LOVE BINDS. PART SIX. II: DEATH, NIGHTMARES AND LAUGHTER.

I imagined her death was a result of the discovery she made in her case. Why else? The only problem was that only I knew about it – and her boss, of course. But he could not have done this. Well, I do not know the bastard well enough to conclude anything about him. It did not matter. I could not ignore the thought that this was God’s final notice: I was not worthy of virgin lands. I disobeyed and suffered the consequences. Selfish is all I had been. I could no longer stay with the body. Thankfully her mother did not wake from my cry. Be selfish and be gone. I began to panic and right before I could grab my stuff I heard a voice call for me. Then suddenly I felt a slap on my face.

“Ishmael!” A voice came from beyond. “Wake up!”

 I opened my eyes and – Christ, Bison! She was right there before my sight appearing to be just as confused as I was. My eyes evaluated her. I stretched out my hand to feel her neck, but before I could reach it a resisting grip took hold of me.

“Butah, snap out of it!”

What was going on? Had it all been a bad dream?

“You were having a nightmare,” she said, with a bit of a grin on her face. “I have never seen a man sleeping, in such fear,” she added. No blood, no virginity, just fear. Even though it was a nightmare, everything felt so real.

Death, you never really fear it until it is lying in bed with you. What makes it worse is that I have been friends with it for as long as I can remember. Best friends. If the nightmare had been a reality, it would be a reality to make a man wonder if there is God. What would I have done, cry or curse God? Nothing. Otherwise, I might as well curse Samantha and her craziness, curse the bartender and his free drinks; curse Mwiinga for thinking she caused me pain – and Kachiz, curse him for defying God’s natural order. Curse the world.

I was bitter. By the time I snapped out of it, Bison was laughing hysterically. “Dude, you were making sexual moans in your sleep,” she added with a heavy burst of laughter. She went on to tell me that I fell asleep almost immediately after Andrea Martin’s The Best of Me. I could not believe my ears.

“Kissing and making out with the air,” she went on laughing through it all.

Did this mean that the sex was part of the nightmare also? Was I really not worthy?

“It sounded like you were having some great sex, my guy!” More laughter. “Let’s do it again,” she said in a mocking tone.

It turns out I sleep talk. I was the drunk of the night, lusting in my sleep. Thank God I still had my clothes on, because Lord knows my dignity was undressed.

“When I decided to get you up to move you to the bed, you had a hard on erection!” She continued torturing me. I decided to join her in laughter, not because I found it funny, but because I was glad she was alive. Then suddenly her face straightened.

“Once we got to the bed, you were absolutely gone. Out of the world. A few seconds after my alarm went off I noticed you trembling in your sleep. I knew you were having a bad dream because your body was jerking, and it seemed you were trying to speak, scream or something. Nothing come out but a mumbling that suggested fear.” She seemed sad as she spoke.

 I decided to not tell her what the nightmare was. I just looked at her, still amazed at everything that happened in such a short period of time.

“Dude, you went from happy erection to trembling fear in one dream!” The laughed continued. I laughed, too. She was alive.

Well, she died in my nightmares, but it felt so real. The thought of losing her was nagging me. I was convinced I was the epitome of an omen because no man had such bad luck with women, with life in general. 

I used to be a lukewarm believer of God, every old person I knew was a member of the clergy and God was part of life as it was. But when Mwiinga broke things off with me to devote her time to Him; those pretentious and forced beliefs evaded me. I wasn’t an atheist, but simply a broken young man that became the heart break kid. I cultivated and nurtured a liking for sin and of all the Seven Deadly Sins, lust was my favorite one. If it was judgment day and Jesus came to earth I’d be slain with His sickle and thrown in the winepress of His wrath.  I was a Hugh Heffner, except I didn’t have nearly as much money to afford a playboy mansion or silk robes and Cuban cigars. Unlike Heff, I didn’t need Viagra to get it up; I was advantaged by age because I was in my prime. But with death seeming to lurk nearby, none of that mattered.

In my nightmares, Bison’s face was stone cold, her body was immobile yet her eyes were fixed on me. There was no life left in her, but her eyes were alive and no matter how hard I tried to avoid her gaze, they kept drawing me in as if to say ‘read me’. In their mystery they revealed a passion for adventure which reminded me of our trip to Livingstone and a passion for work. The dream wasn’t just a dream, it felt like an omen.

Could it have been that she knew too much about the case she was working on and someone needed to use deadly force to stop her? I wasn’t going to pay for a crime I didn’t commit. I had read about such stories on Kachepa 360 and Tumfweko and ridiculed them as utter nonsense. No one dies from such affairs, I reassured myself. But then again there was that one chance and it made me sick to my stomach.

It was 3AM. I was relieved to have been awakened from yet another nightmare by my over active bladder. The cold of the night had descended in the room, it was cruel, as if death had passed by. I felt a chill. I swallowed hard, but my throat was dry. I was afraid. For some reason I thought of God. Mwiinga’s God, the same one that allowed her to shred my heart to pieces. I would have changed for her sake and for the sake of our relationship but God allowed her to tear me apart. In the Bible, Job went through the most difficult adversities known to mankind. His wife told him to curse God and die, but he praised Him instead. I guess I didn’t love Gods as much as Job did so I cursed Him hoping that He’d end my misery by terminating my young life, but He didn’t. I crawled out of bed to relieve myself. I felt a chill sink itself inside my bones again, only this time it was colder. I thought of death. I thought of God. I thought of Bison. I was afraid. I swallowed hard again. Death was coming for me.

It was 3AM. Mwila-An was still up working on her case. Often times her mind would wander, recreating scenes about the Livingstone trip. Times spent with her friend were always memorable. The trip was full of highlights, both good ones and bad. Mwila-An was through with acting like a platonic relationship is all they had. In Livingstone when he held her, it felt right. Not rigid and misplaced the way it is between friends, it was sensual, natural and right, just right. Twenty four years had come and passed with her feeling these things about only him. To him she shared things she hadn’t shared with any human on earth, things that even he didn’t dare to repeat. He kept them in his mind. Love wasn’t perfect she came to realise. It was everything. It was flaws and imperfection, it was happiness and sadness. He showed her all the wrinkles, curves and colours that make love what it is. She’d never be able to understand it.

Her mind went on and on into the details of that night, that particular instance when he dodged her advances, until she turned what really happened into what could have happened if life was a fairy tale.

“I can’t tell what this feeling is; I just want you to kiss me.”

In her imagination he pulled her in closer, palmed the back of her skull with his left hand and finally kissed her lips. They were soft and tasted like her favourite triple distilled drink. His right hand glided all over her contoured body, mastering the details of every bend and curve. She released soft moans that encouraged him to proceed. Her imagination became bolder and she could almost feel his hand holding hers as they walked to the hotel room to finish what they started many years ago. He snuck in some neck kisses and she giggled like a school girl when they got to the hotel room and closed the door, shutting out any doubts, obstruction and every single human or fear that stopped them from being together. Mwila-An knew what it was like between a man and a woman; she expected a slight shot of pain before he started moving rhythmically, delicately and meaningfully inside her. It would all last a brief moment but it would leave her with memories she’d never forget. Ishmael was a boy who became a man right before her eyes. She would never be able to forget him even if she tried, even if they fought, even if sometimes, she wanted to. It was irrational, even foolish that she desperately wished it was him that she laid down her virginity for. There was nobody else worthy, nobody else that made sense. Ishmael wasn’t the wisest, he was stubborn and impulsive but he was funny, he wore his heart on his sleeve and when she was with him she truly felt alive.

Knock on the door.

Thoughts interrupted. Panties wet.  Bison caught herself. It was 3 in the morning, she threw on a robe and wondered who was so desperate they knocked instead of calling. She looked through the peephole and saw a white blonde woman standing there. The woman looked familiar, she had seen her somewhere with longer hair and a more youthful look. Her appearance resembled the one she’d seen on pictures. Ishmael’s pictures. It was Samantha. Bison paused for a second, she considered ignoring Samantha, but her good side superseded her bad side so she flung the door open, hoping there was a logical reason for the visit. At the very moment their eyes met, Samantha lunged forward and pierced Bison’s neck with a screw driver. Blood spurted on both their faces. Bison pressed a finger on the piercing to block more blood from escaping, but it was damn near impossible to salvage her life.

Death passed me by and knocked on Bison’s door.