Mrs Makwati was through with her rehearsals. Her husband, Makwati, would be with his ancestors before dawn. She had placed the screwdriver, with which she was going to make a puncture into his chest, under her pillow. The odour of his blood filled her bedroom as if he had been bleeding from the night they had first shared the room, which was eight years ago.
She was going to dispatch him. He had battered her long enough, and it was time he should pay back with his blood. Yes, his blood was going to recompense for the tears that had drained from her skull.
Makwati’s delayed return made his wife’s thoughts even more venomous. She would not surrender herself to the police after finishing with him. That would not differ from playing a cowardly game. She wanted nothing to steal from her the satisfaction of seeing him dead, even for a minute. After driving the screwdriver into his chest, she was going to commit suicide.
One blow would be enough to avenge the countless pummels that had landed on her skull, her face and any other body parts that were unfortunate enough to be exposed to his murderous fury. If pounding her body had not found him peace, he would find peace in the lifeless rest that was stalking him.
****
Things had gone awry between the couple when Makwati had discovered that Rudo, whom his wife called niece, was indeed her daughter. She was the product of her failed relationship with her childhood lover. Mrs Makwati had taught her biological child to call her aunt. She, together with her family, had lied to him that Rudo was the daughter of her late sister. The girl had spent most of her childhood in Makwati’s custody, and he had never denied her the love of a father.
Mrs Makwati never knew how her husband had discovered her hottest secret. Coming home inebriated, the first time he had consumed alcoholic stuff, he had greeted her thus, “How was your day MaRudo,” instead of MaJoseph. Despite her discomfiture, she had risen to give him the usual hug, but a lead weight fist had struck her in the centre of her smiling face, propelling her backwards and she landed on a sofa with a mighty force.
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“You thought I would never know,” he growled.
Undeterred by his wife’s hysterical screams, he had unfastened his leather belt and assaulted her all over the body. The children had rushed out of their bedrooms to check what the matter was, but he, in a moment of frenzy, had threatened them with death. They went back to their bedrooms and cried themselves to sleep.
This new twist in Mrs Makwati’s relationship became the new normal in her life. She partly blamed herself for the lie she thought would buy her a lasting relationship. Now the lie seemed to have cleared her way to a premature grave rest.
No one would ever tell her how after a breakdown on his way back home, Norman Makwati had boarded a bus back home and had become fellow passengers with Nelie’s childhood lover and his former classmate. The men who sat behind him apparently knew about him but had probably never met him. They spoke animatedly about their experiences until one of them said, “Hey, Nelie was the ideal candidate for my wedding ring, but fate had better plans for me,” Mrs Makwati’s childhood lover had told his old classmate. The man had spoken of how his connection to his first love remained as solid as a rock, how he would remain a prisoner to the fond memories of her.
“Forget her and make the best out of your lawful bed partner,“ his old friend had said, “Your parents rejected her because you were too young to be a father. Now you are old enough not to allow the withered roses of bygone days to flourish again.”
“But we had a daughter, and I wish I had married her just for my daughter’s sake,” Rudo’s father said ruefully. “Now she is married to a certain Norman, a prosperous insurance broker. I wish I could strangle that man and get my family back.”
“You know what my friend, Norman is the hero in her life, and you, the sordid memory she struggles to erase from her mind.” Both men laughed at the impertinence of a joke that did not sound so much like a joke.
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Without asking himself how many people had a past to bury with the wind that fanned its flames, Norman allowed this incident to catalyse his metamorphosis from an Angel to a beast.
****
Now his wife was ready for him. He had stormed out of the house in the morning when his wife had called him infertile.
“You need to be grateful to the men whose potency make you a proud father,” she had ejaculated. “Even Joseph and Beverly are not your children.”
Mrs Makwati did not regret adding another lie to the lie that had complicated her life, but the possibility of an envenomed Makwati returning home to finish her off had made it incumbent on her to take the necessary precautions.
When he finally arrived home, he had found the main door and his bedroom door unlocked. It was past midnight, and he was not drunk. He crawled into his usual half of the bed and gathered his wife into his arms. He regretted how he had overreacted to his knowledge about the animate result of his wife’s childhood relationship. Countless premarital relationships did not bring forth such a result, but what big difference was there? The weightier side of the entire issue was the experience of one man’s performance before settling down with another, then the secret fondness and the nostalgia that went with the memory.
Confused by her man’s subdued nature, Mrs Makwati did not know if it was time to apologise and give her marriage another chance. The venom of her anger evaporated, leaving behind helpless femininity that only desired his strength. She longed to hear his voice say, “Don’t worry, Dear. Everything will be all right.” How then would he be her strength when he felt so drained?
She slowly drifted into a deep sleep, like someone being lowered into a bottomless hole, but feeling too weak to protest. Her slumber was, however, spared by the nightmares of what she had done, despite the presence of the screwdriver under her pillow. The confidence that filled her mind when she woke up almost made her smile. She was going to apologise to Makwati for keeping from him the most disturbing secret of her life. She would have to beg him to disregard the angry utterances she had made about his infertility. She was sure he would understand.
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She would kneel before him and express herself tenderly. She would tell him that she would not hold it against him if he took a second wife, as long as he received her apology.
But Makwati was already out of bed. A look at the wall clock told her that it was bath time. She went to the bathroom, intending to share a bath with him.
What she saw as she opened the bathroom door was the beginning of the nightmare that her troubles had spared her the previous night. The sight of a man’s feet dangling thirty centimetres above the floor almost knocked the breath out of her lungs.
Then, she opened the door further to behold the whole of her husband, an electric cord fastened to the roof trusses of the bathroom around his neck. Her body suddenly became too heavy for her trembling legs. If life had been cruel to her, this was the bitterest dosage of its cruelty.
Her legs slowly gave in to the weight of her body and the cold floor received her. She did not try to rise from the floor, and she felt too frail to raise the alarm.
