FORGIVE ME PAST: Rational Battles

I was staring him down—reading him and to him—trying to telepathically make him aware of my presence. He, on the other side, was so attentive to the IGP’s speech that he didn’t notice me, or somehow feel the fire in my eyes burn his melanin. He was still the same stoic—partly apathetic—Ronnie. I don’t think he even took the effort and time to know his fellow prisoners standing next to him. He seemed to be lost in a world of his own.

I wish he sees my face, and read the anger written allover it, I prayed. My prayer wasn’t answered. I wasn’t in any way interested in a good get-together kind of thing, no. I wanted to offload the burdens he left us, onto his shoulder! I wanted to ask him why he left without informing us—moreover with our things, and at such a sensitive time. I wanted to tell him about the misery lot he left for only Gerald and I to carry, yet he had his share on it. And the car…oh my God, I wanted to get a fight, at least.

In that very moment, with Ronnie orchestrating what was transpiring in my head, I was taken back afresh to that particular week of bad luck. I was reminded of Stone’s death—it seemed like it had occurred the day before—, Sande’s unfruitful murder, Kisule’s car’s backfire, etc. The hatred I had for him was watered by the fresh pictures—in my mind—from that set of events, and I wanted him to have his share of our problems, despite his similar unlikely fate at that moment.

All the prisoners went wild with hails, murmurs, dance strokes and all melodies of applauds after the Inspector said something I was not able to hear. I joined in the mighty handclap, not to appear odd, and finally unglued my eyes off Ronnie. A few minutes later, the IGP finished his speech, and as he was escorted out by the wardens and the officials he’d come with, all the prisoners began to sing him praises, as their hand pairs rhythmically met and parted time and forth.

As the ‘special’ prisoners—the darker sheep—including Ronnie were taken back to wherever they had come from, my eyes escorted them, particularly Ronnie, until they disappeared out of the hall. The rest of us waited in lines for the orders of the warden. Ronnie went with all my senses. If all sin according to the Holy Bible is taken as crime by the human authorities as well, I would be arrested again and again, while in jail, for the multiple murders of the same person in my mind.

When we returned to our cells, I tried to engage in the joyful conversations and songs of freedom and thanksgiving but my face was still rough with anger. Luckily, we were all men, so no one really minded—or even noticed—about the lack of warmth in my visage. Anyway, the songs and smiles and hugs were because the IGP had promised all the prisoners court trials. He had promised that dates would be scheduled for all the prisoners who had been imprisoned without trial. On top of that, those unable to afford private lawyers were to be hired-for by the government.

Such news was, however, bittersweet. It meant that if a prisoner, say someone like me, won the case, he would be set free, on top of some refunds and inconvenience fines from the reporting party. On the other hand, however, if the prisoner lost, there could be a possibility of even a death sentence—more so for those like me who had very enormous crimes. I didn’t know what to feel. I couldn’t even feel anything—my mind, heart and soul were already occupied by Ronnie, Rachael and Gerald.

“What will you do if you win the case,” inquired the excited Bashir. His face was warm, full. I looked away. He saw it. “What’s wrong? You are supposed to be happy, man,” he added in a neutral tone.

“Do you remember Ronnie?” I asked, returning my gaze to him.

“The one you told us about? Yes.” He paid attention.

“I saw him among the Satans,” I announced. We used to refer those ‘special’ prisoners as ‘Satans’ because it was obvious that their crimes were worse than ours, hence the hotter hells they were put in.

“Are you for real?” He retorted with a question, his eyes wide open.

“Yes.” Silence. He didn’t know what to reply with. He sheathed his temples with his palms as though thinking of the best move—in chess—after falling into a trap. “I felt like attacking and beating the hell out of him.” Due to the dark colours I had painted Ronnie’s name with in all my stories, my mates depicted him as a devil. I’m sure they were all experiencing what I was feeling. They were now surrounding me, listening, like grandchildren round their grandfather, listening to a traditional tale.

“Man, you should bury him with the past,” Marko advised. He was right anyway, because Ronnie hadn’t even been a main character in the story of my life, so a betrayal from him couldn’t be given the audacity to eat my mind up.

Days and weeks passed but I never got the chance to see Ronnie again, which was a major boost in my attempt to flush him out of my head. On the other hand, Rachael re-occupied it dangerously once again. She was the only reason behind my longing to get out of prison. But was that possible? Despite carrying another man’s child, I still wanted to have her for myself alone but sometimes my thoughts got ahead of me and passed immediate judgement on her sin against me.

On the other hand, I wanted to prove my unconditional love to her; to forgive her, accept her, love her child, and so on. But what about the child’s father? He deserves death, but no, I have to fight a just battle; to prove myself I’m more worthy than he is, I thought. Marko and Bashir supported my plan of fighting for her, and gave me new tactics I knew nothing about, but Bobby never seconded the idea, saying that there was a lot of fish in the water. I just nonselectively digested all their advice.

A few days later, Bashir and Marko were taken, then Bobby, and after a week and some days, I was also transported to the temporary prison of The High Court. On my way, it was as if I was walking to my death, or to limitless freedom. There was nothing inbetween. Most of the faces of my fellows I traveled with were painted with joy, probably because their offenses weren’t as serious as mine, or because maybe they had been praying for trials, so this felt like an answered prayer to them.

The registration process wasn’t as complicated and long as the one at the Wandegeya post. Within a few minutes, it was done, and our property handed over. We were given back our clothes which we put on and headed for the waiting cell to wait for our lawyers for a briefing and also get ready for the court sessions which were to begin in an hour. As I entered the first well ventilated prison cell in history, my eyes landed on Gerald.