Before you read, I need to know that you are okay with my voice explaining to you the murder scene I witnessed. If you are not good with this kind of stuff, I have tried to soften my voice as much as possible, so you won’t feel like you are actually reading about a murder scene. Before you change your mind, READ the last 5 sentences.
This one is not like the ones you see in the movies, or in real life. It’s out of this world of mine but could be real in yours. I love to be adventurous: outdoorsy like in mountaineering; intellectually like in solving puzzles or the Rubik’s cube; spiritually like in manifesting and daily affirmations; financially like in experimenting with new restaurants in Westlands with my last KES1500; physically like somersaulting in my bedsitter; and emotionally like in ignoring red flags and awaiting premium tears. Now that you know how much of a risk-taker I am, you can guess something about my murder adage.
If you have never been robbed in Nairobi (I have), you’re probably not a risk-taker. You have trust issues and you don’t even have the slightest mercy to talk to a stranger. I don’t talk to those impulse strangers in the streets either, my case is different. I like friendly strangers. Those who keep a distance, but keep smiling at me. Those who seem aggressive at first, then as the Super-Metro queue progresses, they keep helping drag your suitcase till the two hours of waiting at Archives are over. Then they seem nice, by requesting to sit next to you to help hold your extra luggage because I have never seen a Supermetro with a luggage compartment. These are the kind of strangers I am attracted to. Those who make it look like they value the first impressions mantra. But I am not a fool, Nairobi thugs can take you to Kempinski, and buy your tickets to Ibiza, before robbing you and your entire village of all your generational savings. I, therefore, keep watch before my supposed “Samaritan” suddenly alights with my possessions. But I guess I’m too paranoid. He’s a good guy. He asks where I live and I just give a one-word answer. I like to keep these convos like that because I still don’t trust him.
Much time has passed and I am in love with a stranger. I am now going to speak to the stranger while you listen.
First, I want to stop dreaming about you. Because dreams with you are scary. I have resented you in reality, and even in my dreams, I don’t have the strength to talk to you. The past days have been a roller coaster. The last time I saw you I had a quick rush of anger that faded away sooner than I had felt it. I reached for my phone to call 911 but the emergency response in my country is not for emergencies. If you are in danger you better pray that your assailant went to Sunday school and is still scared of hell. So I just stood there and let all the memories, of that moment when you tore me up, replay in my head. Since that day, I have not found peace. I went through solitude that gave me anxiety attacks, anxiety poop, and anxiety vomit.
Those nights were long when I couldn’t sleep. When my heart was anxious and weary. When my throat would itch with the urge to cry. I locked myself up and let the sorrow eat me up. I let the agony torment me and consume every beautiful inch of me. I let fear scare the hell out of my bones. I let myself fight the mental battle feebly. My feet were cold at noon time, my eyes were soaked all the time and my nose was hurt by the hot fluid flowing every time. I skipped the bath because I feared the solitude in the bathroom while cold water mocked my existence. I wanted to wake up to the days when I didn’t know you. Or the days when you acted like the version of you that I created in my head.
I vividly recall the day of the supposed murder. Why are you so reckless? Why didn’t you check whether I was completely dead? Or clear the murder scene? Dispose of the body? Why did you leave your proof all over me? I still see your face in a crowd of people. And the smell of the last cologne you wore is still fresh on my breath. My phone still has all these texts that I sent you and all the unanswered calls to your phone. Every day I want to walk up to the police station and record this statement, but nobody will believe that I had just survived the hands of this serial killer. Because that is what you do. You torment your victims. You make them feel helpless even when they’re not tied up.
You first tied me up nicely. I trusted you. You gave me pleasure at first. Then more pleasure. And I was helpless, and desperate for you. And I finally fell in love with you. I knew you were the person I had been waiting for all my life. And I created this version of you that earnestly loved me to death and I fell in love with it. I didn’t know the death part was true. Even though I was tied up, you still fed me and warmed me up. You frequently called me when you ‘missed’ me. I didn’t know that you had been secretly sharpening the knife that would take my life.
On this day, you didn’t return. You returned the day that followed, with a shiny dagger. It was cold on my skin and sent a gush of fear into my entire being. A thin stream of blood formed on my neck but it was not painful. You still smiled at me and assured me that you loved me. You wiped my tears and said that everything was okay. But you didn’t return on the day that followed or the next. I got anxious, but then you returned. You apologized and I loved you even more. Then you disappeared again and returned with a stainless surgical blade. Its cutting felt like just a prickle of a thorn on the skin. You scarred my face and let the blood flow like tears. It was salty on my tongue. And then you kissed me. You took in my blood. And I trusted you with my life. I could feel that my face was destroyed, but everything I wanted was for you to be happy. To suck my blood dry, and love me like I did.
It had been a while since you came to check on me. I hadn’t seen the sunlight. My body was weak. Another week passed, and the anxiety returned. I feared that you were gone forever. The blood on my face had dried up but the tears still tasted of blood. I was agonizing in abandonment and vulnerability. I didn’t understand why you didn’t give me a bed instead of this makeshift chair that sometimes failed to adjust when I wanted to sleep. But even on the days when it adjusted, I couldn’t sleep. I kept looking for your signs at the door. I longed to see you. All the ignored phone calls brought along panic attacks. Every moment when you delayed your reply my insides crushed and I rushed to the bathroom with diarrhea again.
You then came back with more zeal. Nursed my wounds, cleaned me up, and even watched the stars with me that night. I didn’t even see you disappear. I was lost in the moment. I thought we were special. But this is who you are. A monster. The fictional monster pretends to have good intentions and lures a character into believing them before finally betraying them and preying on them. I couldn’t bring myself to the fact that you are that kind of a person. A selfish being that let me attach myself only to suddenly leave me fixed in your absence. Mourning your shadows. Creeping to get hold of your cold embrace, and your loose smile. Crawling to reach for your attention, and your warmth. I was fighting the fact that somebody could lose interest in someone in such a short time. I couldn’t believe that heartless people like you exist. You intentionally let me feel your hurt while you watched and killed me slowly.
You held the knife and slowly dipped it into my flesh, letting me feel every cut. You watched me bleed from a distance, while I begged you to rescue me. I didn’t know I was begging my assailant. I got accustomed to the feeling of pain. A feeling of someone hanging on a dying cliff. The feeling of drowning in a dark brutal storm. The feeling of losing your own soul. I can’t compare this pain with anything. It is worse than death. Dealing with death seemed easier because I knew the answers to the absence of my loved one. But here I was, feeling a loss of someone I know exists, someone who knows where to find me, but themselves don’t want to be found. . I couldn’t bring myself to believe that I was watching you slowly drift away from me. All the times I said I loved you, you didn’t respond. I was timid enough to let you in again when you enticed me once again like a lamb before it’s slaughtered. Again you made me trust you, but this time, I had some fear within. My gut was right but I didn’t want to believe it. I desperately hoped that it was wrong because I was desperate for you.
In my desperation, you came again. This time, your knife was sharper, double-edged. You aimed right at the center of my being. I lay there petrified, watching as it descended upon my flesh and dug into my heart. A red spring jetted out my chest while you repeatedly struck my existence into lifelessness. I lost my voice. I couldn’t save myself from you. I trusted that you would find the littlest warmth in your cold heart to salvage me, but I was dead to you.
And you walked right out. Trampled on me, like a rose on the ground. Left me writhing in that pool of your mess. I wanted you to say a word as if one word mattered. Yes. One word was all I wanted at that time, “bye”. I would get the assurance that my tormentor had some courtesy. The courtesy to let its victim experience a finality. A sign of an end to the dreadful days of affliction. But there you were, gone, probably to prey on another soul like mine, God forbid. But since you didn’t say a word, I keep dreading your return, to finish me completely.
My wounds are open and smelling. The cuts are deep and still bleeding. The knife trail in my chest is prominent and my colossal heart is gaping out ready to fall out because the stitches are too loose to hold it in place. My hands are still numb, right there where you tied them up on my back. My fingers are cold and grey. I cannot reach out to shoo the flies away, so I just lay here and let them have a festive feast on me. My strength is gone and I just lay here feeding on the diffused nutrients in the air that I struggle to take into my damaged lungs. All that is left in me is my voice. This voice that I raise so high to scare the flies away when they suck my wounds too deep. This voice calls you in my dreams, where you are always walking away. This voice blows cold air on my wounds when they hurt a little too much. This voice keeps me sane when I crave insanity. This voice is telling me that you are nonchalant and a psycho; and that I am just a lucky survivor in the hands of a serial murderer.