The Tears of A Villager

The Most Kept Secret of Power Struggle. Fear meets courage in this adrenaline-charged account of a fight for justice.
“The enemy has taken the decision away from the residents. That choice has not been treasured. During these deferments our enemy has acted with latitude to alter the end“. Is Mufasazi right to claim conquest or is he just a rhetoric warrior on top of things? What happens next, opens a lid off a tin of hocus-pocus. Will the truth be known?

_____________________

1

April eighteen, brought up the sun from the eastern horizon in no unusual ways. It was a beautiful day just like any other day granted with ‘favour’ to the Pious Land. Lunch break time saw the habitual meal of nsima and chicken served in our kitchen at our office in the fussy-scented city of Lusaka. Satisfied with the less body-changing starch, let alone brewing the illness of sleepy moods in our brains, brought indolent talks among us in the afternoon unlike putting mind and body to work.

“Why do people fall in love?” Jethro asked as he stood up, laptop in his hands looking lost in thoughts.

“Well, my question would be why don’t you fall in love?” I asked, looking up to him trying to size-up his intellectual-libido that could be seen from the rolls of the eyes. He embarrassingly smiled and like one hit with a boomerang, instantly thudded his bottom back on his swinging chair, placing his laptop on the lap looking at me with searching eyes.

“Do you think I am gay?” he loathly asked his face as expressionless as the appearance of an imp.

“Of-course you are Jethro”, Zachariah chipped in, his face supressing a broad smile allowing his chocolate teeth showing out the unexpected colour from an intelligent young man as him.

“That’s an insult Zach. You can’t honestly imagine me having sex with you, would you?” Jethro repulsively responded, his fingers faking tapping the key board of his laptop.

“Come on Jet, you are gay for real. Look at you, always fun, happy, busy and cheerful. That’s what it means to be gay, sometimes you are even boisterous” I explained, trying by all necessary means to make sense of what I was saying to him so as to cool his temperament down.

“Exactly so the Boy, that’s what I meant”, lying between his teeth, Zachariah mockingly backed-up. Jethro without any ado momentarily stood up and walked away, leaving the room inconspicuously silent. The talk seemed gibberish and divisive. But what was friendship for anyway?   

Hours later it was day over; each one of us for themselves heading home; for those who wished so, and I was one of them.  

Adventure had always been my song. Taking mini buses with the noisy story-teller commuters always amused me, little did I knew that sometimes, somehow amusement had a price tag. And I had to dip down the empty pockets of my brains to fetch for a coin that never surfaced. I commuted on the Los Angeles Road bus sand-witched by the seemingly notorious Kaluma and Jolau townships; heading home in Mazeni Islamic.

“Babapishe boonse baku Rwanda. Chacilamo – all Rwandese must be chased away. It’s too much”, a scraggily plump looking woman chastised as the mini-bus rumbled west ward.

“What have they done?” a neatly dressed man asked in a rather sober tone.

“Ndiye bapaya bantu mu nkomponi oomu. Sitigona nabwino pela – they are the ones murdering people. We don’t even sleep at night”, the woman reprimanded, her face glittering with sweat.

“Do you have proof madam? Do you know that that’s a serious case of spreading information likely to bring breach of peace to the nation?” the man with a tense tone, spoke on top of his voice.

“But do you have proof yourself that they are not the ones bringing so much confusion among us?” a young man seated next to me asked, presumably upset with the man’s remarks.

“I don’t have proof that’s the reason we need to leave it all to the authorities to do their job”, the man in a cool tone replied. He seemed to have realised that he was walking a tight line of argument.

“Which authorities?” the young man inquired.

“Police of-course”, the man replied.

“Are you one of them?” the young man asked looking over his shoulder to see the person he was talking to.

“Ndimwe bamozi-nabamozi ba Kapokola mwavuta. Kukonda ndalama musebezela pamozi nabamene – you are the same people, you Police who collude with them for money”, the woman charged and the mini-bus went into flames of free for all laughter.

 Suddenly, the bus came to an instant halt and the driver ordered everyone to get out for he was not ready to proceed with the trip to Mazeni; reason? Kania Riot Police in full gear had menaced Kaluma and Jolau townships from Zoe Gate area, firing tear gas canisters all over the place beating up and arresting anything that was moving. Obliged, we all stepped down, breathing-in Dutch courage I walked towards danger in a group of other infuriatedly troubled township dwellers. Close to five hundred meters walking, we could not be reminded a second time - the whole area a head of us was clothed in whitey itchy smelling smoke.  

Transitorily, I was mystically separated from the group. Where the Police fully-packed open pick-up van came from, I could not blink to think even for a second. I was caught like a rat with no hole to hide nearby. Standing in between wall fences two pick up vans loaded with baton-wielding paramilitary Police, blocked the either way of the end of my path. The sweaty, riot-mongers jumped out like soldiers on “mission impossible” and charged towards me. 

The first baton landed on my clean shaven head. I could feel it bending across my skull. I ran my right palm to feel whether or not my brain was still smartly packed inside the skull. There was something unrealistic with my head. “Nacita cani boss – what have I done boss?” was all that my mouth could produce. But this young Policeman probably in his early 20s continued clobbering me on my back and shoulder. My laptop tightly held in my hands like my newly found love. Instincts on my nerves, I quickly slid my smart phone in my underwear.

“Mwaiyamba mweka isilizeni tione – You have started it, let’s see how you will finish it.” The young police officer said as the four of them dragged me to the van; my handsome face hidden on my chest like a wizard caught practicing his hocus-pocus in public illegally. They could do anything they wanted with the rest of my body but I would not allow them to touch my face and my laptop, and the best way was to hide it.

My fellow victim standing haggardly next to me was bleeding profusely from the nostrils. I daringly looked at the young police officer in front of me, in the eyes. Mucus was running down his nose. “Uniyangana cani - why are you looking at me?” he shouted at me and I swiftly diverted my attention to a female police officer wearing a general duty uniform, standing next to the van. She avoided my stare. They bundled me in the van, my laptop clutched tightly to my chest. I lay on my face as two paramilitary guys out of all the pack probably twenty according to my curious estimates hammered my back time to time.

Then the van sped off. I told my heart to relax and to expect the worst. I knew what would happen next. Once in Police cells, hell would break lose the moment they discover my career connections. I have had that before. So I accepted whatever it was to come. 

Beatings continued in the Van. The more they beat me the painless the baton became. I could feel the frustration from the beater. One hammered the back of my head the other one my back. The van cruised on like a Presidential Challenger jet on a run way. I didn’t want to lose anything so I stayed calm and attentive. Something told me everything was under control. Suddenly the van stopped. “Bwana tabwela tikasiye vimambala eevi pa station – Sir, we will be back after leaving these rogues at the Police Station” the same young Policeman announced. I begged for my phone not to ring under there where it enjoyed the comfort of my warmth. Surrounded by a pack of these human-weapons I was physically rendered powerless. I could hear my fellow captive groaning under the twenty plus officers who sat on him.  

Then we reached Kaluma Police Post. “Cokani fast, azasalila tipaya – Get down quickly, whoever delays will be killed” the young Policeman announced. They all jumped down and my other three captives rolled down too. My laptop bag got entangled in one Police officer’s leg but I couldn’t leave my gadget there. One Policeman tried to pull me down. I refused as I held my laptop telling the officer to step out. The other one tried to push me out but I couldn’t move. Batons came and went on my back. Painful as they were my laptop wouldn’t be left in the car. Then the laptop strapping got torn and I secured my property and stooped up. Then a strange thing happened.

Three Paramilitary Police officers held my left shoulder trying to throw me down the van but just there, on my right shoulder a voice bellowed, “Kaleke aaka nikaziba – leave this one, I know him.” I glanced at the person who was talking as he pulled me to his side, overpowering the other three Officers who let me loose. “Coka aapa tamanga – Get down and run” one of them commanded. I looked at my rescuer, but I could not recognise him. I reluctantly jumped down the van and trotted through a maze of green uniformed police officers like a rat escaping a close shave from a hungry Cat. The army of riot Police friendly looked at me as I went away like nothing serious was going on. Kaluma Township was on fire. Residents had burnt someone to death, accusing him of being behind the alleged ritual murders that were the order of the moment, barely four months to Election Day.

My home was a catalyst for reality – fear of the unknown. I sat on my favourite sofa overlooking my cute LCD Tv screen and breathed out heavily. What happened was a tale of a time of nominal disarray. The period that brought different radical camps inside homes where they illuminated further sheds of tears as rules of the political game could not know any boundaries of blood closeness. I picked up my mobile phone and called my colleague Zachariah. It took me dialling his number six times before his senses could figure out that the call wasn’t social.

“Where are you Boy?” Zach as I used to call him, answered on top of his voice trying to beat the loud noise of music and merry-making revellers. He was at East Point Night Club cracking the Friday night off.

“I am home Zach….” But the line went dead. I sat in silence trying to figure out on whom to lean on; I needed to talk to someone or my head would go bonkers. Jethro came to mind and I quickly rang him.

“This is past 8p.m what’s up Boy?” he asked sounding sleepy.

“Yes Jet, and it’s too early for you to befriend the blankets”, I replied.

“What else can a gay guy do apart from sleeping?” he remarked rather rudely, and I realised the effects of the work jest hadn’t evaporated yet from his mind.

“Oh…Jet come-on. That was a joke for heaven’s sake!”

“A joke my foot Boy! You can’t joke so roughly to me. What if our office is bugged and some Red-Brick snoozer gets to hear about it?”

“Who can bug our office Jet? There are more serious people Red-Brick would rather snooze on and not us”, I defended his nonsense, which was in-fact sensible.

“Don’t be sure about that Boy. This is not a period of care-free for people like us. You know we are on the microscope of Red-Brick”, calmly Jethro emphasised.

“Could that be the reason for my attack?” I brought in the heart of the matter.

“Who attacked you?” he asked his voice so alert and choky.

“Riot Police in Kaluma on my way home”, Jethro laughed out loudly.

“Are you a victim to that Kaluma fracas? I saw a news item on LBN. Damn! What happened?” It became apparent as I summarised the event of the day to him that, the police knew me.

“You think luck was at your beck and call for you to be released like that?”Jethro asked after I had told him the story. “You are on the microscope Boy. Trust me on that. You haven’t seen it yet”, he added.

“But how do you know that?”

“Well, someone could even be listening to our conversation now?”

“You mean our phones are tapped?”

“There are camps you know that Boy; and you know they know that you are close to the one who stands as a pin in their political ass”, Jethro explained.

“Mufasazi Mudenge?”I asked to be sure of what my crazily paranoid colleague was trying to put across.

“I don’t have to repeat myself Boy. How many time have you talked about his story, illogically it may have sounded to be, but with no apologies, yet really pertinacious to us – a story you have always referred to as, of a mere black sheep among a flock of self-baptised white sheep with so much doubt in your head?”

“But you know Jet that I dropped that idea. If a Paramount Chief had called for a clan meeting to boast about himself, he callously would have had the right resources. And an intellectual would have shown enough metaphysical fibres woven in the Grey matter to share. But me! Am I such a figure to have such burning points to drive home about? Do I have anything unique to inscribe home about on such a personality as this man? I am barely an exhibition of transparent 206 bones – the airy non-living skeletal frame of a drearily curious man walking. Isn’t it?” I responded rather moodily. 

“But this is the Twenty-first Century Boy, the much-admired period for classlessness. The question therefore that encroach my mind is not whether this path will continue even in the next century, but whether we will ever reach another of its kind! And if we ever find ourselves there – in which state of mind shall we all be? The very mad state some of us have been claimed to be? No fishes to fry though for guessing where I am driving you to. It’s all about history, the record of the past events Boy. The ball is in your hands”, Jethro lectured, his voice as strong as that of an army commander. 

“Some men Jethro, says William Shakespeare in his play Twelfth Night, are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them. It would be common-sense too, isn’t it, to further state that, some struggle for greatness, but the result is, but nothing. Such people have a life full of mist. They have secret faces full of comedy of errors. A black alphabet encircles their humanity. They are people in the senseless privacy with a badge of the unknowns. Every moment they push themselves up in the ‘sensible’ public with an effort to be counted too, they are bound to be reduced from their natural habitual eminence to the conjoint sails of the miserable nonentities. Their private faces in public places, which were supposed to be wiser and nicer than public faces in private places as W.H Auden says in the book Collected Poems II, becomes hackneyed astuteness. Even their crying voice is swept to less than silence”, I tried to convince him that I was not ready for such a task.

“But then some ancient history comes in and pats us at our backs and says; ‘silence is the virtue of fools’. Enlightened, we discover that in fact history is not the record of great men or important movements only; but that in every era even the nonentity is deeply involved in events! To that effect, Thomas Szasz opines: “The stupid neither forgives nor forgets; the naïve forgive and forget; the wise forgives but does not forget”, exhilarated I even add that, such people often record what they hear, touch and see”, Jethro spoke with more authority than ever before. I felt a pang of desolate run down my spine. Something strange was cultivating my soul. He seemed to been on the right track.

“Where do I start from Jet? There is a lot happening in this land of fakes”, I thought out.

“This is not a diary Boy; it is not a history book either, or is it a biographical expose. This is a tale about the tears shed silently, but loud enough to be heard by the land’s most politically and socially misconstrued villager seeking justice and not sympathy. Lay your life on it, or you will die turning in your grave”, Jethro pushed.

“That’s so strong a word Jet”, I cautioned.

“That’s the reason you must touch on it. It’s your duty”.

*                                   *                                   * 

The D-Day came with all its pomp and baritones; regardless of which school of thought anyone belonged to, the day stood-ever akimbo probably dauntingly so, like an expose of the “King in Magical Suit”, as one of the nation’s land mark pole bearers in the choosing process of the nation’s leadership since the return to plural decree two decades past. Based on how one looked at the balloting dispensation of the land at the time, various points of view showered the various media platforms each trying to find space to be heard, for freedom was determined on how easy one was able to express themselves.

Mufasazi Mudenge, moving from ‘Under Five’ became the stiffest contender in the ballot any ruling Gang have ever had since the days of post-imperial master against the small wolves-in-sheep’s skin orators that came out later. The days of infancy in statute melted out of him as he flew the width and breadth of the land soliciting for a favour to the top most-job in a wailing land of self-imposed pious residents. His diplomatic language changed from smooth fiscal negotiations, to street abstract semantics of damage control and opponent malaise. But at the end of it all, he narrowly wasn’t declared conqueror after the final tardy outcome was proclaimed.  

Mufasazi wasn’t amused. Neither was bemusement his neck-tie on an official day. He wasn’t either gay or was he boisterous as we used to jest our work colleague Jethro. Fear seemed to have been buried in his long treks criss-crossing the umbilical shaped land of his ancestors; ego wasn’t his food anymore. He had undressed his business suits and his African dogmatic seizure had taken a larger part of his life. He was not going to stand akimbo like a fool on fools-day and cheer his adversary to the investiture. He was beyond doubt conquest was mugged out of his pocket; and he was going to take the bull by its horn to get it back.     

“Today the enemy has effected a coup on our self-rule process. The will of the masses has been changed in an illegitimate and autocratic way. We submitted proof before the declaration of the outcomes regarding the gross peccadilloes that have taken place. In any free, fair, transparent and self-ruled system this would have been enough to prompt verification in the affected areas. But our land no longer operates that way”, Mufasazi bellowed to an excited crowd of both his supporters and journalists four days after the final outcome was declared.

“The Ballot Head boy [BH] has taken the decision away from the people. The land owners made their decision. That decision has not been treasured. During these postponements the enemy has acted with impunity to change the end. We endured countless obstacles and perversions of our classlessness throughout the battle period. We cannot now accept the manipulation of the choice itself. That is why we will not accept the end. We will be launching a Legitimate Court supplication on the basis of the proof we have collated and presented to BH. As the Supreme Law sets out, once we have launched our supplication then there must be no investiture until the matter is settled in the court. This is according to a provision in the new Statutory Amendment Bill that the enemy himself acquiesced to just a few months ago. 

“The independence of BH has been compromised, after coming under pressure from the enemy. We will now place our faith in the Legitimate Court, in the people of the Land”.

It was bluntly crystal clear and above reproach. No one needed interpretation of his word. Mufasazi was breathing fire. But many underestimated his approach to issues of his desire. Statesmen of the land were known as minions devoid of laxity, Quakers and quick quitters. But for him, this was the beginning of the land’s shock waves in the way classlessness was run in the land. The permissible battle lines were drawn; less to the expectations of the squads from the other combat lines. They took his word as cries of an underdog; sooner or later he would get over it, get back to his bedroom and have it quits; probably even stepping down as head of the most popular hostile Gang. In a week at most, so his adversaries thought, he would drink his religious sober mind off, probably with some exotic non-alcoholic Italian-made wine and find his way to Champions Stadium to claim a spot for an inclusive regime. Fanatically, for the gloom-darers, it was all joy on the crown of their heads hoping beyond their Gospel beatitudes that light would shine at the end of it all. Tragically for the doom-darers, the next 14 days were the most annoying and emotionally charged days they had ever felt since the days of the charismatic wolves-in-sheep’s skins plodding for the Third Stint two eras past.

Mufasazi Mudenge proved above anything else, to be a soul that never resided in the closet of hit and run games. He showed both his protagonists and antagonists that he wasn’t a walk-over. That afternoon I rode in my immaculate Benz to his Gang’s meeting place. Word had gone round from his stalwarts who chose whom to share it with, that he was going to talk to the Press. I parked my beautiful toy two hundred meters away and majestically walked to the venue like I was one of the dignitaries invited to eat from the high table. From afar I could see a swarm of jostling figures milling around like dogs snoozing for some piece of a carcass somewhere. That kind of behaviour was easy to notice. Red Brick moles registered as members of the Press were busy having cell phone conversations with who-knew-whom on the other side of the lines. I walked past one of them carrying a small note book in his hands looking so pale and bored.

“Hello…” I greeted as I walked past him. The tall light complexioned man just nodded at me as his small cheap mobile phone handset flashed, signalling an incoming call. He strolled away from me, stealing a stare at me over his shoulder. He probably wasn’t comfortable with my presence. He knew surely so, that spy always spy on each other. That’s how the world of dog eat dog was invented.

Troops of dignitaries and pressmen and women continued filling up the place. I didn’t want to miss any drop of the event. So I walked closer to a simply decorated table where Mufasazi was to address the people. His supporters looked so agitated and alert. It was like seeing bullied children taking control of their house where the school-bully was around. Within an hour, the grounds were thick with a crowd of people who answered the call. I took out my ordinary looking mobile phone and readied my viva video mobile app to capture footages of what was to happen.

“Which branch are you from? Military?” I heard a voice almost in a whisper closer to my right ear. Without guessing I knew who it was; the light complexioned tall man I just greeted a while ago. I looked over my shoulder and tipped up my head to see his face, but he avoided my stare.

“I am not from the Special Branch”, I replied looking at him with a friendly smile.

“I have heard that several times before. I know it when I meet one”, he said looking down on me. His eyes were bloody red like one who had never had sleep in a year.

“Well, you should be fired this time around I guess”, I flattered with him.

“Why is it that?” he inquired interestedly.

“Because I am not one of you”, I replied.

“By the way what do you think it is he is going to talk about?” he changed the subject of the conversation.

“Who?” I pretended ignorance of what he was saying.

“You see. You are very smart. You know exactly what I am talking about”, the tall light complexioned man remarked.

“Of course computer hackers are smarter than computer software innovators. Isn’t that the first question you were supposed to ask me instead of faking your identity in the first place?” I replied and he giggled, making a lady who stood in front of us looking back with interest.

“Anything fun?” I asked him.

“Are you from the Inner Circle team?” he seriously asked.

“If you think I am smarter than you, why don’t you ask your boss to recruit me because I think you are useless if ordinary men like me can easily identify who you are?” I smartly threatened. I could see his face turning yellowish. He was uneasy.

“I work for Times”, he shyly said closer to my ears. I tittered with a mocking giggle and told him that pressmen did not lowly announce their identities. Then his mobile phone flashed and he excused himself and walked away. The lady in front of me looked back again and our eyes met. Her face was familiar. I realised she had all along eavesdropping on our conversation with the tall light complexioned man. I smelled a rat. Just then Mufasazi appeared on the podium; he looked like Savimbi. He was undoubtedly furious and deeply sad. From a man like that, anything was possible, but who was I to judge a man whose spirit was stronger than my bottom at that moment?

The moment he started talking in a mellow baritone the whole place went deadly silent. It was like an ominous buzz echoed around putting everyone in a submissive trance. He outlined his Gang’s grounds on which they would launch their supplication. In reality, he announced that the grounds were many, but they included withholding of forms from their polling agents in order to enable tampering with the results in favour of the enemy.

“Without authenticated certificates for the stations there is no validity in the computation process. The HB itself acknowledged this fact, agreeing to a verification and re-quantification of totals in Lusaka district and the formation of a task team to oversee the process just yesterday afternoon, before the decision was later reversed under pressure from the enemy”, Mufasazi energetically spoke, his face beaming with the seriousness of a war monger commander. It was like he stood on holy land, commandeering the waging of holy-war on the enemies of the spirits.

“The intimidation of our agents at stations during the totalling process, whereby the enemy’s supporters physically kicked them out before having uncontrolled access to the poll boxes cannot be let go without an action on it. Discrepancies in the choice count and the end issued by the totalling centre, for example the case of the 14,039 of our missing counts in Kaluma that were later found in the bin is unacceptable and criminal. Even after this, however, the BH announced a figure lesser than the actual one. We are compiling a list of other such instances to present to the courts”. The mood was electrifying. I didn’t know whether to believe his words as gospel truth, or take them as war mongering. But whatever the case was, one thing was undoubted – he meant business. I could see the lady in front of me shifting her legs from one position to the other as Mufasazi spoke. She seemed to have itching feet. Something was pricking her under-feet, and whatever it was, was making her feel like she would wet her pants.

“There were instances where a higher number of choices were cast than registered choosers; and the discovery of pre-marked choosing papers outside of Air force HQ in Lusaka as late as Sunday morning, are glaring incidents tantamount to high treason we will not sleep while these matters lie unsolved”.

Mufasazi’s pronouncements were catchy to his supporters and awfully threatening to his foes. He stated that his Gang had specific proof of gross peccadilloes in a number of constituencies, including all of the urban populations. My head was singing the tunes of the land anthem. If his claims were as boldly true as his authority, a horn of dilemma looked locking the incumbent headship. What would happen in the event the Legitimate Court gave him his day and ticket to First House; would a court over-turn a conquest declaration of a sitting Head? In an event this happened, would the declared victor give up authority on a silver plate? These and many more questions made rounds in my head as I listened and pondered on what I thought I knew what it meant if Mufasazi got the white handkerchief from the Legitimate Court. On the other side, it was inconspicuously unpredictable as to what would be the reaction from those networks of the streets, who knew little or if anything nothing about the rules of the court let alone a “win and lose” game.  

“If we fail to stand up for our classlessness today then we undermine our prospects for peace and development in the weeks, months and years to come”. These words from Mufasazi were like answering so many unanswered queries that lay horny in my sticky brain to be satisfied out of their curiosity. The Land of our departed souls stood akimbo; its people sat on the fence. No one was utterly sure how to handle the matter. Barristers took sides; courts had lost their public trust; residents were divided.  

Stealthily, I stalked out of the hypnotised crowd and like a preying-mantis walked to my car. Once behind the steering wheel I felt my palms were wet. The metabolism of my body was reckless with the feelings of the atmosphere. I ran my thoughts through my mind trying to find out what was Mufasazi upto. Did he really have the proof that would legally throw the incumbent out of authority rightly? Or was it just a dogmatic mental game to buy time for his healing the beating; or was he just a rancorous dud, seeking international sympathy? Was Mufasazi shedding village tears as a sign of honest that had a genuine case to be heard? The days ahead smelt as dramatic as the days of the baboons. Just as I started the engine of my car, I heard a light tap on the window of my door. Coming out of a mental seizure, I jerked up and with reflex directed my attention to the direction of the sound. A medium heightened lady stood by the side of the car looking at me with a ghostly smile. I lowered the glass of the door and immediately my nostrils caught a strong sweet aroma of her deodorant.

“Are you leaving now?” she invitingly asked as if we knew each other from somewhere.

“When was I supposed to leave?” I manned my ratio of silly question equal to silly answer equation.

“Isn’t that rude?” she calmly asked, her cheeks producing the most beautiful dimples I had ever seen since the banning of Eva from the Garden of Eden.

“Wasn’t that crude? Asking a stranger a question meant for someone you know?” I challenged.

“But I know you. The Boy, right?” she faked a recognisance, and I could see through it. My job had taught me so many tricks on how to catch ghosts in broad day light.

“Wrong”, I said and let the car move slowly. Her eyebrows slightly tweaked. It was a sign of panic. “Why were you staring at me there?” I asked her as I pressed my right foot on the brake pedal bringing the car to a silent halt.

“Me? I have just arrived here?” she lied to a man like me who had been duped so many times by the best trick-stars before.

“Congratulations”, I remarked my eyes gazing at her over-done cleaver-age.

“What for?” she foolishly replied walking closer to the car, mistaking my gaze to a sensuous attraction.

“If you have just arrived here, how come you are shocked that I am leaving so early? Where did you take your earlier clothes you had put on? Is there a dressing room nearby here?” I shoved her tricks with my mental chess moves and her face fell below her nose. She slightly turned her head before she quickly looked at me again in a symbol of some kind of a signal to someone, asking why I was so rude to a beautiful lady like her instead of offering her ride back to town.

“I only carry sluts. So if you are one of them, be my guest”, I tested my theory. If she was going to accept, then she wasn’t a slut and her intentions weren’t good. She looked passed me as if searching for something inside my car with her eyes. Thank goodness for my trained cognizance, the energy around her was so negatively muddy. Its stench was so deathly smelly that as she was about to open the door of the car to get in, I quickly locked the doors and sped off.

Momentarily, the tall light complexioned man appeared from nowhere. I could see him from the inside view mirror walking towards the lady who stood so resignedly shocked. It was a close shave, I thought as I drove back in the city that had apparently become a haven of blood and wine. Niccolo Machiavelli’s arguments that ‘the first method for estimating the intelligence of a ruler is to look at the men he has around him’, showered my thoughts as I parked my buck at Vestus Pub at Downtown Mall. A clearing of the throat was the only best massage my rusty gullet needed.