1983

1983, a short story by LJ Kundananji

 

1983. A lot of stuff happened in that year. A lot of stuff indeed. The haves and the have-nots; the great and the small; the wise and the foolish; the faithful and the infidels; the chaste and the immoral; all these have met some misfortune that can be traced, at least remotely, to 1983.

A lot of misfortune that I have met in my life I can ascribe to the year 1983, and though I was born a little later than that, most of what defines me; most of what I am; most of what I hope to be; is because of 1983. Let me elaborate. In ninth grade, my best friend was Mozbi—he was born in 1983. The girl, who in twelfth grade tried to get me to sleep with her, was born in 1983. During my first year at campus my closest friend was a lady whom at times I fancied marrying—she was born in 1983. During my second year at campus, I fell dangerously in love with an older woman who, without a shadow of a doubt, was born in 1983. Recently, a married woman tried to seduce me to sleep with her. I need not say it, but she was born in 1983.

But, heck, this story is not about me. Oh no! It is about a handsome young who goes by the name of James. He assumed himself an ordinary boy, and he fancied that he was nothing of consequence. Even if he died, he thought, no one would shade a tear; no one would twinge; no one would bat an eyelid—in short no one would give a damn; and it would be as insignificant as the death of a fly; it would be as if he never was. Such were the perceptions of this young man at the time that this story starts.  

It was a cold and windy afternoon. James stood in the porch, resting his arms on the low wall and staring out into the street. There was nothing of consequence to stare at because due to the chilly weather, the street was empty and deserted. Yet James stared fixedly at the mango tree whose sturdy branches formed an arch over part of the street. These branches shook and howled in the July wind, giving the impression of a weeping old woman with hair flaring out wildly. The thoughts that were raging through his head were far from placating. They were as obfuscatory as the weather. Why he was feeling so blue, he could not tell. Each new day that he lived was a harrowing experience for him, for each moment of his existence was characterized by debilitating emotions which made him fancy the very idea of dying.

“James!” his mother shrieked from inside the house, “Are you going?”

“Yeah,” he replied inaudibly.

“What did you say?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Get on with it.”

He lifted up the plastic bag in his hand and had a good look at it. Inside was a parcel wrapped in red shiny paper. His mother had bought it for a friend of hers. Being a social person, his mother was fond of buying her friends gifts occasionally. This is the gift he had to deliver, and the recipient of this gift was a Miss. Mambwe, a new arrival in the neighbourhood. James knew very little about her. But she had a prevailing jovial disposition that appealed to him. She always seemed happy and he could not help wondering how she managed to pull that up.

A little while later he was knocking on the heavy door behind which lived Miss. Mambwe. The door swung open, and in the door way stood Miss. Mambwe, staring into his face with wide eyes of surprise. She was not a very tall lady; she was about his height; but her frame was well rounded and filled in in all the appropriate places. She was clearly a very beautiful woman. The surprise clearly dissipated from her eyes when she noticed him.

“James! How lovely it is to see you!” she said, her large, brown eyes sparkling.

“It is lovely to see you too, ma’am,” he grumbled, a slight smile spreading across his face.

“Come in, dear!” she invited. He followed her into the house. She led him to the living room, which although it was dark and miserable outside, was warm, lit up and cheerful. He thankfully flopped into one of the sofas. She eyed the parcel in his hand with curiosity.

“Is that for me?” she asked with a broad smile.

“Yeah,” he responded, handing it to her and placing it in her outstretched hands.

“From mum.”

 She reeled in elation, slumped into the seat nearby and rolled like a little girl. He frowned with surprised. It was rather undignified of her, he thought, to behave in such a manner in his presence. Eventually she stopped her rolling and got to her feet. She gingerly placed the parcel on the table. Her back turned to him, she asked:

“Would you like a drink, James?” the tone of her voice suddenly sounded different, a bit ominous he dared think.

“Yeah,” he agreed, half because he was a bit thirsty, and half out of fear.
Her back still turned she disappeared through the door. She returned later with a tray upon which was a jug of cold, icy water, a bottle of granadilla juice and a clean shiny glass. She pushed the little table from the centre of the room to a position just before him. She stooped and placed the tray upon it.

“Serve yourself, dear,” she told him. He nodded and proceeded with the intricacies of mixing the juice and water in the correct amounts. She sat back in the seat facing him. She stared at him with a sudden dark expression about her face. It was not easy to go about drinking the juice with her eye on him, but he proceeded to do so in discreet sips as if he was having an extra hot cup of coffee. He tried hard not to look at her, but he inadvertently found himself staring at her from the corner of his eyes. The sudden cold air about her disturbed him. Although he did not know her much, he knew that it was uncharacteristic of her to be cold and glum.

“Tell me about yourself, James,” she demanded, a hand under her chin.
He put down the glass and stared at it with a smile.

“What about myself?”

“Are you at school?”

“No—I completed.”

“When?” he noticed that surprise stretched across her pretty face.

“Five years ago.”

“Really?” she appeared shocked.

“Yes,” he took a long sip at the juice.

“But you look so young!”

“Really?”

 “Yes!” he noted with intrigue that her eyes grew as round as golf balls. “You look like you are sixteen!”

“For a fact?”

“Yes!” she narrowed her eyes. “I hope you don’t mind my asking: how old are you?”

“Twenty three,” he responded, a little coolly.

“Wow!” he eyes widened again. “You’re  just three years younger than me.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I was born in 1983.”

“I see.”

There was silence for a moment. The air of darkness about her was still there.

“Why are you so unhappy all the time?”

“Pardon?” he was stunned by the question.

“I have been noticing you. You always look sad.” Her eyes bore into him questioningly. He was unsettled by the revelation. He stroked the rim of his glass as he thought of how to respond.

“It is just that…”  he paused and stared at her. She was looking intently at him.

“Well…I have very few things to be happy about.”

“Why do you say that?” her voice reeked of maternal sympathy.

“A lot of disappointment in my life,” he said regrettably.

“Tell me about it.” She prodded. He noted with slight amusement that her hand had moved from under her chin to her chest where it was fiddling under her bra.

“Well…” he hesitated, feeling uncomfortable about opening up to this woman he hardly knew. But she nodded and smiled, and he suddenly felt as if he could really go on. “I feel the biggest loser in the world—and I feel I got nothing to live for.”

“Why’s that?”

“I recently dropped out of college—I failed a couple of exams.”

“That’s very sad.”

“Recently,” he chuckled, “my girlfriend dumped me.”

“Oh, you poor thing!” she cooed. “you are suffering from a heart break.”

Her sympathy warmed his heart, and he suddenly felt as if he could tell her more.
“All my friend s seemed to have forgotten that I exist. I feel all alone in this cold, miserable world.”

“I understand how you feel.” She revealed, a sad look coming to her face. “My husband and I divorced barely a month ago.”

“I am so sorry…to hear that.” His heart went out to her, for he could  identify with her feelings.”

“We used to be good friends,” she continued in an emotional voice. He thought he saw tears at the edge of her eye. “But then he left me for another woman.”

“I am so sorry,” he repeated, a sympathetic look across his face.

“Don’t be,” she said, pulling herself together. “The rascal did not deserve me.” She gave him a smile. “And neither did the girl who dumped you. She, as far as I am concerned, is the loser.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, you are a very handsome young man.”

“Thank you,” he suddenly felt acutely shy. He fidgeted with the glass in his hand . “I have to leave now. Thanks very much for the drink, Miss Mambwe.”

“You are welcome,” she said with a fantastic smile. “Call me Ruth.”

“Okay,” he shrugged. She led him to the door.

“Come around soon, my friend,” she beseeched.

“I will.” He assured her.

***
 

Over the next few days, James visited Miss Mambwe not once, but many times. Because they had so much in common—they had both been heartbroken—they quickly and easily formed a strong bond. They comforted each other, reassured each other and appeased each other—in short, they were there for each other. In Miss Mambwe, James found a bright spot of sunlight that dispelled the darkness that for so long a time had resided in his life. Yes, when he was with her, he did not feel miserable. Incredibly, he felt—happy. For the first time in his miserable life, he felt happy and gleeful.

Let us now focus on a certain afternoon. On this day, James was dining with Miss Mambwe. It was almost a very romantic affair with the two of them seated facing each other, with straight postures and purely dignified manners; the air full of the sweet music of their cutlery hitting and grazing against their plates—they looked like two young lovers on their first date. When he was sufficiently full, James paused and stared at Miss. Mambwe. She looked most beautiful today and he could hardly believe that she was older than him.

“Ruth,” he began, a bit shyly.

“Yes, dearest?” her beautiful eyes shone upon him.

“Um… I was wondering,” he cleared his throat, “would you…I mean… would you marry someone younger than you?”

She appeared startled, but then her expression gave way to a gentle smile. “I would,” she confessed. “I would my dearest. I would marry you.”

He smiled broadly. He bowed down and continued eating. There was nothing much to say anymore. He had this tranquil feeling, a gentle, soothing and assuring feeling, that she was his. Yes, he had taken a large part of her heart and he knew that without it, she would never let him go.

***
 

James’s mother, though with a prevailing happy disposition, was unhappy about her lot in life. She had not completed her education and thence, she could not be engaged in any formal employment. She was just an average housewife, living only half her life. And now, it seemed, her one and only firstborn was taking after her. She did not like it in the very least.

One morning, James’s mother caught him sneaking out of the house, all dressed up as if he was going to a very serious ball. Her son had started behaving rather suspiciously of late. He usually vanished from home, sometimes for hours on end. She did not like it a bit.

“Where do you think you are going ?” she demanded. He stopped dead his tracks. He turned to stare at her. There was fear in his eyes.

“Just to see a friend.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Sit down, James,” she said, “I need to talk to you.”

He obeyed and sat down on the couch next to her. He stared closely into her face. she was visibly distressed. He expected a dreadful tirade, and he got one.

“Back in 1983,” she began, “I quit school to marry your dad. I thought I was doing the right thing. Now I regret it each and every day of my life. I could have been somebody in this world you know. But now, I am nothing. I cant even get a job.

“It hurts me to see that you are taking after me.” She paused and put a hand on her son’s shoulder. “But I don’t want you to be like me, son. Go out there, get an education and be somebody.”

James sighed and clasped his hands. “I…I… can’t go back.”

“What?!” she was stunned.

“I don’t got what it takes. I’ll just fail again.”

“No you won’t!” she said, almost shouting. “You have what it takes. Yeah, I know you do. You used to be a straight A student. You can make it if you put your mind to it.”

“You are right when you say I used to be. Now I ain’t anymore.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“The stuff they teach at college—none of it is real. It’s all fake. I can’t keep up with it no more.”

“What?!” she was now nearly swooning with madness.

“It ain’t just real, mom…it ain’t.”

“Then what is?”

“Dunno.”

“You want to know what is real?” she got to her feet and threw her hands on her hips. “Years from now when you are walking the streets like a tramp, hungry and homeless—that is real! Years from now, when no one wants to employ you ‘cause you got no job—that’s what’s real! Years from now, when no woman will marry you—that’s what’s real!”

James was seething now. He glared at his mother.

“You are wrong,” he said.

“You know what? I am your mother. You’re going back to school, and that’s final!”

“Whatever.” With that, he stormed out of the house in the heat of anger, with his mother screaming behind him:

“You are going back to school, young man!”

As he plodded furiously down the road, he stopped for a second to stare at the mango tree. Today, it shook and howled even more furiously in the wind, almost as if it was weeping for him, with him.

He banged furiously banged on the door. Miss Mambwe opened up and James instantly flung himself at her, enfolding her tightly.

“My dearest.” she whispered.

“I missed you…very much.” He blubbered on her shoulder. “I missed you.”

“Come in out of the cold,” she said, loosening him and leading him by the hand into the house. A little while later, the two of them were seated together on the sofa, with an arm around him and a face full of love.

“Tell me, dearest,” she implored, “tell me what’s bothering you.”

“Mom wants me to go back to school,” he revealed, staring searchingly into her face.

“I am sorry,” she said, caressing his shoulder. “But you know you have to go.”

He nodded painfully. “But I don’t want to go. I want to stay with you.”

She smiled knowingly. “It’s okay, dearest. You can go… you will find me.”

“You will be here when I come back?”

“Yes. I will wait for you.”

He smiled broadly as he stared into her eyes. Suddenly, all the shackles that fear had imposed on him dropped off in that very moment. He wrapped his arms around her and snuggled close to her. She did not resist.

“I love you,” he breathed. “I love you very much, Ruth, and I don’t want to leave you. I want to hold you in my arms forever.”

“Me too, dearest,” she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes.

“I want you—just you.” With that he leaned forwards and touched her lips with his in a long affectionate kiss. They stared at each other desirously. Once again, there was no need to say anymore, for they both knew what they wanted, and that they were going to have it.

The sun was just about setting, and James and Ruth were still seated on the couch in each other’s arms. They were tears in their eyes.

“I don’t get it,” James said, shuddering, “How so very badly I love you.”

“Perhaps it’s fate…destiny.”

James smiled. He did not believe in fate, nor destiny, but he believed in love.

“I am sorry though that it has to end,” she said, tears flooding down her face.

“But…didn’t you say you’ll wait for me?” he was shocked and devastated.

“I haven’t been truth to you, James.” She sounded terribly rueful.

“Huh?”

“I was sent to kill you.”

“What?!” the exclamation was yet in his mouth when violent spasms gripped him. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tight against her bosom till he lay limp, cold and dead, his eyes popping out of their sockets in an expression of excruciating pain. She ran her hand down his face to close them. She gingerly laid him on the sofa. She stood back, aghast.

“I’m sorry, dearest,” she said, panting heavily. “But I had to do it.”

She rushed to her bedroom and began packing her bags in a hurry. She had to move on to her next mission. This one had not been easy. She had fallen in love with the boy. She had got emotionally involved. That was not supposed to happen. Getting rid of her husband had been a minor feat by comparison. He had already a rogue and she had hated him.

***

Three days later, the body of the missing boy was found lying face down in a ditch. The funeral was conducted in a hurry, for the body had started decomposing. A lot of people attended the funeral. They came from far and wide to express their condolences. But for the most part, these people attended the funeral because they were in the habit of dong so. They hardly knew the deceased, and to them, it was as if he had never been.

At the funeral house, a woman was seen ingratiating herself with James’s mother.

I am very sorry about your son,” she said. “He was a very lovely boy.”

“Thanks Ruth.” His mother responded. “He was going to be a somebody one day. But now, he has been taken away from me. It’s my entire fault. If only I hadn’t been so hard on him—”

Ruth held her hand. “Don’t blame yourself. It is not your fault at all.”

At this show of compassion, she broke into weeping. Ruth enfolded her and she cried in her arms, the very arms that had hugged her dying son.

“Don’t worry,” Ruth said, “I’ll be there for you.”

There were a lot of weird speculations about what killed James. Some say he was ambushed by thieves; other asserted that a vicious animal had attacked him; and yet others theorized that a car had knocked him down and into the ditch. But you and I need not speculate, for we know what killed him. It was the chain of event that began in 1983. In that year, his parents wed, which union led to an immaculate conception three years later. In that year, Ruth was born, setting her off into a world where devils and demons determined her next move. What killed James, quite literally, was 1983.

1983
© 2009 Kundananji Creations
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