Three Stories

Short Stories

I.
Epitaph for a Pastor
By Lawrence Kadzitche

It was a day ducks would have loved so much. The rain that had started during the night did not let up. Come morning, as Pastor John Tengeza left Lilongwe, the rain was relentless as ever. His destination was Blantyre, where he had been invited to be the main speaker at a religious revival crusade.

Due to the downpour, he drove at a snail’s pace, his mind rehearsing the sermon he would deliver at the crusade. He had prepared a great sermon. He expected a great turn up. It was a pity his wife would not be there since she had to look after their only daughter who was down with malaria.

He was just getting out of Lilongwe City when he saw her. She stood by the road, a tall figure in a black raincoat that reached up to her ankles. A bag was slung across her left shoulder.

It was the pastor’s driving code never to offer a lift to strangers. There were great dangers in doing so. He had heard more than enough stories of unsuspecting drivers being robbed or even killed by thugs they had kindly offered a lift to.

The girl ahead frantically waved him down. The pastor found himself shifting into a lower gear. Surely there would be no danger from a lone girl shivering in the heavy rain. His mind made up, he pressed his foot on the brake pedal. The car came to a halt beside the girl.

“Get in,” he said as he leaned over and opened the passenger door.

“Thanks a lot,” she said scrambling into the car. “I was freezing out there.”

She threw back the hood of her raincoat to reveal a moon shaped face framed by pitch-black wavy hair cascading to her shoulders. Her light complexion showed a noticeable use of skin lightening creams.

“I’m headed for Blantyre for a Revival Crusade,” she said throwing her bag at the back seat. “I was so worried I would miss the great event.”

The pastor smiled. “God always has ways of providing our needs, daughter. That’s why I came along.”

She smiled to reveal a row of snow-white teeth, staring coquettishly at the pastor. “Excuse, me. Are you not the pastor who is going to speak at the crusade? Your face is similar to that in the posters.”

The pastor nodded without taking his eyes off the road.

“Let the Lord be praised,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’ve heard your sermons on the radio but never had a chance to meet you. They’re very powerful and enlightening.”

The pastor glanced at the girl. Something struck him as odd about her. The girl was obviously a prostitute. One way or another the signs of this old trade were always etched on those that practiced it. And on this girl, there were stamped on her face like an inscription on a tombstone.

His suspicions were confirmed when the girl took off the raincoat. Out of the raincoat emerged a vision that made the pastor’s eyes almost pop out of their sockets, his mouth dropping wide open.

The girl was in a tight fitting white blouse that showed her navel. Shapely breasts threatened to tear the blouse. Flowing out of a miniskirt hardly hiding her thighs, were shapely legs that tapered into high heels. Christ, she shouldn’t have taken off the raincoat, thought the pastor.

The pastor tried to avert his eyes but failed. Hypnotized he watched the vision that sat beside him.

“Do you mind if I make up my face?” the girl voice broke the spell. “The rain spoiled everything.”

“Go ahead,” croaked the pastor, his heart hammering.

What had happened had surprised him very much that he took several deep breaths to calm his pounding heart. He was confused. What was the meaning of all this? The girl had said she was going to the crusade, but how could she go dressed like this?

Was this a temptation thrown at him by the devil? He was a seasoned pastor and had met temptations of all sorts in his calling. He wasn’t going to fall for this one. Not him.

“Can you cover your legs, please,” he said calmly.

The girl continued powdering her face as if he had not spoken. The pastor decided to leave it at there. He would not look at her again until they reached Blantyre.

As the car was cruising along Zalewa Road, the girl closed her eyes and pretended to fall asleep. The pastor’s eye strayed to her. What he saw shocked him to the very roots of his soul. It could not be true. He must be dreaming. The girl’s skirt had gone up to her waist. She didn’t have a stitch on!

The pastor’s brain refused to believe this. No, this was too much. What shocked him was not the girl’s nakedness but the enormity of offering a lift to a girl who was not only wearing any underwear but was also obviously trying to seduce him. His mind willed him to take his eyes off the girl but his eyes refused.

Confused, he didn’t know that his car was cruising in the middle of the road. As he rounded a corner, that’s when he saw the truck. He tried to swerve but it was too late. The car collided head on with the truck and overturned. The pastor and the girl were thrown out of the car through the windscreen and crashed on the tarmac road.

Although badly injured, the pastor was still alive. As he lay curled on his side in intense pain, he discovered that something had caught his trousers at the waist, unzipping it. Then he saw the girl lying near him, spread eagled and naked. Horror gripped him.

He tried to close his fry but the zip was damaged. Then cover the girl, his tormented brain screamed. With superhuman effort, he painfully lifted his hand and grabbed her skirt and tried to pull it down her thighs.

His hand refused to obey his brain. In that instant, he knew he was doomed. What would people say when they found him with unzipped trousers and the girl without underwear? Wouldn’t they think he had been doing immoral things with her in the car? Who would believe that he had just given her a lift?

But he was never to find out. For, slumped across the girl and still asking himself these questions, he died. His hand still clutched the girl’s skirt.

End

II.
The Cardsharp
By Lawrence Kadzitche

Jack was determined to follow his uncle’s advice not to stop anywhere after withdrawing the money from the bank. He was nearing the bus depot when a big group bubbling with excitement arrested his attention.

He stopped briefly, wondering what had attracted such a crowd. Then he remembered his uncle’s advice. “In town, there are a lot of thieves. Be careful after you withdraw the money.”

He was about to move on when a thin youth in an oversized T-Shirt materialized at his side from nowhere.

“Man, if you want to make money, there’s the machine,” the tall thin youngster said pointing at the group.

Jack glanced at the young man. Wasn’t he one of the town thieves his uncle had warned him about? But he considered himself a clever young man. No one could steal the money from him.

“What happens?” Jack asked with interest.

“Come and see for yourself,” said the youth. “By the way, my name is Primo.”

He followed Primo who pushed his way through the crowd until Jack could see inside the circle. In the middle sat a smartly dressed young man with cards. Beside him were stacks of money.

“The game is simple. There are three aces; of diamonds, of spades and of hearts. The diamond is a decoy. You chose the ace of hearts you are rich. You chose the ace of spades and you have buried yourself six feet under the ground,” Primo explained.

Jack watched the game. Some people won, some lost. But what he noted was that he could identify the winning card among the three. Primo was right. If he played, he could make a hefty profit out of his uncle’s money.

He plunged into the game. He would use the money he had withdrawn from the bank-the pay roll for workers at his uncle’s farm.

“This is the diamond, this is the heart and this is the spade,” the gambler said in a singsong voice while shuffling the cards. “Where’s the heart?”

“There, in the middle!”

The dealer flipped the card. Jack had won the bet.

“My God!” cried the gambler.” There goes my money!”

Jack put in a bigger stake. He won twice as much.

“Pontius Pilate, are you here to crucify me like you did with Jesus?” wailed the dealer.

Soon Jack was intoxicated by his continuous success. One by one the other players became skeletons at the feast as Jack’s stakes rose to figures they couldn’t match.

Finally he was the only player. The atmosphere was charged with excitement as Jack won bet after bet. The spectators wildly cheered him on. Fired, Jack carelessly staked higher and higher and still won. The gambler looked like a drowning man.

“Let’s stop the game,” pleaded the gambler. “Leave me with something.”

Jack laughed. “I’m running you out of business, my friend. Here comes the killing blow!”

The gambler shuffled the cards and closed his eyes. “I can’t bear to watch anymore. Someone tell me how much I have lost!”

A snap of the finger and thumb and the card was turned over.

Jack’s eyes almost popped out with surprise. He had lost!

“God I thought I was finished,” croaked the gambler. “Sir, let’s quit before you finish me off.”

Jack greedily stared at the pile of K2000 bills still beside the gambler. “You’re quitting only when you have nothing to stake.”

The game went on. Jack played like someone possessed. He lost a bet. And another. And then another. Yet he played on. Then suddenly there was nothing in his pockets.

“Man, let’s stop the game before you lose everything,” the gambler advised as all the money Jack had was being shoveled across to him.

“No way. I got to win my money back,” Jack said hotly. He had to get his money back. What would he say to his uncle if he lost the money? “I’m staking my jacket. Deal!”

“That’s the spirit!” babbled the onlookers. “Get back your cash, man!”

Jack lost the jacket. Furious, he staked his shirt. He lost it, too. Another flip of a card. His wristwatch was gone. A card turned over and he had gambled away his shoes.

“Man, let me have my things,” the dealer said.

“You expect me to walk from here naked?” Jack flared.

The gambler smiled coldly. “Man, how you walk from here is none of my business. I want my winnings now. Just shed your gear or we’ll take it by force.”

Jack looked about him. Primo was nowhere to be seen, and the people who had been egging him on only moments ago now looked at him with contempt. It was only then that he realized he had been fooled.

His heart lurched. The people were not spectators at all. They were the gamblers accomplices, there to lure unsuspecting victims into the trap.

Six hours later, barefoot and clad only in his trousers, Jack staggered into his uncle big farmhouse.

End

III.
The Story of Clay Toys
By Lawrence Kadzitche

The prison commandant felt a chill down his spine as he looked at Gaza. Nothing could mask the hard and evil look on the ex-convict’s face. The words that came out of Gaza’s mouth after he handed him his discharge certificate confirmed his worst fears. “Once I’m out of here, I’ll do what I’ve been planning each day of the dozen years I’ve been here. To murder three people. The policeman who arrested me, the judge who sentenced me and,” Gaza paused for effect. “You: the commandant of the prison where I served my twelve year sentence.”

The commandant sighed deeply. “Why should you do that? You were here because you raped an old woman and tried to kill her. If she’d died you would’ve got the death sentence. It was all your fault so forget about that. Here you’ve learned how to make clay toys. Go into the toy making business. Thinking about revenge will get you nowhere.”

Gaza smiled. “I’ll go into the toy making business. But that’ll only be after getting my revenge.” He stopped in the doorway. “By the way, the first person I’ll use my juju on will be you.”

The first thing he did was to go and see his sister in Kawale. “Sister, I need some money,” he told her. “While in prison I learned how to make clay toys. I want to start a small business. I’ll also need some money for rent and other things while I’m settling down.”

His sister was ecstatic. “You know what, Gaza? That’s the best news that has come out your mouth since you were born. It’s time you settled down. I’ll give you the money. But promise me one thing; you’ll give me the first toy you make.”

Gaza rented a small tin house in Phwetekere Location. Then he went to Ntchisi to see a renowned witchdoctor called Nthiwatiwa.

“So you want revenge. To destroy the people who wronged you?” the witchdoctor asked after Gaza had explained why he was there. “What do you do for a living?”

The ex-convict thought for a moment. “Nothing really. But in prison I learned to make clay toys. I think I’ll start making toys and sell them.”

“Great. Follow me,” the witchdoctor said rising.

They went behind the hut. They stopped outside a small kiln with a wooden door. The witchdoctor opened the door.

“Get in”

Gaza stared at the witchdoctor, alarmed. Inside the kiln, a fire was blazing. Did the witchdoctor want to roast him alive?

“You want juju, get in,” the witchdoctor said shoving him inside.

Before he could protest he found himself inside the red-hot furnace. He expected to be burnt to ashes. But inside it was as cold as in a refrigerator.

“You’re a toy maker,” a voice he recognized as the witchdoctor’s said. “Use the toy’s to kill your enemies.”

Gaza stared about him. He was alone. Yet the voice came from within the kiln.

“All you have to do is make an exact toy of the person you want to punish. Whatever you do to the toy will happen to the person.”

The door of the kiln suddenly opened. The witchdoctor’s hand pulled him into the hot air outside.

“That’s all, my son,” the witchdoctor said when he had paid him his fee. “You’re now armed with the most powerful juju in the world.”

Within a few days, Gaza had opened his clay toy making business. The first toy he made was of the prison commandant. It was a beautiful toy. A neighbour wanted to buy it the moment it was finished.

“No,” said Gaza and smashed the head of the toy.

At the prison, the commandant rushed out of his office. There was an attempted prison break. As he and warders tried to contain the situation, a group of prisoners descended on him. He fell on the ground. A big prisoner lifted a concrete manhole cover and dropped it squarely on the screaming officer’s head. The commandant’s head was smashed beyond recognition.

Gaza heard of the incident on the small radio he had bought.

“Next it’s you, Mr. Policeman,” he said to himself with a chuckle.

He made a toy of the police officer and pierced it through the heart with a pin. At that moment, police officer Sigele was knifed to death as he tried to arrest a dangerous thief in Mtandile.

Gaza heard of the policeman’s death from his neighbours.

“Finally you, Mister Magistrate,” he said making a toy of the magistrate.

He took a rope and hanged the toy by the neck. At that time, the magistrate was in a tree behind his house. It had been discovered that he had received a bribe from one of the people he had been trying. Any time the police would come to arrest him. Rather than face the unpleasant prospect of going to jail he committed suicide.

”Now to the toy making business,” Gaza said with satisfaction. “”Sister, you wanted the first toy I make. Ok, I’ll make one of your handsome brother, Gaza. You will be surprised what a good artist your brother is.”

He made a toy that resembled him perfectly. Gaza had to agree it was his best work ever. When it had dried he decided to take it to his sister.

It was raining outside. He put the toy in a plastic bag to protect it from the rain. He had just started to move away from his house when hands suddenly grabbed him from behind, pinning his hands behind his back in a vice like grip. A man appeared before him.

”Well, well, Gaza, we meet again,” the man said. “Been waiting all these years for you to get out of the cooler.”

Gaza recognized him immediately. Tony. Instinctively, he knew who the man behind him was. Moshe. Hardened criminals he had double-crossed sometime back.

“Man, we never thought you had it in you, making away with all that cash we swindled that Indian and disappearing,” hissed Moshe behind him. “By the time we traced you, you had raped that old woman and was in police custody.”

“Well, its bye, Gaza,” Tony said. “Greet the devil for me.”

A plastic bag materialized in Tony’s hands. Suddenly Gaza found his head inside the plastic bag, a string being tied around his neck. Gaza struggled desperately, but couldn’t get out of Moshe’s grip. His struggles began to weaken as he suffocated.

Just before he died, it hit him. The toy in the plastic bag. He had just suffocated himself. As life ebbed out of him, he rued the day he had visited the juju man. And so regretting he died.

End