The Prostitute Killer

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You are the punishment of God, the voice tells me, if they had not committed great sins God would not have sent a punishment like you upon them. I am the punishment of God, I affirm, if they had not committed great sins God would not have sent a punishment like me upon them. Someone shouldn’t spend the whole of their God-given lives earning a dime and a bob on the Holy Spirit’s temple. It is a sin against God and nature. I feel it is my duty as a servant of God to protect womanhood and sexuality from degradation.

When I started in Nakuru I did not stop until I went to all the 47 counties. God had sent me to the lost ewes of Kenyan towns. I picked the prostitutes easy. I knew they would not be reported missing right away and might never be reported missing. I knew I would kill as many of them as I wanted without getting caught. I reasoned that since they were doing illegal work, they had to be secretive and discreet. Many were drug addicts and estranged from their families, desperadoes, so they were less likely to be reported missing. Anyone involved with them, in the trade, wouldn’t be super eager to speak with police.

I guessed wrong. People talked, but not to the police. They talked to my all-time nemesis, the media. The jackals gave the tarts unnecessary media coverage. The reporters were like vultures, doing it not for the love of the dead but of the feast. I wondered when humanity became so shameless. The lucky ones who escaped my snare took to the streets yapping about their rights, demanding the government protect them as though delineation of police duties included standing guard as the whores sold pussy.

Mathew 10:23 – ‘when they persecute in one city, run away to another...’ The media jackals were persecuting me, talking about me, alerting and warning others to beware of a serial killer targeting the oldest professionals in human history. I had to run away. But I was not running really. I was moving on for truly I tell you, I had to go to all towns in the 47 counties to spread the Gospel. Serial murders of prostitutes were reported in every town of the republic, with no single case solved, all murders turned frustratingly cold.

When I killed them, and drank their cold blood, I took with me their precious vaginas and breasts. Psychologists on national television trying to analyse me said that I was taking souvenirs with me so each time I looked at or touched them they reminded me of the victims, that I had a connection with the victims. They wouldn’t have been further from the truth. God had ordered me to take the parts with me to present as exhibits on judgment day.

Now, I have gone to all the counties save for one – Nairobi City County. Nairobi is where the final mow down of prostitutes will take place. Like Samson I will kill more on my death than in my lifetime. I never planned on getting caught. I can’t be caught. I can’t go to prison. It is the proper road to take to spare the victims’ families further anguish, save the taxpayer the burden of trying me and feeding me in prison, and save the police the trouble of investigating me because if I go to court the burden of proof will largely depend of them.

Today is December 16th, International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers. Can you imagine that? Sex workers my ass! Today I will fulfil my mission in this world. Today, Saint Peter will open the gates of heaven for me, an aide will take me to God’s well-furnished office, and I will hand over the evidence for lockup in the evidence cabinet and await the judgement day when the prostitutes will get what was coming to them.

After today, The Call Girl Killer will never be heard of. The murders of those prostitutes will enter the Kenyan history books of unsolved murders. From today, the police will stop looking for me and the National Intelligence Service will take over my case. Well, not my case per se, but they will be looking for the terrorist who killed all those prostitutes gathered at Uhuru Park demanding protection from the government. Today, when I’m gone, it will be another al-Shabaab attack on Kenyan soil.

Hail Mary full of grace, I roll the beads of the rosary in my hand. Pray for us sinners now and the hour of death. I finish the prayer and make my way to the centre of the crowd. Zawadi Nyong’o’s security is trying to shield her from fans. She has been a superstar ever since she organized the first International Day to End Violence Against Sex Workers in Kenya. Her entourage includes the Queen prostitute, the Chairlady Kenya Sex Worker Alliance (KESWA).

My heart is palpitating, stomach taut, hands clammy. You are the punishment of God, the voice tells me again, if they had not committed great sins God would not have sent a punishment like you upon them.

Hail Mary full of Grace, I repeat silently. Pray for us sinners now and the hour of our death… I’m now close. My body is expanding, the suicide vest is almost snapping open and falling on the ground. Shove becomes push and I know I don’t have much time. I’m drenched in my sweat, and nauseated by the prostitutes’ sweat. They smell of pheromones, menses, and semen. Too bad I have to be promoted to glory surrounded by them, carry their stench with me to paradise, but it is my mission.

I call unto Mary the Mother of God for the last time and reach for the switch inside my trouser pocket. I want to scream ‘God have mercy on us sinners’, but what I actually say is, ‘Allahu Akbar!’