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| Photo:Courtesy |
He kicked the bucket, like every other mortal, though with
seriously obstinate hope that he’d live forever, that he would see the world
end. But it wasn’t to be. Every passing day he got closer to his death, like a
lover stalking and asking for a date. Sometimes he would think about him, after
his mother warned him that he would be cursed by the Turkana’s whose kids he
loved to bully/torture. That had sent a precedence of fear and he’d wake up in
the middle of the night sweaty. There was no light to switch on, no
electricity, except a paraffin lamp which always ended in his mother’s bedroom.
One time he was too afraid that he slept in his mother’s bedroom, having been
too scared to sleep alone. Then he was a young boy aged 10 and that was fifty
years ago.
Eric now is immortal having conspired with evil underworld
forces to return back to earth to haunt and act the hand of god. He had pleaded
his case, of how it had ruined his childhood, robbed him of happiness and he
had been chosen to return back to earth because of sympathy and because other
aspirants of the envied role had been murderers before checking into the
underworld. He had been coronated in one big ceremony, where human skulls and
blood donned the place. Some were hoisted upon long thin sticks, some were
laced with gold, silver depending on their seniority in the underworld. These
were witnesses to his reincarnation as a ghost, who would roam the land of the
living, and act the hand of God.
And he loved to roam, dear Eric. Sometimes for fun,
sometimes to conduct prefeasibility studies. His ceaseless wanders, as the air,
always took him to an apartment in Hurlinghum, called Mursik. He loved to visit
house number A7, where he’d slip through the gate as silent as the wind, pass
by the ever unconscious watchman and up the stairs. Sometimes the aroma of food
would hit him and he’d wish to join the owners in partaking the meal. But then
it would past mid night, maybe he would risk the ire of a fellow high ranking
ghost. Protocol had to be strictly adhered to or else he would be cast among
those who have been eternally damned-child rapists, sodomites, politicians,
drug dealers and a few doctors. Those would never be reincarnated into anything
beyond street mongrels, to be kicked about by everyone, and cursed by their own
names. Then they will die a slow painful death and misery, and therefore,
eternal damnation.
Eric rushes up the stairs with lightning speed to house
number A7. Its 2 am in the morning, a time when everybody is asleep. The
scantily furnished room, two single seater coaches, one three seater coach and
a table. A small TV stands low at the corner. There’s a residual smell of
cigarettes in the air. A newspaper spread is on the table, which had acted as
the ash tray. He can also detect a faint smell of perfume, which leads him to
conclude that a woman is in one of the rooms fulfilling a man’s most basic
need-sex. He can hear the heaving, the sighs and the moans but that’s not what
he is interested in. He just wants to pass time in front of this small JVC TV.
He switches it on.
Previously someone had walked up to switch it off. Twice in fact.
He heard him curse in his thoughts. The next day he switched of the sockets on
the wall and he didn't have a reason to be there anymore. He didn’t want to
leave finger prints on the wall.
