morning, too late to know.
She fetches a jug of water and empties it on his head. She stares in the darkness, as the smell of singed hair fills the room. She strikes a match re-lighting the lamp and wipes the blood on his face with her bed sheets. He doesn’t stir. She notices white foam in his mouth. Slowly, she sits on the bed while looking at him, taking in the sorghum plastic whisky bottle lying emptied between his legs. This is Tito the night watchman.
What has her father taken from that empty bottle? If only she knew.
*
Earlier in the night her father had ventured out after the evening meal of smoked fish and bananas.
Had she known he had been a little tipsy? Perhaps!
Nine years of living a lie, is what he felt his life had encompassed.
Had she trailed him to his bedroom before he left, Vanessa would have heard her father rasp under his alcoholic breath as he read the text message again and again before banging the phone against the wall.
It is not going to be long. I have never gone for chemotherapy at Kenyatta. Where is the money? I am rotting and in the last stages. I am rotting. It is time my husband and your daughter know. Bring a cow and talk as our tradition demands. Man to man. She is yours.
But here he lay.
In the past three days he had doubled his bottle to cure the anguish he felt. His wife’s death was still raw and the earth on her grave still fresh, but it was the betrayal that was like bitter lemon juice on a fresh wound.
Much had been brewing in that head on hunched shoulders, if only Vanessa had known.
Earlier that night in his room he had walked to a metal box that lay open and retracted his omukabuti. The dusty trench coat was long and broad enough for his hunched shoulders but more importantly for his brittle long knife unsheathed from his thin mattress. He was full on sorghum whisky.
He had made his way through shrubby acacia pathways. A bridge he was to cross was five barbed wire fenced farms away from his unfenced little parcel. He took a swig from his bottle and lumbered on like an old soldier wearied of battle. Of all his night watching days, this was the most important one.
If only it were possible she could have intercepted him then.
The night watchman off duty, intoxicating himself, crossed the bridge.
Had she gone after him she would have now seen him cross into a courtyard.
The locksmith cum medicine man – dealer in crocodile bile poison, love portions and all sorts of alchemy, the owner of the courtyard – was oblivious that a strange visitor lurked outside. The strange visitor took a double swig from his bottle and a certain unfettered fever skyrocketed. The last time he visited, he had bought crocodile bile poison to euthanize his late wife. Cervical cancer the doctor had said. Stage four.
Upon realizing who the stranger was, they left and hurriedly disappeared together onto the path leading to the river.
Robbers and sundry had required the service of the medicine man at odd hours of the night. He was the only medicine man in the village. The only one able to cure a philandering man, so legend had it. More legend had it that he turned into a bat at night and watched over his wife while hanging on the roof. There were many deaths blamed on his medicine, but there were also many miraculous cures credited to his powers. Many scoundrels paid him handsomely for love portions and all sorts of protections. Some people said he kept a big snake and fed it on white rats only, black rats were abominable, it was argued.
But the watchman didn’t care. He was on a delicate mission. To wipe out any memories.
The medicine man was curious that at that time of the night, a man had dragged him from the warmth of his family into the indifferent cold of the night. Even his experience in all sorts of alchemy failed to prophecy what lay ahead for him. Vanessa’s father on the other hand was excited when the two descended towards the bridge. He lit a cigarette.
Vanessa was not aware he purported her sick.
The two men made their way to the bridge silently before a cough came up the smoker’s throat.
“That thing will kill you. You should stop smoking!” The medicine man laughed nervously.
“It’s like saying Esimuka should stop practicing healing!” The medicine man was startled, perhaps it’s the drink, he thought.
“It’s quite different.”
“Quite the same,” he coughed again, “a religion.”
“Blasphemy! Healing is far far far away from smoking.”
“The more things are far far far the more they are near near near.”
They crossed the creaky bridge.
“This thing has outlived any usefulness. When shall we have a proper bridge in this village?”
“Forget it! If after independence, forty four plus years down the line we have no tarmac road, no electricity, not even a pole here. Why dream of a Chinese class bridge?”
“Surely not Chinese class but something more serious than this. It can be done.”
“Not in your lifetime.’
“There must be hope.”
“Don’t cheat yourself.”
“You are quite hopeless!”
“To be hopeful is to be a fool.”
“You are quite a difficult man.”
“I am hard on myself because life has hard realities. So I have learnt to be hard. To be uncompromising.”
Unexpectedly, Tito stopped in his tracks. The unfettered fever and his heartbeat had grown intolerable.
“Worthless, witchcraft practicing pig!” the watchman coughed. “You filthy philandering scum. Hypocrite robbing people’s wives with your charms.” he coughed again and discarded the cigarette, “you are Vanessa’s father and I am going to kill you for sleeping with my wife.”
Before the medicine man could react, Tito had struck the knife into his chest. He groaned and stumbled back as though to turn and run away, then fell. The medicine tool box fell open and spilled its contents into the river. Tito was even quicker in his next move. He stabbed with greater intensity, greater violence the second and third time. Blood splashed onto his hands, face and coat. A couple of planks ripped off the wooden bridge into the river as the victim made his last kicks. Finally the kicking stopped and Esimuka’s corpse fell into the river. There was a loud splash, water sprayed up onto the bridge.
Spitefully, he spat after the body as it sank slowly into the water. He turned away. The knife remained firm in his grip. For a few seconds he stood like he had been struck by thunderbolt. What had he procured? Was it not justice? The knife was crimson with clotting blood. He let it go after the corpse.
The first raindrop had then fallen on his head. More raindrops fell and slid down his face. He started wobbling back to his house to catch the last moments with Vanessa. Perhaps by the time he got home the rain would have washed the blood off his hands and face. Perhaps the poison he had consumed would not have worked before he said goodbye to her.
*
She takes the bottle, turns it in her hands and then hurls it away having no answers. Not having known what had been in that bottle. If only she had known the blood she had just wiped was not his. That her father had taken sorghum whiskey laced with crocodile bile poison that night. That her father would never wake up. He was dead, childless and her birth father had just been murdered by him. If only she knew. She sits staring at the body until the police arrive in the morning, too late to know.
Moses Abukutsa is 31 years old. He went to Musingu High School in western Kenya and studied English Literature at Masinde Muliro University. In addition to short fiction, he also writes poetry and is planning to write a novel.