The End

Even to this day, you haven’t said goodbye to me, my love. You haven’t legitimately parted ways with me. Yet we both know we are done with each other. Our relationship was pregnant with wonderful potential that has now been aborted. It’s an agonizing reality. Life is not meant for the feeble-kneed I suppose. And I’m feeble-kneed. I’m a weakling.  So lucid in my mind is that rainy day when we first met outside the supermarket. You shielded me from the rain under your umbrella as you walked me to the doorstep of my house. We fell for each other, immediately and almost inevitably. We both believed that the rain was God’s blessing of our union. But months later you ceased visiting me regularly. You missed several of our dates and came up with excuses for not meeting. Whatever happened to God’s blessings?



Last night when we spoke on the phone, after you scalded me with the truth, I uttered my goodbyes several times but you plainly refused to say the word. We spoke for a very long time, not caring about the phone bill that would accumulate. Lately I don’t care much about things. You said many things but not the ‘G’ word. You see, this is what messes up my brain right now. You gave me an impression that you love me, even though you were leaving me. It’s confusing, given the condition of our severance. As I write this, I will not pussyfoot around, as I possibly did in many of our conversations. Your words nearly asphyxiated me last night. I know I lost you. But losing you is tantamount to losing myself. That’s how much I love you. I know you know this.  Yet you decided to fling me down this dark tunnel.

I kind of like it under this tree. And I didn’t come here for convalescence. I’ve come here because, one, it’s far away from everyone, hidden in the bush by the riverside; two, it’s the only place that doesn’t spark vivid memories of you; three, it’s cool. I really enjoy the fresh shade thrown by this Mophane tree. The atmosphere here makes me feel like I’m in heaven. The green foliage strewn with colourful flowers is reminiscent of a dream scene. The moist breeze from the river makes this place so romantic, a perfect resort for lovers.

The circumstances of our break-up depress me heavily. You and I never had any disputes and I had hoped we’d go far. In you I saw a woman of virtue. When we spoke and you told me those vicious words last night, it was like driving a hot sword right through my heart. Last night I cried. I cried at the thought of how brutal this had to end. I didn’t sleep. No, I couldn’t sleep. I thought hard about this situation. Something in me told me that all the while you’ve been lying to me. I listened to your voice in the phone as you unhesitatingly told me that you’ve moved on to a wealthier man. It’s apparent that this man has always been in your head, not your heart. In your heart I resided. This, I’m sure of. Ask God. It’s your head that you followed, not your heart. Your head did the thinking. It showed you that in this man you had a provider of silver and gold, your bread and butter. Who wants genuine love when lust and infatuation can provide? In me there’s love – and nothing else, regrettably. In this man you have everything but love. I like truth. But truth, my dear, hurts badly. With me you were only testing waters. And you realised, finally, that the waters were not fertile enough to nourish your acquisitive needs. I’m not writing this to pour scorn on you. Believe me.

A squirrel just scurried up the tree. Leaves placidly sway from its little weight. A group of birds shoot off – tiny aircrafts against the charcoal grey sky, squeaking all the way. Ominous clouds obscure the sun and my cool shade is suddenly gone. They swell in heavy masses, coalescing even tighter and enshrouding me with their imposing dominance. I feel dwarfed, like a helpless, tiny insect.

It’s strange how pain has just revealed the baby in me. I feel like a baby right now. And I miss my mother. Mother is a very strong woman and sometimes I wish I had traits like hers. Somehow, and very strangely, I remember the years when I suckled her tits and clamped on her back. I wish I could go back to my mother’s womb. I can imagine the warmth, comfort and protection in there – a pure world untainted in any way.

I feel terribly degraded and somewhat insulted. Not by you but by the harsh reality. However, there’s one thing I wish you don’t lie about. Don’t lie about the status of our separation. Don’t tell your friends that ours was a peaceful break-up. Tell them the truth. If one day, after many years, this turns out to be a story to tell your children, tell it wholly and truthfully. Tell them that life is a bitch and love sucks. Tell them about this man you used to know, many years ago. Tell them that this man loved you - and that you also loved him dearly. But explain to them that you couldn’t stay with him because you loved other things more than him. Let them understand what you mean. It’s important that they understand because, you see, life is a bitch and love sucks. We’ve been together in this delusional relationship for only a few months. Throughout these months, you had me in a bag of ignorance. And I enjoyed it in there - for real. Lies can be sweet at times.

I can hear movements close by. Who can it be? The bush is thick and I can’t see through. Someone must have followed my tracks. The last thing I need right now is disturbance. I can feel my heart pumping faster. I hope it’s not the police. I loathe the police. The police always have strange ways of knowing things. They are probably led by their detection dogs - those mongrels that are trained to hunt and sniff for trouble. I’d like to burry my knife in their skulls. I hope the police are armed. All I need to do is to resist arrest, hurl rocks at them and fight their dogs. I’ll cheerfully dance under the music from their barrels. Headline news. Suddenly I like the police. Remember how they teamed up with soldiers and cold-bloodedly showered a hail of irons at that alleged criminal boy - drilling bullets through the metal shield of his car and right into his soft flesh and bones? It made big news. I can’t hear the movements now. Have they read my thoughts and retreated? There! There it comes again. Dry twigs snap under the crunch of their boots. Oh, no! The snapping of twigs is followed by a blaring bray of a donkey.

You wonder why I’m recording all this. It might seem unimportant to you. Perhaps I should let you know why I’m writing this in red ink. Your first thought would be ‘blood’, ‘anger’, ‘broken heart’. But that’s not it. It’s not because of the trauma you caused me that I chose to use a red pen. They like to say with every pain comes gain. Now I remember the trite ‘there’s no gain without pain.’ The only thing I like about that expression is the rhyme. But pain doesn’t always bring gain. In fact, pain doesn’t beget gain at all. It’s like political rhetoric that ends up only as disappointment to voters. Politics will make you believe utter hogwash and throw you into a ballot trap. Until recently, I believed so much in politics – more than I did in God. I ceremoniously praised our politicians. In them I saw messiahs and staunch leaders of the nation. I voted. Many times. And every time I voted, I opted for the elite party, the rulers. I never liked losers, the so-called opposition parties. No matter how much they babbled on and on about how they will change things when given the chance, there was always something in their eyes and voices screaming ‘lies!’ So I never voted for them. After all, they are confused. That’s why they like fighting amongst themselves.

As you know, recently there had been a national industrial action that instigated with trepidation hanging over the country. I never took part in it, though I’m a civil servant myself. But I needed the wage augmentation more that everyone else who took it to the battlefield. Although I pretended otherwise, de facto, I prayed for the protesters to triumph. I was a passive rider in their train, shame on me. My acquiescent slave mind, however, kept me from fighting. I was loyal to my government. You asked me why I wasn’t part of the strike. My answer was lame and somewhat inane. I hope you didn’t notice that. I told you that all those workers out there, with placards and nasty slogans spewing off their mouths, were confused and utterly inconsiderate. But truth is I was the one clouded with confusion. So, as you can see, you were in love with a slave – and a fool.

I didn’t know that my voting for this powerful, monster party would ultimately lead to my destruction. I voted because of their endless promises to make my life better. They promised to hike my salary and reduce these crazy prices on food, fuel and electricity. They didn’t, of course. But I continued to vote, hoping, with every cast, that this time it will happen. I hoped for harsh life conditions to improve. I hoped that soon I’ll live a debt free life. It didn’t happen. I continue - together with millions of other victims out there - to be enslaved to ruthless, bloodsucking capitalist organisations and schemes. They scramble for my elfin salary. They practically fight over it. They are like vultures over a carcass, each pulling out their share. I feel like a carcass right now. They don’t care about my welfare. Whether I have bread or not, they don’t give a damn, so long as they get their piece of meat from my cadaver. And the government looks at me and shrugs. The government looks at these vampires and smiles with them. The politicians don’t do a thing about this situation, despite their endless promises to remedy the conditions. These men in suits sit in their wonderful offices, play cards on their computers, dwell in Internet chat room and drink tea and biscuits all day long. And I’ve put them there, in those seats, when I threw that vote into a ballot box. They wait for the next election year. Then you’ll see them, splattering red colours everywhere. Red is their colour. Yes, the colour of blood is their colour. Now I know why they are in cahoots with vampires. They are vampires themselves! I’ve proudly worn this theme colour over the years, sticking my fists in the air, shouting their slogans. What an imbecile I was! Now that my eyes are open, I despise the colour red. Red had led me astray. Even as I draped in red over the years, flapping red flags, it didn’t make my life better. My salary dwindled, though I work tirelessly for them.

That is why, when you came into my life, my love, I couldn’t give you the things you wanted. I couldn’t support you materially. I was already wounded. Perhaps you considered me a scrooge. But I hoped to heal. You were my antidote. I’d look at you and rays of hope would flood my system. You were like a drug to me – a drug that sedated my pains and worries. To my chagrin, however, you didn’t see that. What you saw was this blistering love that I had - I mean, have - for you. Love is powerful. It’s divine. I used to write you love poems and read them to you. You loved them, I could tell. Quixotic I was, perhaps. I remember this particular night. You were in my arms and me in yours, feeling so snug. Red light glowed in my room, bathing us in a warm, amorous red illumination. Oh, how I despise this colour now. Anyway, there we were, entangled in peace and divine love. I recited you a poem. I know you remember this. It’s strange that when I was with you, I turned into a novice poet. No one else knew about this little poet in me, but you, my love. So you listened to my poem on that night. Rain sluiced languidly over the rooftop of my bungalow, a gentle caress of nature. It slithered down the windowpane as if in praise of our love; another blessing, perhaps? You absorbed every word and rhyme from my mouth. Then I saw it - the tear, like a tiny diamond on your eyelash. You cried and that touched my heart like it never did before. I kissed your tears dry. You cried because you felt the love. But sadly, it turned out that my love or poems couldn’t buy you clothes. My love or poems couldn’t pay your bills. They couldn’t take you to the movies or aristocratic restaurants. So, to hell with my love and poems! You decided to leave. Now here I am, writing in red ink – the colour of what used to be my hope. 

I hear clouds rumbling. They’ve concealed the sky and it’s dark now. A sudden drop in pressure tells me it’s about to rain. Save for the ugly growling of clouds, it’s very silent here.  The first drops of rain are hitting the ground. I can feel the pleasant, tepid moist from the soil. Rain will wash away my pain. Where is that squirrel by the way? He’s seen my tears as I squat on the ground, back propped up against a stem, and write this. He’s seen the emotions on my face. He’s seen me constantly look up in remembrance of the times I spent with you. This squirrel has seen it all. At one point when I broke down and cried, I think that was when I wrote that line about us being entwined around each other under soft red light and poems; I felt the presence of this animal over me. Somehow I felt a trifle comfort, albeit awkwardly. So now there’s just me, the tree, the squirrel and my rope. Didn’t I mention my rope? Goodbye my love.