Short Story
By Lawrence Kadzitche

They dont have to tell me. I know it already. Why should the pastor always visit my wife when Im away?

Man, that casanova is messing around with your better half, Mojo Gugu tells me one day when were drying our wet throats with bibida.

And in townships no one whispers in your ear. Never. Its always speaking at the top of ones voice as if everyone is hard of hearing. Maybe its because of the noise that is everywhere-from blaring music systems in homes and taverns, spluttering vehicles and all kinds of sounds. You would think that with all that din no one would over hear that the pastor is screwing my beloved wife. But thats not in townships. Everyone knows what is going on even in the private confines of bedrooms.

I put on a brave face. Its no use trying to look for sympathy from guys like Mojo. They are evil. They wallow in the pain they cause to others.

I gulp some kachasu. Im perfectly aware of that, man.

Mojo looks surprised.

Man, Ive eyes and ears, I say carelessly. Its only that I havent yet decided on what fate I should mete out to that fake priest when I catch him.

And while you remain ambivalent, the bloody preacher is gobbling your sweeties like nobodys business, Mojo cackles with glee.

That really stabs. You know I love Gilesi with my heart. The only problem is that she doesnt want me to drink. Now although I do not love beer as much as I love Gilesi, I find it difficult to stop drinking completely.

The whole thing began in the name of Jesus when she joined this church thing. Before that, when I came home late, I would find her waiting for me, eyes red with crying. I didnt mind that much although it gnawed at my heart. Then a new church opened in the area and she joined it. She became a devoted member of the church at the speed of a runaway truck.

When I came home late, Id either find her praying or reading the bible. I did not mind that. It was far much better than finding her crying.

Then they started holding prayers at my house. That I also didnt mind. I knew they were praying to drive away what they called the spirit of drunkenness from me. They could pray all they wanted. I wasnt going to change.

Then pastor started frequenting my house. My wife said it was to comfort her but I knew it was all a guise- the scheming man of God was only trying to find time to be with my wife alone so that he could find a way to peep into her skirts. What sealed my suspicions were the night prayers that my wife began attending.

Thats why I say I dont need my sharp mouthed friends to tell me the pastor is munching my goodies. I had already deduced that. But you cant just beat up a man on suspicion of going about with your wife. One needs proof; concrete proof. And thats what Im going to get. Ironclad proof.

So this other day I know the pastor is going to visit my house. I tell my wife Ill come back home late as my friends have invited me for a boozing spree. When she thinks Im gone, I hide in a cupboard.

Im fully dressed for battle. Im in a sleeveless black T-shirt and imitation combat trousers. My face is painted like that of Rambo about to go into action. In my hands is a razor sharp glittering new panga knife. I smile as I think of the fear that will grip the cheating pastor as I descend on him with a war cry.

Patiently, I wait in the cupboard. The pastor arrives early in afternoon. I bide my time. I know when to ambush them. When they are pretending to be praying in tongues to hide their grunts and moaning.

The appointed time comes. I hear them praying in tongues. My heart is racing. I still wait for the tell tale sounds. It comes. Grunting the name of Jesus! I tie a bandana around my head and pull it almost over my eyes. Then I spring out of the cupboard. In a jiffy, Im out of the bedroom and charging into the sitting room, my raised hands holding the machete high.

I stop as if electrified, my hands frozen in the air. The pastor, fully dressed, is in earnest prayer. So is my wife. Theyre not even standing close. The pastor is in one corner and my wife in another!

My entry jots them out of their prayers. They stare at me in astonishment, failing to recognize me because of the combat gear and war paint on my face. Then recognition dawns on their shocked faces.

Thubwa, whats the meaning of this? my wife asks, open mouthed.

I feel deflated. So I was wrong all the time. How will I face my friends when they hear of what has just happened? And the story will soon be in the whole township. It could have been better if Id found them in each others arms. Then Id be a hero-the loving husband who hacked the double-crossing rat of a preacher who was messing about with his wife. But the story would not be so -Ill be labeled the stupid drunkard of a jealous husband who wanted to kill a pastor who was trying to assist his abused wife.

My mind clicks to a decision. I fall to my knees. Pastor, pray for me for I have sinned.


About the author

Lawrence Kadzitche

View all posts

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *