DEATH WRAPPED IN LOVE (A SHORT STORY).

You know,

We always had our little spats, but last night was different. She had gone mad! She wouldn’t let me do anything to her anymore. Okay, let me tell you what happened, maybe you would believe me, cos the police don’t.

I got back from work, right? Busy Thursday night as usual, and dinner wasn’t ready. A full-grown wife like her cannot make dinner in time again? It is not like she has given me any children that would distract her.

On a good day, she would get slapped, but tonight I relaxed. I didn’t want to attract our nosy neighbours. Not tonight, so I calmed down, right?

I was dozing off to Cyril Stober’s voice on NTA when she brought the food. Finally, dinner. I opened the silverware to see a flat circle of goo.

“Ahn Ahn”

“woman”

“What is this?”

“Pancake?”

“Since when did this become dinner for me in this house?”

“Better go and bring my dinner right away.”

I wasn’t even shouting when she said “stop shouting at me”.

“Can you imagine?” “Me?” “shouting”?

You can imagine my bewilderment when she goes on to speak about how she had to rush up something in the meantime, before preparing my ‘amala’. I stare at the plate in disbelief as she retreats into the kitchen before following her, fuming like a bull.

She knew I was going to hit her from the defensive stance she took at my jab. She winced in pain and tried to avoid hitting the boiling water on the stove. All my 34 years of living, my mother never served my father pancakes for dinner, being unfortunate won’t start from me. She knows our routine. The dance we indulge in every other day. A few slaps and occasional blows; I’m not a bastard.

But tonight, she refused.

“ahn ahn, who gave you liver?” I sputter, “to stand up against me, your husband?”

I laugh to myself because this woman is oblivious to the saying about hungry men. She is holding the butter knife with fresh determination in her eyes, the kind I’ve never seen before. Sweat beaming from her brows as the kitchen begins to heat up with more than the stove light. She has conspired with my enemies to kill me — better still, she has gone mad — but I will show her that I cannot be killed.

In a flash, I tackle her as we stumble to the ground; wrestling it out a few seconds. When we stood up, we couldn’t find the knife, but there was blood everywhere. I saw her eyes go red with pain as she dropped back to the cold tile, holding her belly.

How do I explain to these black-donning bastards it was self-defence? They won’t even tell me If she’s in a hospital or a morgue. I can hear her family members outside screaming and cursing, vowing to make me rot in jail.

It is their family member that will rot in prison, not me.

Rubbish.

*Remember you can clap up to 50 times if you really enjoyed reading this*