suicide pact

Author’s note: This short story was published by in Malawi News; only about half of it. There might have been an error during designing, and this is the full version. Write to linda.lindalinda.linda56@gmail.com Suicide Pact By LINDA CHISONI There at the interrogation desk in a small room at Karonga police station sat Penjani, waiting for the detective to come into the room. The correctional facility was staring in his face and all the money that was buried beneath a huge bed in the massive bedroom was silent. It could not work for him alone when it had been meant to be for them all. When the detective silently walked into the interrogation room, he immediately informed him that one more count had been added on the charge sheet. “Of course you know that you will not find yourself on the right side of the law. Not when I am the one pursuing this case,” the detective said. Penjani lost himself into a gust of make-believe laughter to allay his conscience. But still what had gone around was crudely coming around to haunt him; to taunt him and to hound him. Time for his bumpy ride had come and it appeared to have come in its fullness. During his arrest he had rumbled about character assassination but now the words were sheer echoes in his confused head. He had only spent two days at the police station but he had already grown into a wraith-like creature – a sorry sight. And the fact that he had been a man who had been commanding a great deal of reverence was fast fading into oblivion. He was now a prisoner and outside the police cell walls his reputation was fraying around the edges. “Chickens come home to roost,” the detective said as he spread a paper containing Penjani’s case details on the table. “Brother, you rule things here and I accept it. But don’t you think you can do something that may earn you some fact bucks. At least it is going to be the line of least resistance to both of us.” The detective slammed his hands on the desk and it shook. He was wrathful. “I am going to include that on the charge sheet. Look here Mr. Penjani, you are trying to bribe a police officer and that is a very big crime. Of course you know that you can’t bribe me. I am not that type. You are destined for the prison – a place with complete fetters.” Penjani looked at him and tears welled down his cheeks. The detective left the room and it was as though he was giving the prisoner more time to think about his plight. He cursed that pistol. If only it had functioned properly, he wouldn’t be in such a place. He would be dead by now and he would no longer be grappling with life in this sty of a police cell. He would be resting in peace in the land beyond flowing rivers and meadows and lakes – at least that was what he had been told about the afterlife. Above all, he cursed that day when his parents had been killed in a car crash. It marked the onset of his lifelong tribulations which had finally landed him in the musty place called a cell. It all started four months after Penjani’s parents died in a car accident. Being the only child in the family, he was left in possession of everything that his parents left behind. But because of succumbing to the pleasures of the youth, by the end of four months, he was left with nothing. He had withdrawn all the money that his parents had been saving in the bank. And now the new owners of the house informed him that they would be moving in in three days. He had already squandered the money. A month later he joined a gang of three men who earned their living by robbing banks and other big institutions. No one knew that they were armed robbers and people were according them so much respect for they were living in a very big house and always donned classy clothes. And they drove the latest models of cars. After all, they were known amongst many people to be international consultants in accounting for that was what the signpost at the turn-off to their house claimed. This other night, they robbed The Natives’ Bank and two days later their photographs were almost in every paper informing the whole nation that ‘these criminals robbed The Natives’ Bank’ and anyone who would provide information leading to their arrest would receive a reward of K500 000. Even on the nation’s sole television station, the advert appeared now and then. As they sat together in their lounge, watching TV, Penjani and his colleagues were attracted to the screen like never before. It was not the announcer that attracted their attention but the information she was disseminating: The police in all neighbouring countries have been alerted about these criminals lest they try to get out of this country. If they are hearing me now, they better surrender themselves because they are going to be caught, whatever the case. “What should we do, gentlemen?” Penjani asked. One of the robbers glared at him with his bloodshot eyes. “This is no time for asking stupid questions. I think we should be talking of how to escape. The police can say whatever they want to say but the last thing we will do is to surrender.” He looked at his colleagues who remained silent. “That is my opinion. No risk no venture. We have to give it a try.” “I can’t subscribe to that,” another robber chipped in suddenly. “It is a matter of choice.” The robber who was considered the leader of the gang finally said authoritatively. “He who chooses to escape has to escape; he who chooses to stay has to stay. Choice. Period.” Long at last a consensus was reached. Two of the criminals made up their minds to escape while Penjani and another decided to stay. They decided that they would go to any remote village and stay there for sometime until the coast was clear. “Fare thee well, gentlemen,” Penjani said to his colleagues who picked their rucksack to God knows where. Only two hours later, news about the arrest of the two robbers was disseminating like wildfire. The caught robbers had revealed everything about their colleagues. And the police again announced that the remaining two should better surrender. “What do we have to do now? We are squeezed towards a tight corner,” Penjani said to his colleague tremulously. “Now I can see that every road is pointing in our direction and every road that we take appears to be pointing to the police station.” “On my part I think I have finally made up my mind.” “What are you going to do? Surrender?” “I have to end it all.” “Suicide? The last thing I would do,” said Penjani. “Don’t you think you have reached the last option? What is the essence of living when you are being hunted like a wild animal? Friend, suicide is the gentle end to life’s tribulations.” “How dare you utter those words as though you have ever tasted it?” “Anyway, the choice is yours now as I have already made mine.” But finally Penjani gave in after being equally convinced that life would be full of tribulations once the police got hold of them. And it was a generally accepted suicide pact. Penjani’s colleague picked the pistol, drove its burnished barrel into his mouth and opened fire. His body slumped onto the wintry floor like a bag of sand. Penjani picked the pistol but when he pulled the trigger, nothing came out of the gun. As he tried to reload it, the door violently flung open and there into the room stormed three police officers who were armed to the teeth. “Hands up. You are under arrest for robbery. You reserve the right to remain silent for whatever you may say now may turn against you in the future in a court of law. It is your constitutional right to remain silent,” one police officer said. And when he arrived at the police station, he was informed that another charge had been leveled against him. “You murdered your fellow robber, perhaps because you wanted to get all the money that you have been robbing. For this count as well, there is evidence that is beyond reasonable doubt. You may go back to your cell, Mr. Penjani. Good day.”