Kemunto had been accused of being a witch only once in her life, and it almost took her life away from her. That was twenty years ago when her husband died of diabetes. The disease had ravaged the family to the brink of poverty, and she had to resort to begging and doing online fundraisers just to raise money for his treatment.

Her husband, Muroka, had been the pillar of the community and never missed any graduation ceremony or village wedding. He was credited with airlifting over a hundred students to go and study in Nairobi on scholarships to prestigious universities and colleges “a mile away,” as he liked to call it. The sendoff parties included a lot of soda, cakes, and sweets that he never missed. Kemunto had always warned him that at his ripe old age, his sweet tooth would be his end, and it was. Kemunto frowning whenever they were invited to a sendoff party was a common sight. The villagers noticed this but paid no heed – she was just the chief’s wife, and one would have been cursed if they had dared to badmouth the chief’s wife. Muroka’s first heart attack came when he was sending off his son, Matiko, to do a Bachelor of Commerce degree at the University of Nairobi. He was rushed to the hospital and put in one of the ICU wards. It only took a month for all their money to be spent on hospital bills.

Words started spreading around that Kemunto had poisoned her husband so that she could be chief in his stead. Muroka knew the rumors came from his longstanding rival chiefs. Still, he had no strength to defend his wife from the onslaught of sneering eyes and roadside spits whenever Kemunto sold bananas just to raise money for supper, let alone treatment. The village ostracized her and left her to the dogs. Muroka died four months later with only Kemunto and Matiko by his side.

Kemunto took the loss gravely and never left their house for months at a time. She always wore the same black dress when she did and left only at night. Matiko finished school and avoided home for ten years – the rumors had gotten to him, and he despised his mother. He only returned when he heard that Kemunto had fallen ill with Malaria and needed someone to care for her. She recovered, and when he was about to leave, he had a party in his father’s honor since it was his twentieth anniversary. The whole village promptly showed up, feeling guilty for leaving the family in its time of dire need a decade ago. Soda, cakes, and sweets flowed freely because “that is what Chief Muroka would have wanted.”

Everything was set and glamorous when Matiko took to the stage and began his remembrance speech. “My father was the best man this village ever lost. Now, I am not my father, and I can only hope to be half the man he was, but I assure you, his tradition did not die with him. I have spoken to my friends, and we have decided to sponsor two children every year to study in the United States!” The crowd erupted with cheers. “Thirty years ago, my father aimed for the sky with Nairobi; I’ll aim for the stars with New York!” The villagers all applauded. “Now, for our first batch of students…” Matiko let out a sharp yelp and held his hand over his heart. “Epipen!” He whispered, pointing to his suitcase by his chair. No one heard him.  “Call…” he strained, “an… ambulance!”

Just then, Kemunto, who had avoided the celebration in her backyard, heard Matiko’s scream and came through the door, pointing at her son. Her black veil never wavered as she rushed to her son’s side, holding his heart in her lap. The villagers scattered into the bushes in a frenzy. An ambulance arrived an hour too late and found Matiko convulsing. Kemunto’s hand never left Matiko’s all the way to the hospital. 

Photo by RDNE Stock projec

Matiko was rushed to the ICU just like his father, and Kemunto could not believe her sheer bad luck. She was allowed to see her son after two hours. He was strapped to the bed with tubes going in and out of his body like an octopus. Matiko was awake, but all life had gone from him, leaving him an empty shell of a body. Kemunto sat dejected at the edge of his bed.

The doctors came in twenty minutes later and told her that her Matiko had less than twenty-four hours to live. Kemunto wept and tore her headscarf as she looked into the hollow eyes of her only son.

“I am sorry.” She wept. “I am so sorry!” Matiko was unresponsive even when Kemunto held his freezing hand in hers. A tear struggled to form in his eyes as he cried to his mother one last time. 

“I love you. Please know that I always loved you.” Kemunto cried. 

Matiko did not make it to see the next hour.

“I loved your father more.” Kemunto sobbed into Matiko’s cold, dead hands.

Tomorrow, she knows she will be accused of being a witch for a second time. This time, they will not be wrong.

Yesterday, the djinn she had contacted told her that for the price of her son, she would see her husband again a month after tomorrow. The only thing left was to weather the next thirty days.

From Me to You

John William Waterhouse, The Magic Circle, 1886

I wrote this story as part of a selection process for the Idembeka Creative Writing workshop, and they have yet to reach out to me. I wrote it in an hour when my Wi-Fi was lagging, and I had an hour to kill between meetings. I wonder how the story would have turned out if I had prep time, but as Kanye said, “I guess we’ll never know”.

What are you waiting for if you haven’t subscribed to my blog? If you have, please share it with all who love flash fiction.

Have you not had enough of my stories? Here’s my previous one, where I updated an old blog and still stood by my initial opinion: The “F” Word – Friends.

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1 Comment

  1. podahpek November 20, 2024 at 6:13 pm

    My, oh my. What an emotive story. This is a great work of art

    Reply

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