Short Story
Confessional
By Lawrence Kadzitche
Before Ndirande Mountain was desecrated, it used to provide a beautiful backdrop to Ndirande location, by then a large attractive township in the city of Blantyre. Covered with trees, the mountain was so beautiful that the renowned writer Aubrey Kalitera made its name the title of his vintage film ‘To Ndirande Mountain with Love’. Come 1994, the mountain was raped with vengeance, leaving it a sore spot for the eyes. The location itself was not spared. It became an overcrowded, garbage strewn honeycomb of shacks and other unsightly structures. The opaque beer tavern located in the heart of the location joined the bandwagon. The once majestic vast tavern fell into a state of disrepair like the ruins of Mwenemotapa.
The old tavern I am talking about is my favourite watering hole. Now I am at this big tavern with my friends Alidzi and Buthi wetting our dry throats with opaque beer together with some college students from Malawi University of Business and Applied Sciences, formerly the Polytechnic, when Alidzi suddenly exclaims, “Guys, do you know that madala was once a priest?”
Of course he is referring to me. My real name is Horace Mbaka but I was given the moniker madala out of respect for my prowess in imbibing beer or chasing women. It is therefore not surprising that one of the youths nearly chokes on the beer he is drinking. The others stare at me as if they have seen a ghost. They know me as both a lothario and most drunken man in the location so it is only fair that they are astonished by the revelation that I was once a man of the cloth.
Daft young men, don’t they know the old adage that never judge a book by its cover? Actually, since my fall from grace, I have been other things just to get a coin for beer or into a woman’s skirts. A witch doctor. A businessman. Fake ones of course. But it is true that I was once a clergyperson. Not these self-styled tin horn pastors who lie that God has called them when in fact they have called themselves just to plunder their gullible flock of their hard earned money. No, Sir. I was a qualified catholic priest who went through the seminary before being consecrated as priest.
“Well, lads, for a packet of wholesome opaque beer, I can tell you the story of my life,” I cajole them.
In a jiffy, a barmaid materialise with five packets of beer before me. She vigorously shakes one packet and expertly slash it open with her knife. She goes through the ritual of tasting it and then hands it over to me. With deliberate slowness I say some mumbo-jumbo as a prayer then take a long pull at the beer. By the time the packet leaves my mouth, it is completely empty. I throw it away, belch and sigh contentedly. Then I wipe the beer dregs from my lips with the back of my hand. I can see the college boys staring at me with increasing impatience.
Before I can start my story, Aunt Nkuyabwe appears. She is my girlfriend who is also a hostess in the tavern. I spring to my feet and give her hug. She’s a mountainous woman and with my thin and short build, it is like I am embracing a hippo. But I like my women big. I guess it compensates for my complex about my small stature. I have literally to stand on my toes to give her a peck on the cheek. She ambles off to meet the other women in the tavern, her buxom behind wiggling tantalizingly, leaving me staring at her like a drooling idiot. One of the students brings me to the present by clearing his throat.
“Well, boys, just sit there and hear the story of madala.” This is the story I tell them:
They say there is always a day of reckoning. It comes for everyone. Mine came that fateful Sunday morning. If I’d seen Lucifer on that day, I’d just have thought he’d come to fight against the Lord’s sheep.
But it wasn’t the devil I saw. No. It was a young woman. As a priest and as is customary in a catholic church, I was in the confessional before conducting mass on that day.
The young woman was the first to come into the confessional. She was so thin and frail. I concluded that she was suffering from some terminal illness and had come to make peace with her creator.
The first sign that something was wrong was when she didn’t kneel down and make the Sign of the Cross. For you who are not Catholics, when you go into the confessional, the first thing you do is kneel down and make the Sign of the Cross in the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit.
Neither did the emaciated female kneel nor make the required sign. Instead, she stood before me in a bossing attitude, her arms on her hips. I ignored the omission and thought she would go straight to say forgive me, Father, for I have sinned and then proceed with her confession. Annoyed by her actions, I decided that as a punishment, I would overload her with an impossible number of Hail Marys as her penance. That would teach her to respect the Sacrament of Penance.
But the words that came out of her mouth crashed like a tonne of bricks in the confessional. “Do you remember me, Horace?”
My heart leapt as if ice cold water had suddenly been thrown on my back. For those of you who are Catholics, you know the confessional is not a place to play games. In addition, you don’t address a priest the way the woman had done. Could this be the fallen angel in the guise of a woman?
Jarred to the core of my heart, I made the sign of the cross in Latin: In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. Then I started reciting Hail Mary in Latin as well: Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta…
“Cut the bullshit, hypocrite,” she encroached into my prayer. “Have you forgotten me, Horace?”
I studied her. She was very light in complexion and tall. There were sores all over her body. Her hair was falling off. My mouth opened and closed like that of a fish out of water. Something warned me that the girl’s presence spelled trouble with a capital T. She let out a ghastly smile that made me shudder. It was like watching a skull smile. “I’m Nita.”
Holy Mary! No, it couldn’t be. It was more than five years ago. At that time, I went to Mangochi to attend a month-long meeting of churches on HIV/AIDS.
After each session, I liked to sit on a certain place and watch the lake. I was on this spot late one afternoon when a voice said, “Good afternoon.”
I turned. Behind me, silhouetted against the sun, stood a young woman. I couldn’t see her clearly as the sun was in my eyes but I noted that she was in a very short dress. A sweet smell of perfume enveloped me as the girl came to where I sat.
“The lake looks very beautiful from here,” she said sitting beside me uninvited. “I’ve been seeing you here-you’re one of the people attending the meeting?”
I nodded, my heart starting to race like the engine of a diesel maize mill. Being a priest, I was not used to having girls in very short skirts sitting close to me.
I sent a sideways glance at her. She was tall and her tight-fitting dress revealed a curvaceous figure. On their own, my eyes strayed to her exposed things. I hastily moved my eyes only to land them on her pointed breasts jutting out proudly like twin peaks.
I closed my eyes and started praying Ave Maria. But the girl intruded into my prayer. “My name is Juanita, Nita in short. I live around here.”
We started chatting. She was easy to talk to. Whenever my eyes fell on her something twisted in my stomach.
I don’t know how it happened but we found ourselves in each other’s arms, kissing passionately on the sandy beach. It wasn’t my plan but I found myself sleeping in Nita’s house.
A whirlwind affair developed between us for the month I was there. It was only when I returned from the workshop that my senses returned to me. I’d fallen into sin like King David. But like the king, I was determined to get out of it.
I cut off any link with the girl and soon forgot about the whole affair. Until now.
“What do you want?” I asked.
She smiled her gruesome smile. “The result of our affair was a boy; Horace Junior. He’s a spitting image of yourself.”
I took a deep breath. I knew the worst was to come.
“I’d hoped to raise your son myself, Horace. But as you can see, I’m no longer in a position to do so.”
“What happened?”
“Aids. I have been battling various diseases the past few years and as you can see, I’ve lost the fight,” she said so casually that I was alarmed. “So, I want to leave Horace Junior with you.”
I was horrified. “You know I cannot take him. I’m a priest.”
She laughed casually. “I’ve come to leave Junior and not for negotiations.”
Her resolve frightened me. “Try to understand, Nita. If you leave the boy, I’ll lose the pastorate.”
“That’ll be good as you’ll be able to raise the boy without the restrictions of the canonry.”
“Nita…”
“You’ve got no options, Horace. Your calling as a priest has ended today. Whichever way, you’re done as a Father…”
“Nita…”
“Shut up!” she screamed. “Don’t make me cause a scene, Horace.”
I knelt before her, my hands clasped together. “Please lower your voice…”
She shook her head. “I’ve told you that whatever choice you make, you’re finished as Father Mbaka, Horace. You take the boy, they’ll kick you out but with grace. You refuse to take him, the Bishop will still hear of this and boot you out unceremoniously. Don’t forget, you can’t have your cake and also eat it.”
I was now literally begging, tears running down my face. “Nita, please try to understand…”
But she had hardened her heart like Pharaoh in the good old book. “I’m done talking. I’ll be in the church with Junior,” she paused and made a sign of slashing her throat. “Let me hear your decision immediately after mass, Father!”
I was confused. But with sickening feeling I realized that I was going to lose the priesthood whether I took Junior or not. I had forgotten the simple rule of how to deal with the devil: never!
So boys, that’s how I lost the priesthood!
End
