I regain consciousness as I’m been carried out of the trunk of a car. A pair of hands grips my legs. Another pair grips my shoulders. I seem too heavy for my transporters. So, they virtually drag me along the ground. The rough earth bruises the soles of my feet. It is dark. Quiet. Except for the deafening shriek of a zillion forest insects. I cannot make out the faces of the people carrying me. I do not know where I am been carried to. The path is narrow. Winding. The many turns feels like I’m been jostled around by strong whirlwind. My body brushes against moisture-laden wild bushes.
Finally we stop moving. The hands carrying my trunk lets go gently. The one carrying my legs drops them carelessly. Like a sack of garbage. I can smell blood. Can feel that seemingly sacred biological fluid in which a man’s life is suspended oozing out of me. Forming a pool. A palm is thrust into mine. They are tender. Warm. Familiar. Feels like the palm that carried my trunk. A cascade of liquid drops on my face where I’m lying. Someone is weeping and whimpering. Like a trapped kitten. I try to open my eyes. But they remain shot. As though glued with adhesives.
Someone is saying something about the right spot to bury something. I stop trying to open my eyes. I listen. Raptly. The voice is feminine. Hoarse. As though its owner needs to clear her throat of thickly viscous phlegm.
‘No one can detect his body here.’ The voice sounds more guttural now. Its owner picks up something heavy and metallic from the ground. Then begins to dig. Swift recurrent thuds as an axe most probably hack into the hard bowel of the earth few feet away. I feel a quick surge of adrenaline. My eyes suddenly open. Partially. Then wider. A properly chiseled oval face is staring down at me. I recognize the face. Rose! Her palm clasp tightly to mine. Her tears wet my body. I try to lift up my right arm. But it feels numb. Heavy. Then drops languidly by my side. Rose raises an alarm that I’m still alive. The digging stops.
‘He will surely die! The guttural voice says coldly. It is at this point that I recall the owner of the horrible voice. Jane, Rose’s best friend who is a known staunch born-again Christian. Often times on her way back from her many church programs, she’d knock at our gate at odd hours and pass the night in my wife’s room.
‘You shouldn’t have used that pestle on him. Just look what you did to him…’ Rose cries, her hands caressing my face. I want to ask Rose what the hell happened. But then I begin to remember. Small small details. Like flashes of lightening. My mouth trembles unable to form words.
‘We shouldn’t do this! Rose challenges.
‘He lied to you,’ Jane counters her. ‘Only a horrible man would lie to his wife. He told you he would be coming back to the country the day after tomorrow. But then he flew in tonight. He wouldn’t have caught us if he told the truth. Do you want the world to know about our affair?
‘Then allow me to do what is necessary my love.’ Jane resumes digging again. I want to save myself. But I’m becoming weaker and at the verge of passing out again due to the heavy blood loss. And as Jane hacks the earth more fiercely, I can feel my parts shredding apart with each sickening thud. Like meat on a slaughter table.
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