Deceit's Child

Deceit's Child - a story by LJ Kundananji. Comes in Two parts.

Part One

It takes no special genius
To mother the biggest of lie
If the recipient of it
Cannot accept the truth he knows.

Hair. Lots and lots of hair. Imagine it on fire. It would light like a torch. Best case scenario, it would leave the owner of it with a smooth, shiny, bald head. Worst case scenario, it would fry their scalp and bake their brain.

Boyd was watching his girlfriend blow her long, rich, black hair with the new, classic blower he had just bought for her as a present on their anniversary. Oh yes, as weird as it may sound, they did have an anniversary. It fell on the 23rd of August. That is the day they openly declared their love for each other. The day they consummated their relationship with the intimate intercourse of a kiss. They always celebrated their anniversary by buying each other presents and going to Befilled Restaurant. It was at this particular restaurant that they had had their first kiss, leaning over across the table.

Imanga’s hair was the envy of every woman, and the enchantment to every man. It was think and wavy, pouring gently over her shoulders and ending halfway down her back. It was just one of the things that attracted Boyd. And not the only thing. She was beautiful. Tall and slender, her body had the shape of an angel, and the agility of an antelope. To Boyd, she was more than just a beautiful girl. She was a goddess. That was the best he could say. Words failed him when he attempted to describe the proportion, magnitude and direction of her beauty. She awed him.

Boyd shivered and struck at his head softly with the palm of his right hand. He had a hyperactive imagination and he knew it. Her hair being gutted by flames as she blew it? Nothing of that sort was going to happen. No, not to his sweetheart. Not to the girl he loved so madly that he could not live without her.

Now, you may be inclined to think that Boyd was besotted. But not quite so. It was as true as truth. Imanga was his strength. She was his air. She was his reason. For some mysterious reason, if she was away, and by ‘away’ I mean in a location he could not easily and immediately reach when he wanted her, he could not do anything worthwhile. To put it simply, he failed to live. He just sat in his room, alone, with the door closed, staring at the wall, thinking of and feeling only cold, raw misery. The wall itself was awful. It hurt his eyes, increasing the magnitude of the pain he felt. It was grayish white, dirty and plain. It had nothing worth staring at—no painting, drawing, scratch or mark. It was absolutely blank, except the grayish whiteness. And that was just the problem. Staring at such a wall, his imagination went wild, unabated, digging into his mind, searching for the memories, the ghosts that he kept there, and then recreating them—on the wall.

But when Imanga was around, within the reach of his grasping arms, with which arms he could pull her close to himself and feel her warmth, and the vibrant beating of her heart, he came to life. Life literally bubbled in him, overflowing and pouring out from his person. Vibrant, and full of energy, he could do anything he willed. He owned the world. He owned his life. That was when Imanga was around. But when she was away, he lost himself. He lost his life. He died.

The hissing sound of the electrified blower suddenly died down.

“It’s perfect!” Imanga shrilled, turning to look at him. Her eyes were big, round and happy.

His heart danced with joy. “I am glad you love it.”

She smiled sweetly, pulling her lips back into a grin. This time his heart more than danced. It banged heavily against his other internal organs, nearly giving him an internal hemorrhage.

She walked towards him; he stood up to receive her. She literally crashed into him, her arms wrapping around him and fondling his back, working their way up and finally settling at the back of his head, stroking it gently. Boyd pulled her close, towards him. Their embrace was so tight they nearly merged into one person. That is how much their love was. It was as though they had become one. They knew of only one world: their world. In this world, they were the only existing beings.

Another year passed.

Imanga and Boyd grew older, wiser; more beautiful and more handsome respectively, and more in love.

Another 23rd August arrived. Another anniversary. And as usual, Boyd and Imanga were celebrating it in the way they knew best.

“Awww! Gosh! O my gosh! It’s beautiful! Thank you Boyd.” Imanga twisted her arm in all possible directions as she stared in awe at the little, silver chain dangling from her wrist. It glittered in the light of the lamp above the table they sat. Her exclamations elicited envious stares from not a few seated round about at the other tables in the restaurant.

“I love the necktie.” He patted and stroked the dark, green piece of cloth with narrow stripes of red running across it that hung around and down from his neck. “It’s beautiful too.”

“Thanks, love.”

They stared at each other for a while, saying nothing, reveling in the intense love they felt for each other.

Suddenly, a remarkable transition occurred before Boyd’s very eyes. The smile on Imanga’s face reduced in intensity from a luminous flame to a mere, shimmering ember. The joy in her eyes vanished, like light vanishing from the window of a room whose light has been switched off without warning. Her light brown and milky complexion suddenly turning to the colour of dark, rich tea.

“What’s the matter, sweetie? You suddenly look ill.”

“Um--” she hesitated, casting her glance from his worried face to the chain dangling on her wrist to the plate of barely eaten chicken and chips. It was a gesture of shame. “I am not ill.”

“Then what’s the problem.”

“I never wanted to tell you because I was afraid of hurting you. But, right now, after seeing how much you really love me, I cannot keep it away from you anymore.”

“What are you talking about?” he wrinkled his brows, a heavy frown appearing on his face.

She reached out and held his hand, the dinner knife in it falling out and hitting the table with a clatter. She squeezed it gently. She stared into his eyes, trying to bring back warmth to his soul which was rapidly getting glum.

“Boyd… I’m pregnant.”

The words sliced through him like a cold knife. He felt terrified for a good, long moment. Petrified, he goggled back at her; his mouth shut tightly, appearing like a mere line on his face. Imanga could barely stare at him, too afraid, too ashamed.

Suddenly, she felt his hand warm up and squeeze at hers, prompting her to look up at him with hope. The line on his face was slowly curving upwards into a smile. She noticed his eyes shining with tears.

“Imanga… it’s okay. We—” He suddenly stopped as a thought crossed his mind. He felt his heart shutter to bits as if a ton of lead had fallen on it. He knew for a fact that he had never slept with Imanga. Not once. Not ever.

Part Two

His lips frozen in an oval shape, he stared back at her with his eyeballs popping out of their sockets, appearing as if they would drop onto the table and roll off, splattering on the floor. He was perceptibly shivering now, his hands shaking so badly the table and the cutlery on it was rattling slightly. The girl whose hand he held suffered a similar fate.

“Boyd… I am sorry.” she said in a whisper, grasping his hand firmly, hoping to stop the shivering.

A million thoughts were now whirling in his mind. He tried to regain his composure, but it was close to impossible. He was a mess. His only reason for living had suddenly changed from an angel to a demon. And his shuttered heart had left a void in his soul that was snuffing the life out of him. He now felt worse with her than he felt without her. She was beginning to look pale and greyish, like the wall in his room. She was beginning to look like a ghost, a mere shadow of the woman he loved.

“I am sorry,” she reiterated, a look of utter sincerity on her face. Her voice seemed to come from far away; from the end of a long, dark corridor; which end had no light at all.

Boyd recoiled, pulling his hand out of her grip. His eyes watered, but his mouth was dry. He had not closed it for about a minute.

“Imanga,” he was staring at her intensely through the blur of tears, wondering how this goddess could turn vile in so vicious a manner. “Why?”

“I am sorry.” She was terribly faint.

The hurt he felt, the intense hurt he felt, slowly grew to anger. “Why are you sorry?”

The question caught her unawares. She had miscalculated. She reeled and fought to steady herself. “I… well… I believe it’s my fault.”

“Your fault? How?” he folded his arms across his chest, his eyes turning a fiery red. He suddenly found immense relief in anger, for it lessened the maddening pain he was feeling at the core of his soul where there was now a cutting coldness. And it made him quite placid, his shivering reducing in intensity.

“I should have been careful.”

He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. Leaning back in his seat he remembered how he had lost everything in his life. He remembered how Imanga was his only reason for living. He remembered how she had come to his rescue.

His mother and father had just been killed in a terrible car accident. He was only left with his uncle Benji, and a reckless elder brother who only knew how to drink, smoke and do drugs. Uncle Benji never knew half about caring for children, having none of his own. He was distant, cold and surreal. Friends were scarce too. For one reason or another, Boyd lost his friends after the death of his parents. He kept to himself and had no desire to be around people. He had no desire, no will to live anymore. He just wanted to die; to die and join his parents.

One day, unable to deal with the pain anymore, he swallowed several sleeping pills, hoping to sleep and never wake up. Crawling onto his bed, his head heavy and whirling, he drifted into a deep, heavy sleep, dark and without dreams.

When he awoke, a thing which terribly puzzled him and annoyed him, he found a beautiful young lady standing over him, dressed in white and highly radiant.

“I am not supposed to be here.” Where the first words he said. “I am not fit to be here. Take me to the other place.”

“What are you talking about.” The lady said, leaning forward. The smell about her was that of sweet summer, mingled with life.

“You know what I mean.” He said with a frown, his head heavy and banging. “The searingly hot place, where the only thing you feel is pain. In pain I find my reality.”

“Shush. You are alive. You never died. I found you just in time.”

“You mean I am still on Earth?” He stared at her wide-eyed, his mouth parted.

“Of course. I found you in your room just in time and we brought you here. I know your uncle, and he wanted me to meet you. He directed me to your room when you were not responding to his calls. And I found you.”

He looked around and noticed for the first time that he was in a hospital. The ward was one large room with absolutely no windows. There were ten or more rows of beds on either side, and he was on one of the beds, covered in a thin, white and slightly stained sheet. The room was dark, with only two incandescent lamps hanging from each end of the ceiling. But the girl next to him—she seemed brighter than everything else in the room.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Imanga.”

And from that point on, she had become his reason for living, his air.

He slowly opened his eyes, hoping to awaken from a terrible dream. But reality struck him hard in the face when he saw Imanga, staring at him from an angle; she was bent forward, her head low, close to touching the table.

“I should have taken precaution.” He heard a tiny voice saying. Her voluptuous lips were quivering, so he knew it was her talking. “I knew you would not be ready for this.”

He glared at her. “Do you think I am stupid?”

“Huh?” she started upright.

“It’s not my child.” His voice was trembling.

“How… could you say that?” she sounded hurt, or pretended to sound hurt. He couldn’t know for sure.

“I’ve given my whole to you Imanga. I love you more than I love anything else. You well know I can’t live without you. And this is what you do to me.”

“Bonnie… I mean Boyd… I’m sorry you find it hard to accept but it’s—”

“I am not a fool. I may not be smart but I know my science. A mere kiss cannot make a girl conceive.”

“A mere kiss!” she started again, this time nearly shooting out of the chair like a rocket. “You call that mere kissing, what we’ve been doing?”

His anger had made him placid enough to enable him to study her carefully. He stared intensely at her face. She was shocked, the skin below her eyebrows taut, that above wrinkled. Her hair was quickly becoming disheveled, pulling free, out of the pony tail.

“French kissing, pecking—whatever kinda kissing I know of does not make one pregnant!” A couple of faces turned to stare; and he knew that he had been shouting. But he did not care.

“Calm down, sweetie.” She reached out for his hand, but he pulled it away.

“Calm? How can I remain calm when you are blatantly and shamelessly lying to me?”

She took in a deep breath. She knew how to reach his heart, and she knew how pertinent it was that she do so: he would die if she did not rectify things.

“You know how much I love you, Boyd. I would not lie to you. Deep down your heart, you know that.”

He stared at her in contemplative silence. “There is no way I could be the father. I have not slept with you at all! You are lying Imanga.”

She took another deep breath, trying to fill every alveolus. “Baby.” Her voice was sweet, gentle and caressing. “What do you remember about the Sunday evening of July eleventh?”

“The Sunday we went to watch the Hanna Montana movie?”

“Yes.” She leaned forward, staring into his eyes.

He stared at her suspiciously. “If I remember very well, I walked you to your apartment and said good night and left.”

“Not quite, dear. You did more than that.”

“Huh?” He bit his lower lip to avoid lashing out at her.

“Please do remember how intensely we kissed. Please do remember how that turned both of us on. Please do remember that, knocked out of our good sense and filled with great, overpowering passion, we tumbled into my apartment, wrapped in each other’s arms. I guided you to my bed and you tore my clothes off my body. You pushed me onto my bed and—”

“Stop!” Boyd bellowed. “Stop right there! No such thing happened!”

“But it did happen, dear. But, I believe I can explain why you can’t remember.”

Question marks span out of his eyes. “What?”

“In our violent passion, you fell off the bed and hit your head against the cabinet beside my bed. You were instantly knocked out. I called an ambulance and rushed you to the hospital where you woke up later. The concussion was pretty bad.”

Her words filled him with severe, numbing shock. He felt his anger ebb away. He knew that he had to make a choice right now: lose her or keep her. He knew the consequences of the former and he was not prepared to go there. It was more painful than reality. With tears flowing out of his eyes, he said:

“And when I woke up and saw you, I said: ‘I’m not supposed to be here. Take me to the other place.’”

She nodded her head. Her eyes too filled with tears. She reached out and held his hand. “Do you want to go to the other place, Boyd?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Then stay with me.”

He nodded his head again. She leaned forward. Placing her hands on the sides of his head, she gently pulled him forward and placed her lips on his.

“I love you.” He murmured. He felt the void in his heart disappear. His heart had come back, mended and healed. “You are my angel.”

“I love you too.” She whispered. She felt tremendous relief. He would take care of her and she would take care of him. And when her child grew, and when the father was ready to accept it, she would send Boyd to the other place.

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