The Crime Preventer!

I know you’re wondering who this could be. I know you’re asking yourself who in his/her sound mind sends a dog-eared piece of paper wrapped in a kaveera. A black kaveera, moreover? It’s me, my love. Do you still remember me? Forget that useless ban of kaveera, lock that bedroom door behind you. Have you? Great! Read on.

It’s been a while, how have you been? I have nothing much to say about myself, but I know you are curious to know how I am coping up with this environment; I haven’t been really bad. I am now used to this shit (he he). My roommates treat me well. Maybe the usual routine we always do thrice a week is the only thing that breaks me. The work, back here, is too much, but I won’t dwell on that. I don’t want to waste your time, plus I have only 5 minutes here.

I miss us, that, I confess. The good ol’ days are still tucked at the back of my head, but since I am always busy working my hands off, I never get time to drift into thoughts about you, about us. However, I loathe nights back here; loneliness is too loud, too cruel, too cold. But I have burning questions, my love. How could you? No, ma’am Jacinta, tell me. How could you not open up and tell me everything? Why didn’t you tell me the brutal truth? Look, at first, you told me that he had died many years ago. And I believed you. I totally did. You even showed me his picture and it hit home that you would be mine, forever.

How is Stacey, by the way? How old is she now? She must be inching closer to puberty. Look, you said Stacey was your niece and I believed you. I believed you because there wasn’t any resemblance between the two of you. You told me that her mother had left the country and she left you with the responsibility to take care of her. I can only imagine what went in her young mind every time she heard us fucking in the bedroom especially those Friday nights when we pitched back home late, drunk and wasted. Do you remember those nights, by the way? Do you remember when the neighbor had to come and warn us to reduce on the noise or lest he will report us to the landlord? Ah, those fucking nights! I know you lied to Stacey that I was one of your students at the University. I was 21 and you were 46years old and, clearly, she wouldn’t suspect of anything between us. She was too young to suspect anything. And I am sure poor Stacey believed you. Anyone would believe everything you said. You had a way of peppering lies with truth. And I am sure your students believe everything you tell them, don’t they?

My love, why didn’t you tell me that your ‘deceased husband’ would come back home on that night, that Friday night? Why didn’t you tell me that he was working on a nightshift? Why didn’t you even tell me that he was a policeman? Furthermore, why didn’t you tell me that he was the bloody OC? I see him here. I see him every day. Since the night he nabbed me with you in your marital bed and dragged me to this police station, I see him every fucking day. He saunters over to my cell every day and leaves me with a nasty word, or two. “You will rot in hell, young man!” he spat this morning. Did he beat you when he returned home? He must have. He should have.

However, the truth is, I still love you. It’s been a year now since he imprisoned me; I turned 22 last week, on Wednesday. I wish you were here to celebrate my birthday with me. I never celebrated, if you want to know. I was instead in the shamba with fellow prisoners, donned in yellow attire, tilling the soil as though we were archeologists looking for a buried treasure.

Hey, I am sorry, I have to go now. The prison guard says my time is up. I am not even sure whether this prison guard will deliver this letter to the right gate. I told him a blue gate after three houses off the tarmac road. I hope you haven’t shifted or the landlord evicted you for noisemaking. This guard is a good man. Don’t fear him. He’s been my friend for months now. I told him about you and I told him about your husband, his boss. I warned him to take care as he delivers this letter. If there is anything you want, ask him. He is a well-trained crime preventer.

Love you,
Your Sugar Child


Written by Nimusiima Edward

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