THOSE WHO KILL

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Yesterday. The newspaper had reported an incident. Swift! A man had squeezed a trigger. A body had dropped in a pool of blood, cold and sturdy. Peter read it in horror. God! Who could murder someone in such a way? And why on earth must murder be the way out? And worse still, kill your own wife? He had made up his mind that there are only two types of people on earth. Those he would never become and those he’d strive to become. If he was sure of something, it was that he’d never become one of those who kill. Those who in the name of whatsoever would take another man’s life. But such is life that gives us the opposite of what we want. Such is life that never defends our secret passions. Life is an uncommitted lover. She stays the night but may never see the morning sun.

Today. He held the gun tight. She looked at him with total scorn and indifference. If only she could beg and accept that she was wrong. God damn it! Such pride and insolence! He pulled the trigger. She squirmed. Her face was devoid of emotion still, just stoic. In fact, isn’t it a waste of time doing this with a gun? Where’s the joy of taking your enemy with your own hands? Mtcheew! It’s better done with the bare hands. Say, choke them until their blue indifference turn purple with silent pleading. And sobbing. And begging. Whew! Sure will feel better. Down came the gun. He tossed it under the bed. With his bare hands, he grabbed her tiny neck. He squeezed, slowly and gently. Watching as her face turned several colours. Red, green, blue, purple, and finally white. Two lines, cut deep and arbitrary, separated her brows. Her upper teeth stuck out between her upper and lower lips with her tongue forcing its way through the total heap of rubbish. It enraged him how long this was taking. He held her tighter. Pulled. Her eyes turned red. Not light red like the half-coloured candy he gave her always on their anniversary. It was dark crimson or light maroon. Well, she kicked a little, trying hard to retain a little pride. But she couldn’t kick for so long. She turned still. Aargh! Finally! Whew! She had died. He stood up and looked over the bed. Yesterday’s newspaper was still on the bed. Peter remembered his decision yesterday. It was so quick that things changed. Yesterday, the man in the news was the one most hated person in his life. Today, he’s exactly that same man. On the ground laid Queeneth his wife. She had made jabs at his manhood, brought a man home before his eyes, and told him she had just put poison on his food and that he had just a month to live. Maybe such was too big to swallow. Maybe not. He had loved her but she never loved him. He wondered how they had got married. Now that she was gone, of his own hands of course, he felt not the slightest of regrets. The man in the news was vindicated. Maybe that is how all we read in the news are. Truly, we judge the people in the news according to what the reporter wants us to know. Maybe if we had been them, we’d have understood better. Well, a man should never be burdened with the task of explaining himself always. The blunt, blind, ignorant masses who judge at every first glance should take the pains of understanding the rigors of some actions. The blunt, blind, ignorant masses. Everyone in the news is innocent until we have walked in their shoes. Until we have become them. The man in the news was vindicated.

Ring! Ring!! Ring!!!
‘Hello’
‘Hello officer, I want to report a murder. I’m a prime witness.’
‘Where? Was the killer apprehended?’
‘No. 20 Ajao Estate. The killer is here with me. I’m the murderer. I’m the killer.’
Tomorrow came…

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