Patrick Wameyo Otundo

In the Hands of the Divine Patrick Wameyo Otundo

Asena was startled to the present by Teresia's stinging words. The reservoir of vice that lay dormant in the cocoon of self-restraint was roused. He shot up from the straw bed and reached for his girlfriend. He slapped her once, then twice. Teresia snapped. Her head cowered at the burning hotness of Asena's slap. A concrete block in her chest added weight to her, already, the overburdened seat of emotion. She said, "You bastard. You'll pay for hitting me. You'll not get away with it..." She then ran out of the tiny, round, grass-thatched, mud house."Come back here Teresia," Asena said calling after her. He followed her to the door. His hand clutched the rickety straw shutter that was sewn together artfully with sisal strings in fashion so common in the village."I'll do that over my dead body!" Teresia swore. She swung her fully formed female figure and ran away from Asena's little hedged compound. She was resolved never to come back. Asena stood by the door holding his arms akimbo like someone struck by a non-existent bolt of lightening. He felt lost in a burning forest. The enormity of the impact of his action was something he could not deal with on his own. Why did he hit her? Why did he hurt the only person who cared the hoot for him in the whole wide world?The truth! She had told him the truth and nothing but the truth. It stung! It hurt! It was painful. Not because of a special whip inherent in it, but because it gave birth to stigma. And stigma bred the feeling of unworthiness. But then truth is not always just, is it?He turned back into the hut. He noticed the perforated, grass-thatched roof looking like the starry sky at night. This was the place he called home. It was dark inside the house but for the daylight that was let in through the perforations on the roof. Was this an indication of Asena's blurry future? He collapsed on the bed and shut his eyes in an attempt to tune off reality. It was futile to exist away from what was. Before him, he saw an endless abyss, the same darkness that had obscured his hope from as long ago as he could remember. There was no future for him. There had never been a future for him. With Teresia, he thought he had someone who believed in the day of his salvation (from drudgery and constant want) but now she was gone - all because of his thoughtless action of hitting her. He had nothing to look up to. His land - his inheritance, the stem from which sprouted his argument with Teresia - was gone long before he became a man. And to make it worse he could not find a decent lob for lack of education. To Asena life was unjust. He simply had no one to turn to. He reached under the bed and took the chang'aa bottle he had placed there earlier. After opening the bottle cap, he took a long gulp of the potent stuff. His charred tongue recoiled upon contact with the spirit in complete contrast with the excitement in the nerves that lined the walls of his mouth. He grinned and swallowed the staff. His hungry stomach resounded noisily. In an instant, his worries were removed and his problems forgotten. He found himself in a place of solace that he never accessed when sober. The bitter reality was erased and replaced with fantasy in which he permanently wanted to live. The bitter truth lingered whether he was aware of it or not. The truth was that he was a squatter on his own land. He was condemned to life in poverty following the death of his parents eight years before. He was destitute and at the mercies of Associates.