Knacks and Knows of a Knave

‘Let me see what this is.’ And he clicked on the screen.

A man in his late twenties or early thirties ran and did a triple jump over the ditch, having the hop and the step phases on the man and one of the ladies’ heads respectively. A second man came with a stick and whooped at the third like one does to a snake. A third lady made an attempt to run away in pain but the number of raised sticks and machetes coming down on her made her slump back into the ground. A man came out of the crowd and dragged her by her feet into the ditch and did not stop till he had tired his hands using the cane on her. Someone threw a twig onto their bleeding heads and others followed with more twigs. Then someone lit a match. One got up to run. An athletic man’s acrobatic stump on her head made sure she stayed down. The only man among tormented sat, half lying, half sitting; trying to get up, clothes burning, skin peeling off, charring, bleeding. He said something. Nobody heard. Nobody listened. Maybe he had not even said anything at all. One of the ladies got up and tried to fight her way out. Men beat her back into the ditch and piled more burning twigs at her. Only the writhing could be seen. And the crowd mocked their cries. Nobody shed a tear. After all they were witches of Kisii.

He closed the laptop lid and went to the bedroom to hide his teary eyes from her. But his blinking perhaps had given him away. He wanted to ask why the people did what they did. He wanted to know why out of the multitude not a single person had come out to defend the helpless four. Why not even their kin had spoken a word; or perhaps they had no relatives at all. He wondered what the sons or daughters would have done had they seen what was going on. And why the person who had captured it all on camera did so. He pondered if law enforcement meant anything where the video had been captured. And if indeed there is any justice anywhere. He had many questions.

‘You wanted to know what I meant in my text?’ He asked once he came back.

He was recently trying to develop some character. He wanted some virtue, some honour. He wanted to be human. He had tried not to hurt many people many times before but had ended up with a wake of broken faiths and hearts. He did not want it anymore. Not to bruise any trusting soul. Not a single more. So he had resorted to being aloof, distant, impersonal but not plastic. He hated plasticity. Many times he had walked into the hospital and craved being left alone. Rarely had he got his peace; the staff had at these times insisted that he greet them and stop being a snob. He wanted no more attachment.

‘I didn’t understand what you meant.’ She answered.

This disgusted him further. It was the second time. The first time she had not replied to her text till he coerced an explanation from him. He was not used to writing in contracted forms. Even long words such as entertainment and disenchantment would be written in full if he saw the need to use them. He saw short forms such as ‘lol’ and ‘smh’ as immature and common and predisposed one to being misunderstood as many times as was understood. But there were dictionaries and one could always ask what a word meant if it was an issue with difficult words.

‘Is it a word or what? Where did you not understand seeing that this text uses simple English words?’

‘Everything.’

She was waiting to graduate soon and he had the perception that she was one of the best in her class. She had applied for a scholarship for her masters study. She was almost sure she would get it. He had a secret craving for the really intelligent, not the bookish. And if they had the beauty to go with it, it really excited him. She was handsome. The kind that his friend said could make a good housewife. As to beauty, that was certainly not hers; maybe inner beauty. But her slowness exasperated him. Then he read the text.

I wish that we cut this plant seeing that it is thin and unhealthy and will not give fruit.

He had earlier in the year decided that he wanted no more meeting with ladies if they did not fit his idea of a good match. A girl who considered him to be her boyfriend had, a week ago, given him a short notice of visiting in the evening and seeing that it was only going to be a night, he had easily given in. When she came, they had had sex like rarely before. He had heard her mourn. She did not usually do this. When they woke, he had mostly been angry; at many things and nothing in particular. He had snapped at her severally and wished she hadn’t come. Many times he had wished the girl visiting hadn’t come. It always ended in some bitterness deep within him. He desired no more. He had grumpily seen her off and wished she wouldn’t call again, never again. She hadn’t called since. He was grateful for that. He had deleted her number off his phonebook as soon as she had boarded the bus. And when he came back to the house and noticed a necklace and some hair on his bedside table he had trashed them and emptied the bin immediately.

He explained to her how he had broken many hearts and desired no continuation of the same. He hoped that she would understand that that was a goodbye. One thing he was certain of is that he was done with inviting very sticky girls to his personal space. He wanted to be free, to love freely, to be loved freely. No strings. No conditions.

After he saw her off, he sprayed the house to keep her scent away.