Danda

 Finifugal :(n.) hating endings; someone who tries to prolong the inevitable/ final moments

My grandfather always told us stories of his past. Oddly enough, he always chose to dwell there rather than face the reality he was currently experiencing. Today, in particular, he preferred to recount the story of how he lost his wife. Whenever he talked about it, his deep-set eyes held a clock turning back to that time. A certain kind of pain wrenched a guilt-filled moan from his very chest.

I was drowning myself in kachipembe again that day. Though the war was over, I felt like I was in the middle of the battlefield again. The stench of rotting blood, mud, and gunpowder still lingering in my nostrils. With each sip, we would teeter between reality and memory. The young boys would urge us to tell them our body counts, from our most gruesome kills to the most dangerous missions we would tell them all for another bottle of beer and moonshine. Tonight was no different, I drank till I pissed myself and since that was wasted alcohol I drank some more. I was a Soldado! I knew how to handle myself while under the influence...

He stopped midway and a tear rushed down his wrinkled cheek, followed by another... I could not believe the hardened soldier was crying in front of us. He always told us emotion was weakness and seeing him like this I knew. What he was about to tell us will change everything.

That day, I found myself drowning in kachipembe once again. Though the war had ended, it felt as though I was back on the battlefield. The stench of rotting blood, mud, and gunpowder lingered in my nostrils. With each sip, reality blurred into memory. The young boys urged us to recount our body counts, from our most gruesome kills to our most dangerous missions, all in exchange for another bottle of beer and moonshine. Tonight was no different. I drank until I lost control, even to the point of urinating on myself. But wasted alcohol was no deterrent; I drank even more. I was a Soldado, after all—I knew how to handle myself even under the influence.

Gulping down the remaining liquor, I found the door already unlocked. (I smirked, remembering the last time it was locked—she still has a scar on her back from that mistake.) The whole house was dark and quiet except for the kitchen. There she sat, her face etched with a deep frown. She looked up at me, weariness evident in her eyes. I smiled down at her, drawing in a deep breath. The familiar scent of piss and alcohol filled my senses, giving me the bravado I needed to assert my dominance. Yet, amidst her soft feminine scent, she appeared like a pure lamb. After all, I was the man of the house.

She questioned my whereabouts, though she knew perfectly well where I had been. I didn’t wish to argue, but she persisted. The shouting commenced, followed by the swing of my fists, knocking her out of her chair. My eyes demanded her submission. She rose, hurling a pot in my direction. I managed to raise my arm in time to block it. Anger consumed me, and I became blind with rage. My vision tinted red, all I desired was to strike her. Typically, I would continue hitting her until exhaustion took over, or she'd manage to knock me out. However, tonight, she lacked her usual fiery defiance...

He choked on a cough, and one of us quickly fetched him a glass of water. I grasped the realization before he could finish what he was about to confess. He settled back into the bed, his gaze fixed on the void, his eyes turning grave as he continued.

She was shouting and crying, demanding to know why I couldn't be a better man, a better husband, a better father. Her questions fueled the burning fire of rage within me, and I began to choke her. Finally, I managed to subdue her, but not before she scratched me right across my cheek. In a fit of anger, I pushed her away with such force...

Choking on a sob, he called out her name repeatedly, as though expecting her to appear around the corner and answer him. It was as if he was blaming her for what was about to unfold. By this time, all of us were waiting in anticipation, despite already knowing what would happen next. Our mother and several others would later recount what he did.

Her head went right through the window, shattering the glass. While I hissed at the painful scratch, I proceeded to curse her entire bloodline, hurling all types of names and slurs. Wiping my face with my palm, I moved towards her again. Unaware of the sharp edge positioned above a vital artery in her neck, I dragged her out with such force that it sliced jaggedly through her neck. She attempted to scream out in pain, but blood rushed into her mouth, blocking any sound. All I heard was gurgling and coughing. Confusion washed over me as she dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Blood...

I was paralyzed with dread as I watched the sea of blood fill the small kitchen floor. My eldest daughter's scream snapped me out of the stupor. Soon, more screams followed as all my children rushed into the kitchen, attempting to cover the gashing wound on her neck. But deep down, I knew it was too late. She had already lost so much blood. As I lost feeling in my legs, I found myself slumped in a chair, locking eyes with her... her rebellious eyes, defiant even in death as she turned cold before me.

With alcohol still clouding my senses, I couldn't fully comprehend what I had done. Stupidly, I reassured my children that she would be fine, instructing them to fetch hot water and call for an ambulance while I poured myself a cup of coffee. My second eldest son dashed to a neighbor's house for help. By the time the military police and ambulance arrived, it was too late. My wife had passed on, her clothes soaked with blood, as if hoping to resurrect her.

I don't recall much after that; I must have blacked out. The next thing I knew, I awoke in a cold, dim cell.

He stopped abruptly, as if emerging from a trance-like state. Meeting each of our eyes with a solemn gaze, he struggled to stand up, yet nobody offered to help him. Casting one last glance at us, he dragged his chair towards the garden, refusing to continue the story. It was evident he didn't want to, as if the act itself was physically painful. With a heavy sigh, he called out her name once more

‘Danda?!’

‘DANDA?!’

‘Danda!’

‘Danda!’

Proper Nouns and Glossary Terms

1. Kachipembe – a type concentrated alcohol or in other terms moonshine

2. Soldado – soldier or army man

3. Pirao – a hardened porridge made from maize meal

4. Danda – a term of endearment for your spouse either meaning honey or my love