They say cats have nine lives to live before they kick the bucket… If God could answer each and every question we bring to his table, I’d expectantly ask Him whether the lives are identical. If I were a cat, I wouldn’t wish to pick up that ‘opportunity’ of other eight lives if I get to know that they’d all be like the one I’ve lived. Don’t get me wrong; I really treasure each breath and every morning I see the sun, but what life would it be if the only reason for living is to drown in the ravages of this world?
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On the contrary, I rather drown in them than use blazing tires as a blanket! I’d thought that the events of the past months, like Sande’s death, Stone’s death, Rachael’s misfortune and Gerald’s life imprisonment had been the most terrifying but I was wrong. Ronnie’s death was a class apart.—Those inhuman details, of the tongues of fire devouring every inch of his skin, came back to me in dreams and flashes for many nights after the incident.
I spent more time thinking and reminiscing, about every detail in that I started thinking of the many different paths I would have taken if I was to have a different story. However, the many possibilities seemed to germinate from the fact that I didn’t tell Rachael about my true life in the first place. If I’d told her about my rugged life, perhaps all this wouldn’t have happened because she would make the decision of either ending things with me, or accepting me the way I am. But since I had portrayed a picture of a more human yet duplicate version of me, I had to live to that standard, at least as far as her eyes could reach.
One Saturday morning found me awake. I had spent sleepless hours waiting for its morning dew to bless the day’s happenings because I was going to church! Amazing, isn’t it? And it wasn’t because of Rachael this time round—it was an unusual urge I had taken years without having. I wanted, for the first time in years, to communicate with whatever higher power was willing to lend me His ear. I wouldn’t want to call that higher power ‘God’ because that title—or name—is but a song that has lost its meaning.
Long story short, after a rather hotter than warm welcome, and hymns and smiles, I sat myself at the back of the Bwaise Adventist church. Sitting at the back didn’t make me any different from those at the front nevertheless. There were only nineteen adults in the church (including the pastor), so I was like an angel amidst them, first-time vibes painted allover my face. No wonder my neighbors offered me their smile-painted looks as though they were gifts.
Everything in the service seemed so different but that was what I needed at that time—something different. After a full day of a heaven-on-earth experience, I had a moment with the pastor. His major aim for requesting me to stay behind for ‘a few minutes’ was to preach to me the ‘true’ gospel so that I find out the ‘true ways’ of believing and become a ‘chosen one’ but he seemed, surprisingly, even more interested in what I had to say. I gave him an overview about my life and how I was bound for hell, but he turned the tables by telling me about the Good News.
The last advice he gave me after the relatively long session was to make up with Rachael, as the first step to living a happy life. I knew he was right, and that day marked the beginning of my journey to Dubai! I packed up holy bones and headed to Rachael’s. Little did I know that it being a Saturday, her father was home.—I had an interrogation session with the man for over thirty minutes before allowing me to talk to his daughter.
“I don’t know what to say about his death,” Rachael replied, amazed, after I broke to her the news of her nightmare’s demise. She seemed to be fighting the urge of making visible celebrations for the latter’s death. “It doesn’t change a single thing nonetheless.”
“Maybe it was God punishing him for all he has done,” I suggested. Her satisfied look agreed with me.
“What are your future plans, Sam?” she jabbed me the unexpected question. To be honest, I didn’t have any answers at that time.
“Well, I… I was… I was thinking of going abroad and do whatever job comes my way,” I don’t know how I was able to produce the reply. Where did the ‘abroad’ thing even come from? “At least for some months,” I added. ” To give me a kick.” Her eyes were glued to mine.
“That’s a great idea.” she said. “So you already have a passport?”
“Uhmm, not yet. I…”
“My father can help. He has friends who can make you one in just two weeks,” she offered a hand to the stammering me.
Such a moment deserved a hug or something, but since this wasn’t my roof we were under, I thanked her with just a smile and a shameful look-away. “I’m going to take responsibility of that baby, Rachael,” I assured. I know she didn’t need any help because her parents were more than able and willing to raise the child as their own but I said it anyway.—The baby would need a father figure sometime in the future.
I never gave a perfect goodbye to Rachael as I left, and that’s the reason as to why I want these years to fly like the wind, so I can make it to her as soon as possible.
After a month from that Saturday, I had my passport and visa, and I was good to go. So here I am, between my life and a promised land, with just a hope and a prayer to lead my way to and back. I don’t know if fate will be so kind to me to find Rachael with the same beating of the heart, or with the same bare fingers as I left her. I have no control of these things but one thing is for certain: I will not let Rachael carry the burden of the child alone! I will do whatever I have to do.
Because of the fact that these pages are made of me, I have become so indecisive about the type of fate they should face. Truth be told, I thought about leaving them somewhere on this plane, but they have become more of me and less of just leaves of a book.—I don’t want them to find solace in a hell, such as the dumpster, like I did. On the contrary, I really have to do away with them because their discovery could bring about a rich harvest of misfortune, which would hinder me from seeing my dreams grow flesh.
As I cultivate my sore eyelids for another minute of alertness, my mind lingers far away into the ocean of stars that seem so close above my head—I wish I could own one, so I can be someone. The flight attendant has just updated us that it’s roughly forty minutes to reach our destination. I’ve loved the sound of that because it means that forty minutes are the only hindrance to the ‘promised’ land: the land of milk and honey; the land of tunic and money! About what comes next, I do not know, but I am sure that if anyone is reading this, then I am either behind bars, or nursing the wounds from this world’s ravages in my eternal bed!
