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

Death. It’s funny. But it won’t crack a joke and make you laugh. No. Just how it comes when you least expect it to. And bring with it a grief you’re unsure of. A grief that clenches your heart, wrings it of all emotion. Mwila-An, she was funny. She cracked jokes like nuts at a cheap bar in the Bronx. And death decided to take it away from me. Her jokes. Her smile. Her funny. What it left behind was a taste. Stale triple distilled single malt whisky. I had four of those. Straight and on the rocks. But the pain was unrelenting.

Her. Me. Us. It was never really a thing. It was more of what could be. You know? A temptation of what ifs. What if I kissed her that day at Livingstone? What if she kissed me back? What if we went up to my room? What if she gave herself to me? What if she told me she loved me? What if I told her I loved her? Wait. Love? Fuck. Why now? Why these feelings now. When she’s dead? What if she was alive in an alternate universe? Damn. Bison. Gone but still got me twisted up. It wasn’t fair.

The more I thought about Bison the more convinced I was that she was my destiny, it was always her and I from the first time I laid my eyes on her in that pink crib. Creepy isn’t it? Nobody tells you that a baby you meet when you’re a kid can end up the woman you’re in love with. I messed up with every woman I tried to be with because I was doing it all wrong. I needed to tell her that she meant more to me than forehead kisses, that she was my best friend and more. I needed her to know that I was ready to risk it all just to be with her. That we would work on it a day at a time until we got it right. There would be tears but there would be more joy. I was ready.

Sam Smith was playing. I’m not the only one was on replay and the bartender refused to get me another drink. He said I looked too drunk. Who too drunk? Yaba. He looked too drunk. What did he mean? He just did not want to take my money. I wanted him to take my money. Give me more whisky. Which would in turn take away the pain. Sam Smith. Sam. Sammie. Crazy Bitch. What happened to her? The whiskey made me want to call her. What I needed was a distraction.

A gentleman walked in, behind him was a lady. Short neat hair, pair of Ankara shorts showing her curvy legs and exaggerated hips. A white silky chiffon blouse covering her protruding breasts and black heels with a red sole. She was oozing of class. The guy was fat. Oversized coat. Belt above the navel struggling to overcome the mountain that was the tummy. He was bald but his head was peppered with tiny greying hairs. Dangling on his ring finger. Fucking ring finger, was a pair of keys. A jeep maybe. BMW? The lady had no ring. Her eyes danced with the lights of the bar. She looked straight at me. I didn’t look back. I wasn’t interested in flirting.

“Alone tonight?”

“Yes. I want it to stay that way. Please go. Eh.”

“You will chase away a beautiful lady? Most people buy her a drink.”

“I am not most people. I am chasing you away. Go before Mr fat tummy comes looking for you.”

I took a swig out of an already empty whisky glass. The ice started to melt. I needed to leave. Mr Fat Tummy emerged from the bathroom with a huge grin on his face. I wanted to slap him with my left hand and the reality that his wife would find out. Soon enough they find out. And his little thing over there looking pretty, I could fuck her. I wanted to tell him but I just walked out. Shit. I didn’t even pay. I didn’t care. Sam Smith was still belting out his smooth voice when I stepped out. Sam Smith reminded me of Chomba.

The parking lot is deserted. Dotted with a few cars here and there. I spotted a BMW. Mr Fat Tummy. It was white with black rims. Either his wife or son had great taste. Mostly his son. He looked the kind married to a village woman who would not know how to pair rim to paint colour. Probably had a red fridge in a kitchen painted yellow and used it to store her backwardness. Keep it fresh. Shit. I was bitter.

My car wasn’t any further. Reaching it felt like walking through the Sahara, bare feet. Finally, I got there, the door gave way. The air inside was stale but I did not want to open the windows. The last person inside it, other than me, was Mwiinga. And Bison. The car smelled of both of them. Bison was always ready to go. She would be outside my house and five minutes later, in my passenger’s seat, smelling like a walking and talking good decision, telling me about the Ford F150. I knew all about it. It was my dream car too, but hey, why would I say anything and wind up sounding like I was forcing us to have more in common than we already did? I tried my hardest to recall the exact day Bison ceased to be my little sister. Our entire childhood, never would I have guessed that one day I would be walking on eggshells around Mwila-An. When we went out together I occasionally, found myself interrupting Bison’s conversations with other guys when they looked like they were having too much fun; laughing too heartily. I kept stopping myself from doing it, in my mind, that is. Reality was a different story. I was knowingly cock-blocking. Being who she was, she laughed it off to save me the humiliation and left with me over and over until she suggested it was time to leave. There was something there, we never discussed it, but there was something.

When I concentrated hard enough I traced the faint smell of Mwila-An’s laugh. Her laugh had a smell. Not bad breath. It just had a smell. She was dead and I started to notice such things. Her laugh smelt happy. I can’t tell you what happy smells like. You can only know it when you feel it. I didn’t know if I would ever be able to open my windows. Or the radio. Yes the radio. Because inside the confined walls of the metal contraption I could hear her voice.

A light tap on my window broke me out of my reverie. I was torn between opening it and just staring at the dark figure. A familiar beige coat stood outside. Sammie. Shit. Samantha. I let down the window, just a crack. She smelled of lavender. Strange. Lavender and bleach. Her scent invaded my car and threatened to wash away all memories of Bison. 

“What do you want Samantha?”

“I took care of it Ish. I took care of it.” She said. Samantha was fidgety and kept darting her eyes across the lot. Like she was waiting for someone. No. Running from someone.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“No. Let me in. Let me talk to you. Please.”

“Not now. I’m not in the mood.” I was curt with my response. Fuck Samantha. I had my own things to take care of. I had Bison’s funeral to think about. Her grief stricken mother. Everyone expected me to say something when her casket would be lowered to the ground. She’d have wanted a hip hop song played as she went in. One last time. Like a G. Next Episode maybe? Snoop and Dre. Dammit Bison.

“I killed Bison!” She shrieked.

I was dumbstruck. Maybe it was the whisky. It all became blurry too fast. I was incoherent. My thoughts discordant. Fuck.

“Bison… BISON?!” I started to scream, hysteria quickly setting in. Samantha started to step away from the car. But I would not let her go. Not after she killed the woman I love. There was that word again. Love. I loved Bison. To the moon and back. Actually just to the moon; we’d stay there where there was no air. Kind of Like Jordin Sparks and Chris Magenta. Wait? Chris Brown.

“You killed her!” I shouted.

“Only because you did not listen Ish. You don’t listen.”

“You killed her!” I shouted again. This time I was coming out of the car. Furious. Rage written all over my face. To hell with the smell of her voice. To hell with it. Samantha didn’t run. She stood her ground and looked at me. Tears running down her eyes. But they were not remorseful tears. They were tears of fear. Like she was about to do something else. I should’ve run but it was too late. I saw the glint too late. A shiny piece of chrome drove deep into my neck. Pain. And the silent sputter of spewing blood.

“You were not supposed to love her Ish.” She spat out the words with finality. “Your union was going to destroy the world.”

I could only stare. My voice was gone. So was my warmth. It eased out of my body with the spilling blood. I could only grasp at my neck and look at her with sad eyes. Pity. I could not muster the strength to look vengeful.

“If you really love her you can go be with her. Tell her I said hi. Okay Ish?” She said. Or asked.

I still couldn’t talk. My breathing was slow. And heavy. Like a pregnant goat. Her voice was ice. Suddenly the blackness started to engulf. It had come for me like it had come for them. Didn’t I tell you it was funny?

Hold on Mwila-An; I am coming.