Hail Holy Queen

Hail holy Queen, Mother of Mercy…

His right hand violently tears my blouse and yanks the lacy bra beneath. I can hear the shiny buttons that I adored so much dropping on the screed; everything is happening so fast yet ironically, the world around me appears to be moving in slow motion. The sounds are too loud; the air feels like a heavy blanket.  He grabs one of my breasts. His hands are rough, so rough… almost like that grade 40 sandpaper Otieno uses at his workshop.

Hail Our life, our sweetness and our hope…

He’s breathing ruggedly, panting like a mongrel.  His sandpaper hands shift from my breasts and make their way down to my skirt. He pulls my panties aside and shoves one of his vile fingers down my womanhood.

In and out, in and out.

Does this man know anything about sex? Didn’t he pick anything from those high school biology classes?  Doesn’t he atleast  understand simple Physics? Surely, even those old men who own bicycles understand the importance of lubrication yet they never stepped into a classroom. Our education system is a sham.

To you do we cry, poor banished children of Eve…

His mind must have told him that I was now ready.  With trembling hands,  he unzipped his trouser and removed his thing.  Dark and hairy, half soft-half aroused.  Almost like one of those caterpillars whose fur makes you itch, only difference is that this was bigger.  He held it in his hands and struggled to ram it inside me.

Square pole, round hole…it doesn’t work like that, you have to use force. I felt like telling him to let me please him. What’s the point of going through all the trouble if you’re not going to enjoy it? But then again, I remembered that there are beasts amongst humans who enjoy the vilest of acts. Besides, he had gagged my mouth, my hands were bound. I was merely a prop in a play whose script I was clueless about.

 To you do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this vale of tears

He finally succeeded in pushing his thing all the way in . Then begun unceremonious pumping;  the only thing I could feel was the searing pain as the soft tissues of my vaginal opening were torn. My mind was blank, I examined the ceiling. Gyproc.  The catalogue had said.

I must have passed out. I didn’t remember him pouring himself into me. I didn’t remember his body collapsing on top of mine with exhaustion. I didn’t get to hear his grunts of release. I didn’t get to see him standing up to leave. All I remember is Aunty’s voice as she let out a shrill scream. The floor was cold on my back. All my body was sore. My vagina was on fire. This is what hell must feel like.

Turn then most gracious advocate, your eyes of mercy towards us…

I was never taken to the hospital.  You see , Aunty is a nurse. That day after finding me, she took me in her arms, bathed me herself, laid me on my bed,  rushed to the hospital and came back with a bunch of drugs.

“Swallow these.” She ordered.

Amidst my sobs as I told her that it was her husband who had defiled me, she sternly looked at me, “It happens to the best of us. People make mistakes, we must forgive them. Let me never hear a word of this again, am I clear?” she said.

That night, he came home and she served him dinner. Business as usual.  That pathetic scum of a human! How was I to live with myself after this? My world had just toppled over.

And after this our exile, show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus…

Do you now understand why I have to do this, dear mother Mary?  Do you?  It’s been a year and the scene keeps replaying in my mind. Every night, a new tormentor visits me in my dreams. It’s a different man each night, all bearing Uncle’s face but with different bodies. Some are big, some are small.  Each torments me worse than the predecessor.  I have become afraid of sleep. That’s when the torture begins. What good is life if even the daytime feels like a nightmare?

O Merciful…

The knife feels heavy in my hand. I trace my finger along the edge of the blade. It’s sharp alright. That Wambua chap from the kibanda does a bloody good job with that machine of his.

 Bloody. See what I did there?

He’s now staring at me with pleading eyes. I have meted on him the same treatment he gave me. Do unto others what you would like done unto you. Hands bound, mouth gagged. With the same rod you measure your neighbour’s transgressions, so will yours be measured.  The only difference is that I will not do it hurriedly.

Where’s the pleasure in that? I pride myself in executing my tasks slowly but meticulously.  Oh, and I  trapped his legs under the huge sofa set. Who has got the strength to struggle with a grown man?

O Loving…

I casually draw the knife across his throat. A Crimson line quickly appears. He tries screaming, eyes wide open. No sound comes out. He tries to wriggle, toss and turn, all to no avail. The sight of first blood invokes a weird hunger within my depths. This time, I dig the knife a little deeper.  It starts trickling down his neck onto his chest.  The warm fluid feels so good on my hands. Aah, sweet revenge. I am overcome by some sort of frenzy.  Blood is life, right?

I suddenly want more and more of this man’s life. I want it all.  I repeatedly puncture his throat, then his chest. The blood gushes out in torrents, like that kitchen tap connected to the mains.  I let my hands soak in its glory. It feels so good, so good I tell you.

Oh Sweet Loving Mary…

He’s now gone limp. I stand and watch the life flowing out of his body from a distance.   It won’t be long now, 20 Minutes, take or give.  My job was done.

 I drop the knife, head over to the sink and wash my hands then make a cup of ginger tea.  Aunty would be home any minute now. She’d call the police, I’d be detained, they’d do those mental examinations on me, I’d  plead guilty, they’d give me life sentence. .  At least in prison,  the nightmares would end. I’d be at peace. My fate was sealed.

I’m now on my last sip. The doorbell just rang. Perfect timimg.


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