Friday, April 22, 2016


I started grieving the night I was married. The army killed my husband, Captain Mwoni, a piece at a time. On our wedding night, his Commanding Officer called him and ordered him to hurriedly make love to me because murdering terrorists mattered more than consummating our marriage. That was my first grieving. Somalia became his home, he forgot about me, and I grieved for the future I had hoped we would have. Sex brought him home three or four times a year. It was sheer luck I got pregnant. When not in Somalia, he was in Boni Forest in Lamu, Garissa or Mandera hunting for the dastard terrorists. With no way to make him come home a chasm opened between us. After the third year in marriage with a ghost for a husband I began to cry as if he were dead. I cried until there was nothing left inside but a raw emptiness that nibbled at my insides like a hungry rat.

Then one morning I had visitors from the Department of Defence Headquarters—my husband was dead. He was among the hundreds of soldiers killed when al-Qaeda linked terrorists, al-Shabaab, overran a Kenya Defence Forces’ position in Somalia. I did not have words, just tears. It was more than crying, I was drained of all hope. The pain that flowed from me was palpable. Soon people came to pay tribute, comfort me, only telling me that I was going to be paid lots of money by the KDF and AMISOM, the African Union Mission in Somalia, as though the money would replace him. I struggled to keep my tears silent, looking up to the watery skies and heaven beyond.

On the day the army came to bury him, I tried to be strong for our daughter but I sank to my knees at the grave, not minding the damp mud that dirtied my dress. My tears mingled with the rain and my gasping wails. I cried like a child, noisily, with running snot and choking sobs and I was not ashamed. The numbness of his loss was raw, and the pain hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs.

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There was nothing I wanted with the money the CO who came to bury my husband promised me. I made my own and to take his felt dirty. It was a tidy sum alright, not to be sniffed at. Once it was wired to my account, I decided, I would build a mausoleum for him and the rest donate to a children’s home.

I guessed that would be the end of it, but then another woman cropped up—my husband had had a secret family, and she had a marriage certificate to prove it. She was an officer, from the Air Force.

A court battle ensued, but an out-of-court settlement ended the legal tussle. She ended up with all the property they owned with my husband—multimillion-shilling estates in Utawala, Nairobi and Section 58, Nakuru. I ended up with a three-acre farmland in Eldoret.

Discovery of my husband’s betrayal after his death turned me to someone else: resentful, bitter, vengeful. When we married I vowed he was the first and the last man to know my body, to explore every curve and edge, to trace every valley of my breasts, and to enter me. Not even death was to change that. But the betrayal faded the love I had for him even in death and turned me to a serial killer.

My targets were the officers, my husband’s friends who found it acceptable to whack their dead friend’s widow. I was their mpango wa kando, no strings attached, several of them at once. I played them like a grand piano, a serial heartbreaker mistress on a mission.

My first victim died in a car accident on Lang’ata Road. Captain Luka and I had drunk till late one Friday night at 7th Battalion the Kenya Rifles’ (7KR) Officers Mess, had a quickie in his Subaru Legacy and then I blew him the kiss of death. I gave him time to leave the barracks to his death then went back to the Mess and started flirting with his boss. I had ripped Luka’s car breaks. The news of his demise came thirty minutes later as I gyrated my hips beneath his boss, Major Otieno.  

I poisoned another: a slow death, made sure he felt his body break just a little more every day. With each new visit to the doctor his pain medications were increased and the prognosis ever more bleak. Another month and he lost the ability to drink the potion on his own. I accompanied him initially, stood by him just to make sure. When he was admitted at Defence Forces Memorial Hospital, I stopped going to see him. He died in greater agony than my heart was.

I killed six army officers. I managed to have three of them leave me part of their wealth. Not after, but before their deaths. I was not ready for legal battles I knew chances were I wouldn’t win, or would take forever to solve.

It’s ten years now and the anger has not run its course. I met a Brigadier two years ago. He was not living happily ever after with his wife. I was send from heaven. He got over himself and the fool divorced his wife, threw away his whole life for a mistress. Now he is dead.

I recall once pondering what it would be like to have his money, what I would do with it. Now that memory is a stain of guilt, not strong, not enough to take me under, but sufficient to fill me with a sense of regret I haven’t had for some time. The army has wired the money to my account. I stare at the ATM screen, a mosaic of queries, instructions, and numbers. The digits are displayed in blue, tempting me to go on a splurging spree. This is what the Brigadier’s life came to, money earned putting his life on the line in Somalia.


Now for me to take it is a simple task of inserting the ATM into the slot. He made me the beneficiary, I will squander it on whatever I want. I won't be guilt-conned into handing it over to anyone; I will fritter it to pat myself on the shoulder for doing unto others what was done to me. 

6 comments:

  1. The bitch is a green snake in green grass.She will get her dose.

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    1. This is a fiction story since kenya went to Somalia its being less than 10years

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  2. By Rujeko Moyo, South Africa

    Loved this Vincent. You dabbled on so many issues. That first bit, before her husband's funeral was so heartfelt...sounded like a woman's writing. Appreciate how you've married crime fiction and faction to bring about an engaging story that reflects societal ills. Thumbs up!

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  3. Enchanting!
    Great opening, nice story.

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    Replies
    1. Thanks a lot for reading and dropping a comment, I appreciate.

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