Short story - moment of reconciliation

MOMENT OF RECONCILIATION Short Story by Ananiya Alick Ponje Chrissie looked at Gerald from the corners of her eyes. In the western horizon, the sun was setting and the evening chill was already rolling into the drawing room. She removed her tinted eyewear and placed it on the smooth table in front of her. At her elbow sat Lusekelo, her eight-year-old daughter who had pestered her so much three days ago to take her to her father wherever he was. And now, they were together in his own drawing room. Everything having been cleared, Chrissie coughed softly and said, “Gerald, I am a friend indeed in spite of all what you did to me. Pray to God for forgiveness. He is always ready to forgive.” Lusekelo stood up and padded across the room to where Gerald was sitting. Then they embraced each other as Chrissie walked forward to join them with cordiality. They were just like refugees who had been dispersed by war and had finally found each after many years. Tears rolled down form Gerald’s eyes as Lusekelo said, “Dear dad, he is no man at all that doesn’t err.” Ukanama sikuchedwa kucha, goes a Chewa saying, literally meaning when you lie it does not take long to dawn. But Chrissie had not proved it to be a lie until Lusekelo spoke the next word. She had promised to take her to her father and the day had come like a flash, sending a cold feeing down her spine. Lies had continued to convince her like the multiplication table and now she appeared to be ready to face the truth. She figured out how her lies were pulling away from justice. From honesty. From God. She thought of what to do to her daughter that would enable her be completely out of the wretched state she was in and finally accepted that the truth had to be known. It was a kind of truth that would make things either worse or better. Lusekelo always arose late from bed but this particular day that was filmy and bleak, she was already up at an uncivilized hour. The day had come so slowly to her and when she listened to the warbling of the buoyant morning birds, it was as though she had accomplished a task of clambering to the top of a very high peak. Her hands were cold like glaciers but her body was warm in virtue of the sweatshirt that she had put on the moment she had risen from bed. In her mind that was constantly in a terrible trance, the knowledge of her father was going to change a number of things in her life. “You are already awake, darling,” Chrissie said to her daughter. That was all she could say at that time. “And I have already had a warm shower.” “Really?” Now her reply was a gentle nod followed by total silence and Chrissie, now in many years understood the significance of having a father and more principally, knowing him. “You will see your father soon, darling. Just hold on to your patience because it is a long way off,” she said, almost unwittingly. “This is the most wonderful day to me. I’m going to see something I haven’t seen since I was born eight years ago,” said Lusekelo. Chrissie slipped into her bedroom and sat on her bed slothfully. There was a strong impulse in her that was urging her to take her daughter to her father. “Be afraid not. Take her and remove the burden off your heart. Necessity knows no law.” Together they walked out of the house en route to Sokola, where Gerald was taking up residence. It was An eight-hour journey by the average bus. After some moment of talking and laughing, Lusekelo became silent and looked at her mother as though she was awfully puzzled. “But mum, why didn’t you take me to my father all these years.” A smattering hint of shock was on her petite face. “I’m sorry, darling; your father was not in exile as I told you. Only that the story is a little bit complicated. But don’t worry; this is the day of reckoning.” “Are you no longer married?” “No?” “Why? Didn’t you take an oath to be there for each other for better and for worse, in health or sickness? Didn’t you say only death should part you, mum?” she said, from memory. Chrissie looked at her daughter again and again like a convict seeking the sympathy of a judge. So this was Lusekelo, a girl who had been known to her mother to say so little or to say nothing at all at the best of times? So she knew more than she exhibited? “Dear daughter, I never married your father. It….it just happened. It’s very hard to understand what happened. Look here, my good girl, just be patient like you have always been.” She failed to look straight into her daughter’s eyes. How did she know people ever took oaths when marrying? Chrissie asked herself. Now, about four hours later, they were in Gerald’s house. Gerald rarely entertained visitors, especially those calling on him in advance of any notice. But surprisingly, this day he was calm and said nothing about the surprise visit of these two souls sitting in his drawing room together with him. “It’s my pleasure to meet you. May you please introduce yourselves. Forgive me if I’m being too formal,” he said. “It’s necessary.” “But you see, your face is not very strange.” He looked squarely at Chrissie’s face. The last time he had seen her was about eight years ago and he expected her to be heavy-hearted and wasted if ever she was alive. And now she was in his own drawing room, yet he could hardly recognize her. Blood was pounding strongly in Lusekelo’s head. How could the man demand an introduction when he ought to know his former wife? How could he fail to recognize the face of someone who had a child for him? She thought of revealing the questions but thought better of it. Maybe her mother was trying to play some games, but what sort of game would that be? The whole scenario was failing to make sense to Lusekelo. “I know it’s hard to understand what I’m about to say.” Gerald looked at her perplexedly “I know it’s hard to understand what I’m about to say,” she repeated stiffly, much to Gerald’s annoyance. Folding her hands in front of her knees, she placed her handbag down. What was hard to understand had to be articulated to be understood, she said to herself. “I’m Chrissie, your second wife’s daughter and beside me is my daughter; your daughter.” A picture of the past quickly flashed through Gerald’s mind. Fear gripped him but he could hardly figure out what he feared. He tried to be defensive. “Chrissie, I lived with you for fourteen good years and you decided to betray me in the end? After putting me through hell, you have come back to stay? I spent months at the correctional facility because of you. I spent four weeks in a padded cell because I was terribly traumatized and now you are here….” “I’m not here to stay, but to show my daughter her father. Although I was your step-daughter I think what you did to me was the worst thing a man could ever do. After bedding my own mother you decided to rape me times without number and now I have to bear the burden. I bear no ill feelings towards you. I forgave you a long time ago.” Turning to Lusekelo, she said, “darling, this is your father, yet he married your grandmother. Don’t doubt what I say, he is your biological father. Such is the pain that I went through and now it’s haunting both of us. But the most important thing is that we should just accept the whole lot.” Gerald was strapped for words. He had never thought such a bitter blast from the past would come to him and now his strength was streaming out of him. He had no choice but to accept the responsibility. “Yes, yes I’m your father. It cannot be altered. I’m sorry, daughter, I’m sorry.” “We have to leave,” said Chrissie after they had embraced.

SHORT STORY

Redeeming love Short story by Ananiya Alick Ponje She had been standing there by the roadside for the past two hours and she was about to give up when a white Toyota Corolla abruptly pulled up a few metres from where she was standing. Hurrying towards the car, she beamed radiantly. She opened the other door and sat on the passenger’s seat nonchalantly. “Good evening,” the driver of the car greeted her as the car surged forward and caught speed. “Good evening.” She looked at his pencil moustache furtively and sat back. “So where are we going now?” “You mean you have picked me up without knowing where to take me to?” she asked, her tender voice sounding as though it had been slightly magnified through a megaphone. “Well, I’ve been seeing you standing where I picked you up for a number of nights,” he said. “And therefore I suppose you know why I stand there.” “Of course I do,” he replied as he jammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a cyclist who was crossing the road recklessly. “Would you mind if I take you to my house?” The words came out of his mouth firmly. She remained silent and he took that silence to mean consent. “By the way, I’m sorry for not introducing myself in the first place. My name is Joseph Soko. You can call me Josey,” he said in a clipped way. She almost said she was meeting so many people that she could hardly find time to memorise his name but she thought better of it. “I’m Lucille and my friends call me Lucy.” Within a short time, the car drew up in front of a stately mansion belonging to Joseph. They both climbed down and walked towards the front door. Taking a bunch of keys from his breast pocket, Joseph unlocked the door and ushered Lucille in. They sat in opposite armchairs. “Welcome to my place,” said Joseph as he picked from the shiny coffee table a copy of that day’s Top-rated Medium. “So far so good.” “Well, I think I’ve to inform you in advance that I no longer spend nights at people’s houses. I usually have plenty of appointments to honour, so you have to be time-conscious,” said Lucille, looking at her wristwatch. “It’s now three past seven and I think it would do me a world of good if I left before nine.” “Look here, Lucy, the fact that you don’t spend nights at people’s houses is the more reason why I’ve taken you to my place. Did anyone ever tell you that you are such a beautiful girl that you deserve a better marriage?” He peered at her only to see a hate gleam in her brown eyes. “Joseph or whatever you are, I’m not here for some trivial issues you are trying to raise. If you are no longer interested, pay me for the time I have wasted and let me leave. I have clients waiting for me,” she blurted out. “You don’t understand.” “You need to understand me first. If you have been sent by someone to make a research on prostitution, then I’m sorry, your plan has misfired. If you are a journalist….” “I haven’t been sent by anyone.” “So what do you want from me now?” She seemed to be a hard nut to crack. He stood up and strutted towards the fridge. Bringing down a bottle of squash, he poured some into two goblets and diluted the drink. He extended one goblet to Lucille who received it to make a virtue of necessity. “Lucy, I have to admit that I haven’t seen any girl around here who is as beautiful as you are.” Those words struggled to come out of his mouth. “Thank you for the compliment but what you have to know is that prostitutes need no flattery at all. We, being what we are, only need men who can give us money not who can shower trivial flattery. It means nothing to us,” she said. “I want to marry you.” “What?” she was mystified. “Do you really know me?” “Of course I do. I know that you are a prostitute but I hold so much love for you that I feel attracted to no other woman in this world. I just can’t avoid it.” “Well, I’m leaving,” she said, standing up and pacing towards the door. “Not now.” “But when?” she shouted, practically on top of her voice. “I don’t know. Obviously not tomorrow….not next week. Never.” “I don’t understand you,” “Of course I understand why you don’t understand me,” said Joseph persistently. “You never knew me before I picked you up there by the roadside. I picked you not to use and then pay you but to marry you. This is the greatest redemption I’ll offer you. I know you didn’t choose to be a prostitute…” “I did. I chose.” “Perhaps you did but not because you wanted to.” “What exactly do you want from me?” She had completely lost her cool. “I want to marry you. To give you what you need. To restore your human dignity. There is a soul in you that you are persecuting. I’m here to redeem you.” Lucille was greatly touched by those sentiments. They meant a lot to her yet she could see herself going back to the streets even if she got married. Prostitution was in her veins and blood and she appeared to be addicted to it like hell. She could hardly see herself living successfully in marriage. But her mother’s advice once things got out of hand was that she should marry and now after four years in the oldest profession, this man sitting opposite her was asking for her hand in matrimony. “Just briefly explain how you became what you are to me,” Joseph said persuasively. She sat back, moved her soft hand down her face and sighed. The hate gleam in her eyes had now vanished. In the deep recesses of her heart, there was something pushing her to narrate the road that had led her into prostitution, yet her mouth seemed to be reluctant. “It should be a bad history I know,” Joseph intoned. She nodded humbly. The push to tell the story was becoming too much to be suppressed and in a trice, she found herself narrating it. “My parents died in a car accident that claimed not less than eleven people. That marked the beginning of my misery. I had grown up in a very rich family but two months after the deaths of my parents, the only thing I was left with was this silver ring that I ripped off my dead mother’s finger before her burial.” She paused, looking at the ring on her little finger. Her brown eyes glittered with tears like drops of rain on a rose petal. “I’m sorry.” “Soon after the death of my parents I went to leave with my uncle who ravished me several times until it became too much for me. My escape to nowhere landed me in this filthy business that I’m now doing. Please, pay me I’ve to leave,” she said, reaching for a hanky in her reticule. “You are going nowhere, Lucy. You are not leaving this house.” “After all what I’ve told you?” she wondered. “Everything matters less in love.” “Joseph, you seem not to understand. You have fallen in love with someone who has been taken to solitary places umpteen times. You have fallen in love with a stranger. Joseph, you don’t understand me, I’ve lived a very dirty life. I don’t want to ruin your dreams. This world is no longer my home.” Her melodious voice wafted across the room like music. “As I sit here, I see in you a streak of a woman who is going to make the best of homes. The only way you can ruin my dreams is by not marrying me.” Lucille stood up, dropped her reticule and ambled towards where Joseph was sitting. He stood up as well. They were feeling each other’s breath at a very short distance. Tears streamed down Lucille’s tender cheeks and disappeared into her mouth. On a nostalgia trip, she found herself sitting together with her parents in their huge house. And this place where she was now felt like where she belonged. “This is your destiny. It could only be delayed but it couldn’t be denied,” Joseph said as they embraced passionately. “Bury your past and remember it no more.” “I know it’s going to be hard for you to believe me but I have to say it anyway. I promise to be with you for the rest of my life. It appears to be abrupt but this is the vanishing point of all roads I was destined to take in this life. Your love has redeemed me from the pains I was engrossed in.” Three months later, Joseph and Lucille married in the new redemption church and they lived happily thereafter.

SHORT STORY

MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE Short story by Ananiya Alick Ponje Pastor Samson was one of the numerous people who had received the chain letters. It was a one-paged letter that explained that it originated from The Silent Island. Radio stations across the length and breadth of the earth were broadcasting news about these mysterious letters. The place itself did not exist on the most detailed world map but most people believed the letters through the conviction that no one would know every place in the world or that the place might have just acquired a new name. The letters had no detailed addresses of origin. Promises, once the recipient fulfilled the task as directed, ranged from air tickets to desired destinations to millions of dollars. The task appeared to be very simple: just writing twenty copies of the original letter and sending them to twenty of one’s friends. Pastor Samson spread the letter on his bed. “This letter originates from The Silent Island…. As long as you write twenty copies of this letter to twenty of your friends, you stand a chance of winning millions of dollars,” went on the letter. “This is the whole procedure: stick no posting stamp of the envelope – luck doesn’t have a price. Put nothing else in the envelope apart from the copy. The letter should be a perfect replica. Include not your name in the letter.” Who was Pastor Samson to ignore the letter? He thought. That night, he hunched over his reading desk in his study and began to write the letters. Although he didn’t really understand what the letters meant, he made the copies anyway. What mattered was that he should receive the money. After all, he had founded his church because of want of money and here was a grand opportunity he could not pass over. It was four days later and Pastor Samson had received 10 million kwacha the previous day. Having received the money, he found everything to be literally useless. His church was trivial; his flock was useless and everyone was but nothing. In his phantasms, he could see himself being elevated to the level of the most prominent figures in the country. The night was cold and still. That January was just like in the heart of the month of June. Everyone, except those baying for the blood of their fellow mankind, was already in bed. Occasionally, low noises could be heard from the chirping of crickets and hooting of owls, pronouncing their nocturnal freedom. Curled in a thick duvet, the pastor’s wife was peering at her husband who was in deep slumber. It was as though she was trying to see where his nightmares were coming from. He had had terrible nightmares the past two nights. One night, in a nightmare, his clothes had been soaked in his own blood after he had been struck with a double-edged rapier by an imaginary figure. Then the other night, someone with blood drawings of dragons on his body had cut the pastor’s head off. Then the pastor’s eyes had seen his own trunk being draped with a black piece of cloth and blood had been slowly dribbling from his neck. The pastor’s wife’s eyes were wide open. It appeared she would not afford a nap until she saw where her hubby’s bad dreams were emanating from. She was tired of his alarming screams, but did she really expect to see the origin of a dream? The bedside lamps were switched on and she went on to switch the main lights as well. All of a sudden, the pastor began to twist and whimper. His other half glanced at the wall clock – it had started around the same time the other two nights, but time did not matter now. She swung away her thick duvet and peered at him. His face was gleaming with perspiration. Her heart lurched. “This is becoming too much for me. How do I have to deal with it? He is going to dream himself to death.” It was a nightmare scenario to her. She shook him vigorously but he did not wake up. Horrific. Enigmatic. Energy streamed out of her body as she watched his face bathe in more and more sweat and his body twist like a dying snake. She picked her phone and in less than 20 seconds, the pastor’s closest friend was on the line. She told him to come quickly. “But this is midnight,” he said through the mouthpiece. “I know, but come quickly,” she responded tremulously. She ended the call even before the pastor’s friend finished talking. Meanwhile, she was shaking with fear and she swayed onto her bed. Like in the previous dreams, the pastor had now rested to the hilt and his wife was staring at him bleakly. Her heart was freezing. She walked towards the main door and stood in front of it, waiting for the pastor’s friend. He came and she led him into their bedroom where her husband was. At first, he was reluctant but when he saw his friend lying on his bed silently, with his hands and legs slanted loosely, he hastened into the room and stopped by his bed. He seemed to be producing no breath. “What happened?” the pastor’s friend asked. “He can’t answer me.” She was sobbing. “He was twisting and whining. I think it was a very bad dream. He was doing that for the third time.” The pastor’s friend touched the pastor’s sweating countenance. It was hot. He had never seen a person with such a body temperature. The pastor’s situation was strange. As he tried to roll him, a flash of light blinded him and the pastor’s wife and it was followed by a deafening sound like a thunderclap. Then the whole room was filled with pitch darkness. The switches had not been flicked but all the bulbs gave no light. It was just like an earthquake but in the annals of seismology no earthquake had ever come with a light flash. In absolute horror, the two dashed out of the house for dear life. Within a short time, they were outside a house that was a few metres from the pastor’s. The pastor’s friend knocked at the door with his trembling fist. A hulking man, in a night attire, answered the door. The pastor’s wife almost jumped into the house. “What is wrong?” the man asked, trying his utmost to focus on those two people standing in front of him. The security bulb was clearly showing their horrified faces. There eyes evinced that they had not been in the land of nod. “You mean nothing happened here?” the pastor’s friend asked in response. “A blinding flash of light struck in the pastor’s house followed by a deafening sound.” “It’s news to me as you can see. It might be lightning,” he said drowsily. “Where is the man of God himself?” “He might be dead,” the pastor’s wife said instantaneously. “Let’s go there,” the man said, loathing wasting time. After some resistance, the pastor’s wife and the friend finally budged, but there was a terrible degree of horror in them. What had happened was strange but the pastor’s wife was able to connect it with the chain letters. The other man, other than the pastor’s friend, entered first into the pastor’s house. Then the two who were frightened like grasshoppers followed. In the bedroom, the lights were on and the pastor had disappeared. But lo and behold! On his bed was a paper bearing: he is where he belongs. He had a desire for money so he has to be where there is money.

SHORT STORY

In Loving Memory Short Story by Ananiya Alick Ponje Wongani’s mother lit three candles and placed them each in front of herself, her husband and her daughter. “I’m always fond of candles. In the past, after every long and tiring journey, I would light a candle and watch its tiny flame gutter and all the lethargy and fatigue would seep out of me. And now it takes me down the lane of distant memories and life is just like a fantasy.” Her hands were trembling. She picked her Bible, held it in her hands tightly before dropping it down again. Looking at her husband, she said, “Fill your glass with this table wine and drink it as a very special thing this hour. There shall never be a time like this in the future to come. Do it so that wherever you shall be, you will remember the time that we have lived together.” She turned to her daughter and said, “Wongani, my dear daughter, take your glass of wine and drink it so that you will always bring to mind this short time that we have lived together. No more tales of woe on my part.” At first, Wongani had thought that perhaps her mother had decided to call it quits with her father, but when she told her the same thing that she had told him, she began to look askance at the whole scenario. “Mum, you have no power to know what will happen in your life.” Yet deep in the recesses of her heart, she was terribly perturbed. “I wish I had.” Wongani left for school at Ibanda International High School. Behind, her mother had been diagnosed with cerebral malaria and she died three days later. Her husband could hardly understand what had happened. How could she predict her own death? People gathered at the funeral compound like a desert of lapwings within a very short period of time, while at school, Wongani knew nothing about what had happened to her mother. She had seen the ambulance twice and had heard its blaring siren on the high road but it had never come into her mind that her mother might be the victim. When she returned home after being called, her father took her aside and told her that her dear mother was no more. Silently a tear dropped from her eye. How could he have softened the brow? This tranquil evening, Wongani opened the door of her clothes closet after four days since her mother’s demise. Her eyes immediately landed on an old box made of pieces of wood. It was tied with blue and yellow ribbons and on one side of it there was stuck a gleaming piece of paper with the words: This memory box is for you Wongani. Her hand was still clutched at the brass doorknob and her whole body trembled with terror. What might be in the box? She asked herself. Plucking up her courage, she pulled the box into the middle of her room where she untied the ribbons. She saw a pair of her departed mother’s best kitten heels, a taupe loose frock that she had put on three weeks ago during Wongani’s eleventh birthday. Her bible and three A4 size papers covered with rough scripts were placed beneath the frock. Picking one paper, she held it in her hand and began to read it silently. “During funerals everyone is crying for their own death, mourning their own soul, that’s why the grief should transform every mourner’s life. My dear Wongani, in life, it’s better to bear your own anguish with fortitude.” After reading that part, her grief-stricken face instantly broke into a gentle smile. Then she continued reading: “Instructions from a mother are the future garlands to grace the daughter’s head and a necklace to embellish her neck, but when a mother dies in her prime, dreams are shattered. “Wherever you go, proclaim with the highest degree of vehemence that the Lord is the controller of your destiny. In silent memories, I’ll always remember you. I was fighting a very big battle and death’s my victory. Death’s life’s hardest reality but it’s the only way into the afterlife. For me, another life has begun. I’ll no longer smile with you; I’ll no longer prickle you, but I’ll always pray for the grace of our lord Jesus Christ to be upon you always. “It has happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to bide you farewell, but at least the memory box contains part of the contents of my heart. Build your faith strongly in the Lord during this trying period. Don’t say that a dark cloud has fallen upon you; rather say a shining sun has risen for my death should mark the beginning of a new life for you. “In your deepest memories, remember me through the good things I did, the way I looked. Only look at the positive part of my life. Nurture your potentials and always read the Bible.” Wongani picked the last paper and continued reading: “Wongani, nightmares come to remind us that even in perfect livelihood, there is a trace of failure. I began to feel death’s cold hands embracing me many years ago when I was found with the virus that causes the deadly pandemic that is threatening to wipe away the whole human race. I’ve finally reached the end of my road. “Just accept what you are and embrace what you have. There is no success without peace and no victory without tribulations. None die earlier than when they are supposed to die; that is the principle of life. Don’t fear your death because you cannot evade it. It’s useless trying to fear what you cannot avoid. It’ll find you, whatever the case. Death is for human beings and surely all human beings are going to die but everyone dies their own death. Even in a suicide pact, a fatal road carnage, a massacre, everyone dies their own death. “Rely on the Lord for he’s the only pillar of hope that doesn’t keel over in tempests. Always try to listen to your heart because it has something to tell you. Above everything, take care of your life so that you will not die of so many diseases like I have done. God be with you always. “Your mother, Tami.” She lay down in her bed and breathed hard. In her lifetime, her mother had never told her that she was HIV positive. She decided that it had been by fair means or foul because she knew that it could have affected her psychologically. Spreading the frock on the slippery floor, she looked at it and shook her head. Then she picked her pen and the clipboard and with her trembling right hand began to write something. When she had finished, it read: “mum, putting me in my favourable state was not a simple thing, I know but you tried all your best. You always said to you I was a very valuable person although I am physically impaired. Now I sit on my bed, cold brisk tears running down my cheeks, not knowing what to do and where to go. Dad is terribly sick and I don’t know what to do. But in the midst all the misery I am in, I pray to God that we will meet again in his holy kingdom one day. “My memories are twisted and my soul is faint. Your death has since brought me to a pause that seems to last forever. I keep on reflecting on what life means when it is so brief. You were my rose flower, shining relentlessly like the setting golden sun. Your sudden departure can be likened to a burning candle whose strong flame has been snuffed out so easily.” “Oh, my God,” Wongani cried. Folding the paper, she threw it into the box. Then she picked it again and walked to her mother’s tomb where she laid it as the heavens opened. Thunder howled and lightning struck and frogs croaked. The night was splintered with all sorts of spring noises. After returning to the house, Wongani seemed to get over the bitter feeling she had had since her mother had been interred. She decided that it had happened and it could not be reversed.

The last confession Short story by Foster K.K Gondwe It was January 15, three days after Chipata had been arrested at his own house for armed robbery and murder. As he spread himself on the freezing floor, a reek of urine and fresh human shit embraced his nose. He did not long for the milk of human kindness. The frosty floor stung his naked body but still he did not long for a fresh breeze. He accepted that if he had to die, he had to die, even if it meant being strangled like a dog. He told himself for times without number that he deserved any kind of punishment that would be meted on him. It was like a figment of the imagination as his eyes saw the handcuffs filled with cruelty and belligerence unwind serenely and gradually in front of him. It has just been like fantasy as the door hinges had squeaked and he had finally been thrown into a puny room called a police cell. But now he thought that every punishment was necessary for him. He relied on God and he was not afraid of dying. After living an extremely wicked life, he had decided to change and now he decided that living was Christ and dying was gain. For many times he told himself that he had confessed, yes, but that it did not mean that he was innocent. The confession only rid him of a guilty conscience that would be nagging him. Now the bible was his weapon; a weapon he would take with him wherever he went. It was his food, his light, his sword and his compass. It was everything to him and he desired nothing else. Finally Chipata was tried and convicted of murder and he was given capital punishment. It was just like another figment of the imagination as he felt the loftiness of the puny scaffold where he was to be executed. The dreadful noose was placed around hid naked neck but still he did not think of his closing stages, a ruthless end which was fit for dogs. A gruff voice of the hangman rasped into Chipata’s ears informing him that it was time for him to say his final word. He sighed through the air without fear and hesitation and said that every end was essential for his destiny. He was stopped before he could finish all what he wanted to say. The trapdoor beneath his feet swung open and the noose around his neck tightened. The bible slipped from his hand and landed on the ground floor as his body turned floppy. Here was a man who had defied all odds to confess his wicked actions in the public without caring about the consequences. All what he had cared about was his destiny; the destiny of his soul which he decided that he had fully prepared. He had taken his death without any reservations. Soon after his arrest, he had gone through a series of tribulations, but during all these moments of returned tribulations, he had clung to his newly-found hope which was Christ. He had never thought of abandoning it and evade his punishment. He had been transferred from one cell to another. This other day he was transferred from a poky cell where he had been in solitary confinement into another that was practically jam-packed. Then he and other detainees were hustled and crushed into another tiny windowless lock-up. He did not think painfully about where he was neither did he seek a face of sympathy. He only smiled, a thing that remained a mystery to his fellow inmates who knew very well why he had joined them in such a musty place where life itself appeared to be a temporary affair. Outside, the rain was pelting down and kept sending a damp mass of hot air into the cell where Chipata and his fellow prisoners were. The room was already hot like hell and the hot mass was only crowning it all. The police officer on duty opened the door of the cell carefully and slowly. It was a door only because it prevented inmates from going outside; otherwise it would be described as a frame scantly crisscrossed with iron bars. The officer told Chipata to follow him. It was a journey to the high court where he had to hear the final ruling on his cases. He carried with him his bible. It was something that he would never leave behind because in it he had found the ultimate redemption. He had been one of the worst criminals the district of Chipwera had ever known. He robbed banks and other big money institutions and always went away with it. Although the police suspected he was the one behind the horrendous robberies, they could not prefer charges against him because of lack of evidence. They had already arrested him twice only for the prosecutor to fail to prove beyond reasonable doubt that he was indeed the one behind the robberies. He continued wrecking havoc in the district and he was feared by many. One day he was sitting in the drawing room of his house when suddenly a flash of light struck him and he fell down. While in the state of unconsciousness he heard a voice which informed him that he was being given the last chance to repent. His conscience insisted that he should change and the impulse for the same was too strong. That moment marked Chipata’s turning point. As he looked back at his dirty past, tears of remorse coursed down his cheeks. He rushed to the cathedral where he sat for five solid hours, meditating upon his life. It had been a wicked life, characterized by all sorts of evil deeds. He had robbed the richest and the poorest; he had broken into trivial people’s houses and into big money institutions. He had raped both the young and the old. And above all, he had shed innocent blood – snuffing out gentle souls. But now he had found the ultimate redemption. It was that kind of redemption that did not condemn him but that told him to be grateful for the salvation that he had found. It taught him that many longed for it but never found it. He believed that his hands were now clean. He prayed for forgiveness on end. He felt like praying forever and developed a very strong yearning to let people know his transformation. It was a testimony which he thought would move the lives of many. Thus, one Sunday morning he walked across the church lobby towards the raised platform where the preacher and his crew were. Many people who knew Chipata quite well were shocked to the bone upon seeing him in that holy sanctuary. They expected that he would wield any weapon any time and this thought made most of them fidgety. They thought that perhaps he had come to rob the church of the money which the congregation gave to the Lord as offerings. But they were all sadly mistaken. He stopped near the preacher and opened his mouth slowly. Everyone became silent. No one wanted to miss any word that he would utter. No one moved and mothers suppressed the cries of their babies. The room was so quiet that a pin-drop could be heard. “Brothers and sisters in Christ,” he began with enthusiasm. “This place is where I belong, where I was supposed to be many years ago. Many of you have known me to be a very dangerous person but now I have found redemption in Jesus Christ.” Tears trickled down his cheeks as he continued narrating myriad atrocities that he had committed. The listeners just shook their heads for some of them were so horrendous, yet he had not yet mentioned the final confession. “Brothers and sisters, I have shed innocent blood. I killed that guard who was found dead at the Natives Bank. I murdered a certain woman after raping her...,” he said amidst sobs. News about Chipata’s transformation was disseminating like nobody’s business. Those who took themselves to have first hand information did not hesitate to narrate it to whoever was willing to listen. They mostly emphasized on the last confession which had murder items. The police got the wind and Chipata was subsequently arrested. He did not resist. He could not resist because he had made the revelation himself. Above all, he had confessed. When he was told the charges that had been leveled against him, he pleaded guilty. He thought that every punishment was essential for him. And finally he was sentenced to death; a death that he thought was his destiny which had only been delayed but could not be denied.