Written by Wonga Tsalupondo
EARLIER THAT DAY
Sometime in the early afternoon, I received a text from Lungani saying he was going to be the next Editor in Chief of one of the most leading and highly regarded magazine in the country. He finally got his promotion! He wanted us to go out and celebrate later in the day. At first, I was reluctant on spending the Friday night out, but this was a milestone for both he and I.
We dined and wined (on some of the finest bottle we could possibly get) at an archaic looking, but relatively plush, restaurant down Kloof Street. The evening was merry and gay, we chatted and guffawed; we were fully in the blissfulness of the night, so much that I’d wished it never ended. When it did, instead of instantly catching an Uber home, we decided to take a walk down towards Long Street. As soon as we stepped outside the restaurant (I vividly remember) I was overwhelmed by the cold breeze that disrespectfully collided with us on our way out, Lungani compensated by holding my hand. I, not being a PDA type of person, was nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs – I got hot flashes.
On our walk – our hands still intertwined – we talked about how we wanted to grow mentally, spiritually, emotionally and physically, and whatnot; at some point, he said he was ready to take our relationship to the next level. Getting married next level. This came like a bolt from the blue.
“I mean why not, right?” he said, not looking at me, but in the distance. “We have been dating for seven years and cohabiting for five. We both have good paying jobs now. Why not?”
“Listen,” I said trying to reassure him. “I believe we are mutually compatible, and I want to get married, but not any time soon. I feel like you should – I mean we – we should establish some form of normalcy in our life, considering your promotion, you know. You must remember how it was for us when I got my promotion – things were different. Let’s give it some time.”
“Yeah, you’re right!” he said. “So, when we’re finally engaged, what pet name will you give me?”
“What?” I tittered. “Is that even a thing?”
“It doesn’t have to be. But if it isn’t, it could be our thing.”
“Okay ke,” I said. “I’ll call you ‘Tiger’, cos you’re handsome, and strong, and huge, and smart.”
He let out a hearty laughter, before he replied: “That’s cute! I guess, I’ll call you ‘Bambi’, cos they’re your favourite toons, and your love is unalloyed, protective, and animated as Bambi’s.”
Before we knew it, we were standing at the corner of Long Street and Buiten Street, that’s when we decided to call an Uber. As we waited, without any warning, Lungani pressed himself against me, his face (under the twilight dusk sky was still the most prime black face I had ever seen, it was consistent and comely) came up to my own and launched into a kiss. My whole body tingled, almost at my thirties and I still had butterflies fluttering about in my stomach, and my knees felt like they were going to cave in. The way we kissed felt almost forbidden, like it was a crime, if it were a crime, it would’ve been a beautiful one.
When we got home, I rushed to the bathroom to relief myself; from the bathroom, I could hear a record sung by Nina Simone that I instantly recognised as ‘How Long Must I Wonder’ – his favourite song. (If you’d trust a person for not being able to read the room it’d be Lungani.) I remember rolling my eyes, thinking Why couldn’t he play one of Nina’s sensual songs like ‘I Put a Spell on You’, or ‘I Want a Little Sugar In My Bowl’ – damn, even ‘Tell Me More and More and Then Some’. By the time I was finished at the bathroom, surprisingly, the music had stopped playing, I made my way back to the kitchen, I was beyond shocked to see Lungani gagged and strapped to a chair, with two built men behind him. I had no idea what was going on; I was in the bathroom for maybe twenty minutes. I had no idea why there were there, but I could sense that whatever they were up to was no good. I started to panic; I looked down at Lungani – he’d been beaten into a pulp – and I saw the same fear and shear panic in his eyes. The smartest thing I thought of was to run, I was already on the balls of my feet, when I turned around, I was met with a gigantic hand that connected with my neck like a vice. There was a third man. The last thing I heard, before I was impelled with a trophy that I’d received sometime last year for Best Employee of the Year, was: “Hello there Nancy Boy. These imbeciles didn’t even notice they were being followed.”
At one point I gained consciousness, though I was still incapacitated, my head was pressed to the table, there was breathing coming down my neck, it was heavy and rhythmic, it stank of overpowering liquor. It didn’t take long for me to comprehend what was happening to me. Lungani was no longer on the chair he was strapped to but on the floor, he was impaled at his lower abdomen, the knife was still sticking out, there were several other wounds too, he was awfully still, but breathing; with the strength I thought I had, I tried to knock them off but a punch connected with the back of my neck and I was down and out, again.
…
“No. Tell me about it,” I said instead, as I caressed his coarse thick black hair with one hand, while the other rushed to my face to wipe the tears at bay.
“It’s the mysterious unknown,” he said. “Ndiyoyika” “I’m scared.”
“All I know is that death is not the end,” I said tearful. “Don’t be afraid; I don’t know what’s on the other side, there might be something – something alluring – there might be nothing.”
Before he said his final words – with his labored breathing – he pointed behind me, behind a wall, where the bookshelf stood, and said: “Under our favourite novel, folded into a tiny brown piece of paper, there’s a note – a poem – that I wrote yesterday. I was meaning to give it to you today when –” He gave a ghastly cough. It was then that I knew that those very few intimate moments were his last. Our last moments together. Through instinct, I knew when, so I stopped him from talking. He took a deep strenuous breath, and stubbornly continued and finally said: “I told you I would let you know – so here it is: I love you, goodbye.” In the little that he said, I was struck the most by the way he uttered ‘I love you’ (with his gravel-like and weak voice) something about those three profound words felt, to my ears, non-banal, nor empty, but there was sincerity – it was refreshing and arresting. His words lingered and echoed heavily in the quiet of the night. I watched life fade out of him, I felt his weight succumb on my hands in the same way one relaxes in a homely sofa – he was ensconced in me. At first, I let out a whimper which was muffled by the cusp of my free hand. But I did not want my lamentation for Lungani to be staid and fetching, I wanted it to be ugly, unbecoming even. So, I gave myself permission to cry and mourn. I shrilled, moaned, and shrilled some more.
I write this on the very same table Lungani and I used to touch for luck, the same table I was victimized on; I write this despondent, shattered, vengeful, maimed, and as a depressed mope. Nothing – nothing in life prepares you for losing someone you love, but, in some twisted way I can’t begin to fathom, I’m beginning to accept that this is my reality, I’m beginning to yield and surrender to something bigger than me. Something about this metamorphosis is pacifying.
Comments