The Bride Who Murdered Her Groom: A Stories Collection

Beautiful and sharp-witted, Sophia Solochi—blamelessly eighteen—understands that she must not ever fall in love. If she does, any peculiar man she has adored will not live what will befall him. In unquestionable words, he will die. Fast. Surely. And frightfully. Why would he perish, you may marvel? Sophia, also true with her female descent, is cursed. Any lad whom she falls for is destined to yield up his ghost in her very own arms and care. When she moves with her mother to Brownton to begin a fresh and unimpaired life, far away from their ancient calamities and sorrows, the worst things imaginable happen to them. Sophia cannot resist falling in love with Alex Ramirez, a strikingly handsome but in-a-short-time to-be Engineering postgraduate at Brownton University. Here, whilst pursuing a Fashion and Designing degree, she furtively repeats the self-same pursuit and engagement that effected insufferable agony and bitterness in her bygone days. Falling in love is extremely perilous, she


21. Eye-Opener

He is not especially much high and soaring but he is effusively full-fledged and in his prime without misgiving. One man whom every youthful and infantile person would show reverence and veneration to just from the tick and chiming of conscious. Nay. This ain’t any Alpha Sichilo. The guy who thought that he could reduce to contemptible rubbles my dazzling life and splinter and blow it apart to nonexistence? Mr. Hachisala is the man’s name. He is Tonga by ethnic group or tribe and startlingly bright and giftedly sociable. How do I know he is accomplishedly sociable? Okay. When I first got to know him, at the time that Raphael was making his lewd moves on me—Mirth—the NIPA Auditing lecturer (Mr. Hachisala himself) was this fantastically lovable and kind and selfless to me. Now things ain’t that way anymore. We are like tart rivals…vinegary opponents with almost any person to some scope…it is a time-consuming and moderately painful story indeed. But it is bearable and endurable indeed. Yes, it definitely is. “You have got vast talent…oh my, you are extraordinarily and superbly gifted,” he once declared in class with a flabbergast but concomitantly derisive expression. 17:47 PM. My desktop shows me that it is 5:47 PM. The time is accurate and precise. But not so is the date. Friday, 4 January 2002 it indicates. Which is an absolute and overall lie. Today is Wednesday, 10 December 2014. I can feel the sting, the aching pain, the soul-and-body wrenching stab…I don’t if truth be told exactly know why this is so. Whenever I am writing about this whole appallingly excruciating and yet exceedingly lovable and heartwarming story of mine, I become this all of a sudden and hastily over-sentimental and frail and susceptible to pain and anguish and so much more dire and good-quality feelings. The thought and emotion and awareness that I am splitting to halves this with someone else somewhere far off in the world than I am who does not even know me actually…well…it flabbergasts and frightens the hell out of me at the same time. To be sincere with you, I don’t know where this is precisely going. But as much as I am pained and racked and heartlessly beset by it, I am relieved and reassured and comforted and set at liberation and contentment and ecstasy on the other hand. There are dins and rackets and clamors about me out there. Grisly and awful clatters. Not the ones that you know consisting of deafening and ear-splitting music and bradawling machines and on job chainsaws and borers and blah, blah, blah. It is the filthy brood and kids. Full-size and fully developed men and women what’s more. They bellow. They bawl; they howl out all sorts of ridiculous and hollow names. Not that the names themselves are inane and worthless. They are magnificent, breathtaking names even. Now on purpose ill-treated and vocally abused. And I am going to do the same too in a somewhat unusual and tweaked manner. “Mercy!? Mercy!?” She is my neighbor, very much babyish—possibly two years old—and fantastically blameless and ever carefree and charming and gracious. Her forename is now the object that is used to torture and make my blood boil hot and sizzle-like. Tweak it back I must. Of course. I will not just sit by and do nothing while lots and countless of people jeer at me and tease and poke fun of me. I must do something about it. Yes, I surely must. “Charity!?” She is my aunt, a cousin to my deceased mother, Noliwe, who at this time is in the United Kingdom. Her name too, like all the others, is every minuscule minute and split second and all the time abused and screamed and barked out like mad. “Sydney!?” Double crap! He is the Ambassador Club leader at church, a man who is this dreadfully swarthy skinned and buzz and chitchat is it that he is this highly immoral and licentious and two-timing to his faithful and truthful wife in spite of being blissfully and gladly married to her. “Charles!?” There are butterflies in my stomach at this particular moment. I, Mirth, love this boy so very much and I know that he is engrossed and attracted me too. Sam, he just won’t let me be with him. I shall tell you this appalling ending fairy-tale about us later on. “Innoce!?” Sometimes the jack-asses holler out, “Innocent!?” He is a blood family member of mine—blissful and contented in the United Kingdom far there. “Esther!?” She is a beautifully sweet and stunning sister to Innocent. My grandma used to look just like her when she was in her spanking new twenties. I hear that she—Esther, and not my not-getting-any-younger and muscle waning, single grandma—is happily wedded and in matrimony even with some argumentative, cantankerous issue that she had with her father in worry to who the love of her life should be. “Earnest!?” He is the dazzling and superior brother to Innocent. But Innocent is this very much and extremely good-looking looking from what I can still bring to mind. I was eight or so when I last saw them and had my closing encounter with them . We have not since then conversed or had any form of discussion. “Richard!?” Sometimes yelled out, “Richman,” or, “Richie!?” He was a neighbor who moved away from renting at our house brusquely just after his mother came to be sour rivals and adversaries with my queeny, domineering, but above-suspicion looking and behind your back catastrophic and devastating aunt, Clera Moole. Oh. They cry her first name as much as they long and crave to. With her say-so and go-ahead of course! We haven’t been nattering about anything for months now. Yes, we do doze and slumber and chomp appetizing food and take our baths under the very one same roof and house. “Clera!?” She is imperceptibly and discreetly venomous and ill-intentioned. If you distrust me do bid her into your own house and striking life and make out how she will gnaw and sting you…no, not to your death. But to your sick and ailing repute. I am her injured party right now. Which makes clear why almost everyone here abhors and sneers at me, don’t you think so? “Chore-cho!?” Or, “Chocho!?” if you like it that better. I know ‘Chucho’—a Face-book buddy of mine. I don’t know how he came to be this Chore-cho or Chocho. But from the giant fence and gate next to our house, they at all times dub and have a word or two with a child named Chocho. “Noh-noh!?” This one is Numel Mbaya. A getting-on friend and high-school-met chum of mine. He still is my associate. Though we by a hair's breadth do see each other and additionally talk without restraint like we did before. Call him ‘No-no’ if you are akin to that. “Joe-joe!?” Maybe, “Jojo,” will suit here. Whichever is whichever. This could be Joe for Joseph, my at-hand neighbor. Or Josephine, sister to Richard whom I have pointed out before. She moved away with her full-of-zip, bouncy mother, Eunice. That must have been her name, I assume. Eunice at times liked to address her as basically, “Jojo.” “Nah-nah!?” Nana in other self-same words!? She is Namasiku shortened and truncated. My cousin and relative what’s more. She calls me—I myself, Sam—“Uncle,” and I love it way too bad. Mirth displeases and disgruntles her a little bit. “Sheka!?” He is the younger brother to Namasiku—also known as Nana. He is daring, audacious and very much gutsy, and he treats me so well and perfectly good. He is my much loved and preferred to some degree. “Ambuuuya.” In English, this is ‘granny’ or ‘grandma’. Talent Moyo is her name. Aged, judicious, and intellectually gifted. This woman is so painstaking and hard-working, I give my word. Most of the traits and persona I have and keep hold of, I have taken them over from her. She is the genetic mother to my late momma, Noliwe, who breathed her last some elapsed month in 2001. “Meah-meah.” Or Meme. This one is Mercy Hakoola. The babyish and forever happy-go-lucky and in-the-clear and lovable two-year-old girl that I nattered about before. I dubbed her ‘Meme’ myself after the name of some heroic, intrepid, and yet men-battered lass character of the South African serie and soapie, Muvhango. “Ellah!?” This is me. Mirth and not you, Sam, the writer—a.k.a silvan26ray on: “Sankwa.” It is not his authentic and factual name. It was a mere nickname given to him by Yvonne when he was two or three years old. He is presently graduating off to eight. Yvonne is now gone far away and joyfully married, I have been notified, and the family name of ‘Sankwa’ has become unbelievably popular more than his own concrete and legitimate name and paternal acceded-to title—Brighton Mwanza. In other words, he is a junior to his father, Brighton himself; the light, watertight skinned giant-like man with dreadlocks bred and styled from his natural hair. In the Tonga language, ‘Sankwa’ means a boy. Musankwa, it is asserted. “Beauty!?” This is me—Mirth myself. I opted to go by that made-up name on Face-book. Not Beauty. But Beatty Boyd. Or beauty boy if you like it healthier—which I myself probably do not. “Lilayi!?” Spelled Lee-lay-ye. It is a place of habitat that I used to lie about as being my place of dwelling once I had began attending college at the National Institute of Public Administration where I still am studying Accounts. “Chawama!?” Meaning it is good or good in Chichewa. It is a place of abode too. Some shanty, large, trendy neighborhood that I am fond of taking my stroll to at dusk time. For now these are the names put to use in goading and aggravating me. I react in my own ways to these state of affairs though. I will let you know whenever new-fangled ones arise, because they most likely and surely will in all probability. *** Esther! Mercy! And Richard! Set off to Chawama together, Innoce! Nah-nah! And Joe-joe! Are top most friends, Sydney! Charles! And Clara! Have a crush on each other, Chorecho! Noh-noh! And Sheka! Are have fun playing base ball, Beauty! Ellah! And Ambuuuya! Are cheerful together washing plates, Charity! Earnest! And Briightty mwana wa rasta! Are fighting each other over Chibhhuusu! Sankwa! Meah-meah! And Chil-eash-eee! Are fond of walking off to church in Lee-lay-ee, *** This is just ingredient and piece of the mp3 talk that I made with some executable-file program from the names call themselves. Crippy, crutty, crappy! Holy flames, I am burning and intolerably ablaze in hell! Duh! Not so soon. Who knows who will go or will not go to hell amongst all of us here? None of us can study and comprehend the future, I presuppose. Don’t you? This is the story of how all this set in motion in précis. Supplementary facts and particulars on it later. It was all monotonous and mind-numbing and lackluster before the abrupt launching of 2014. So excruciatingly dreary-like and appallingly unexciting. I was bored to tears. I was fed up with this life itself. I wanted some bit of immense and exhilarating and thrilling adventures. And I found them all in writing. Engraving down my top secret, surreptitious thoughts in the form of fabricated and pretended threads of legends. It was all pleasurably good and so amazing and every crumb and tad lock, stock and barrel breathtaking. That was before the hurricane and snowstorm moved toward me. Little did I know that it was bit by bit filching its way upon me. Each day would be full of bafflements and endeavors and feats and accomplishments that I would never have foreseen approaching. These are the days of the rainstorm and tornado in my life. I would be reviled and loathed and assaulted all for one thing. I am too European and Western-swayed, they speak softly to one another. I shouldn’t be, they uphold. I must not be, they keep up even; and for that, I must by all means and likelihood possible be cut short. Or else it will be the turn-around. For this, ladies and gentlemen, I do face vocal mugging and bodily mug—all in roundabout or not direct ways. Yet I sit not still regardless. I must brawl and wrestle my own way through all this. Even if it means accomplishing it with my very last breath and speck of strength. Greetings to my world. I am Samuel Moyo; Sam and Mirth at the same time; a boy and a girl coalesced in one; a girl-boy in other ridiculous words like they entitled me prior to all these proceedings and dealings; and here, I let slip all—yes, even the do not make-public stuff and themes. Let the chord be stroke in you and your wits and brains and conscious be warned; everything that you will examine and translate to your understanding here, whether it be surreptitious or unwrapped to your ideal knowledge and familiarity, is genuinely and sincerely factual and truthful. Salutation to you yet again. It is calm and hushed at long last. 10:25 PM, my time enlightens me. Putting that in the picture of my psyche even. Yes. I have just snatched a succinct, fleeting clean-up of my sullied body a while ago with no any suitable and appropriate shearing-off of my facial hair carried through. I feel so brand new and buoyant that I am a little bit enthusiastic and bouncy of live and spirited activity. It might be at tersely or just after midnight when I will conclude this inscription and lettering of mine and lag at a snail’s pace to my bed a great deal and every shuffle dead beat to sleep soundly and as it should be. This morning when I awakened up, it was brilliantly still and noiseless. There weren’t any thunderous rackets or clatters until after six or so. First, there was the nonstop name bellowing—children engaged in dirt some recreation while barking and hollering about; then the matured ones bonded with them in their feral and fanatical name yelling and open-fire-at-me-aimed nattering too. Oh my God! Can you accept it as the irrefutable truth? I am the abhorrence and extreme dislike of practically just about the whole locality. All thanks to my too much white and intercultural ardor and craze. Is it a meandering offense and a misdemeanor even to be white or multicultural by any probable principles and norms, or is it not so? It unquestionably and undeniably seems so here. When I unbolt the tap, not a seep of water dribbles and pours out. I have no choice but to go obtain for it somewhere else. Yes. The intact neighborhood of Jack—where I keep on—is not advantaged and honored with a trivial plummet or dribble of sparkling, clean water. I find out some time after nine from a Bemba-hitched-to-a-Tonga neighbor woman and mother of four that there has been crisis and predicament with the community’s chief water pipes which was being fixed and patched up well even now. Since the precedent two or three days, we have almost not been having liberated access to any water. Yes. There was water scuttling and scampering from our taps. But it stayed for not much extended a time. Here in Jack we have the benefit of accessing to water three times a day—at curtly six or even as premature as five thirty in the morning, at twelve when the sun just makes it to its summit and pinnacle high up there in the sky above, and finally at six in the course of nightfall. Once the water is obtainable, we are fortunate to gather and assemble it in some thing for not more than an hour. By and large in containers and drums and vessels and the like. I know. Most of the time I am the tittle-tattle of the whole neighborhood. All thanks to genuineness-intermingled-with-untruths reports and tales about me. I am by coincidence well-known and unbelievably all the shocking trendy here. Reports and narratives concerning me spread so fast at full lightning speed that within just a few months I was the converse and shaggy-dog-story and funny story what's more of the intact town. Lusaka itself! With perhaps more than three million people living here. Three million of a populace to blather and have a chinwag on the subject of me? More expressly as regards to how so writing and cinematic infatuated and gripped I am to the scope which most of the not-so well-read people here find to be markedly maddening and unendurable. It is like I am a menace and hazard of some type to them. I sigh as I lie down on my bed. I don’t know what precisely more to do. I have got a couple more novels to inscribe and type on the keyboard and tidy them up before issuing them out online. I have bounty and ample time to get done this. Yet I am lacking the fierce fire and zeal and passion to drive me to do all that. I have one bottomless, giant reverie though. Some pending day in the future, I want to be at an especially unruffled and noiseless place to ponder and chew over and additionally talk on whatsoever it is that I would deeply and intensely very much want to do. Here at this place, I can put pen to paper and marks and inscription a couple more books that I feel like putting to ballpoint and keyboard. Phew. When will that day ever come? Will it anyway? I don’t know myself. I like the dwelling of my uncle, Pumulo Kalumiana, who stays not very far away from me. I have and still do walk to his house in not more than thirty minutes. Yes. The archetypal accommodations there are big, fine-looking, and manor-like homes. But I don’t cherish his locality for minimally that. It is roughly at all times brilliantly quiet, to some extent racket-free and remote. I like that. In Jack I do stay with my grandma; a great deal raucous and in some way an intolerable place. Particularly with the huge numbers nattering and goading and scoffing at me at the top of their voices, I can by a hair's breadth do anything at all. Yes. My grandmother does feel sorry and disappointed that she acquired a tad up-to-standard a house in such kind of an ignorant and untaught cram-full-packed place. It is not on time to unbutton and disengage that exploit now, or is it? For sure, it is not. While I am in my futile and ineffective thoughts, imagining what else I can do to sidetrack myself in my very own unique little world and do my very own poles-apart from the fashionable mass thing, my vivacious, bubbly and full-of-beans, willowy-like aunt, Esnart, wedded to my police uncle, Lee, saunters into my room rapidly and all of a sudden. I cringe and cower at seeing her. “Oh. Aunty,” I murmur thoughtlessly. “We are off to fetch water at the Care,” she makes known flippantly, without any much due consideration. The Care is where they run and manage the water and sewer scheme of our zone. “With who?” I ask her unperturbedly. “Ferby.” She is petite but plump Mercy’s mother. I propose to go with them and together we set off there only to avert to the next-door water cistern on our way, I myself being the one setting in motion the wheelbarrow and Esnart herself bearing up in her hands two bulky containers that we could not lay down with the others in good pose and properly. I know. I have to meet the continual mocks and ridicules there. Day in and day out. I come across these everywhere I go. At home, within or outside our very own house itself, at the road and marketplace—anywhere probable and likely. What an unhappy and despondent life of mine this is! Alas! Did I say despondent and wretched? That is the frame of mind that a countless natives out there want me to submit myself to and yet time and again I keep on exchanging blows and wrestling back against them. Holy shit. It is now 12:04 in the midst of the night and I am only past the 3,000 words score with this chapter so far. I can feel my sleep peter out and fade away. I will sleep shortly in any case. On the first visit I go and get water well, without running into much dilemma and tease and insult at the sunlight-hours-school-but-hours-of-darkness-turned-car-square-and-daytime-functioned water-obtaining place. Maybe it is all largely owed to the verity that I am in the company of two other people to gossip and chew the fat back with. Ferby Hakoola and Esnart Mwanza Kalumiana. The people are calmed down and mind-your-own-business sortie-of looking. The second round I am in-words under assail and I use music and chanting to my shield and to beat back the muggers. These are hair messed-up and a bit grimy and mucky just like me women who start talk in a roundabout way and chortle circuitously at me. “Fatty, you are dancing and balleting and pulsating and humming to the music, huh?” I have one earphone laid and infixed in my ear at this point in time while I listen in to Rihanna and Brandy singing. I am not chubby-looking by the way. These people know that I detest becoming obese—it is just my own craving and outlook—and they often try to use that to spoil my mood and get me up on my nerves. While in the West being lean and sylphlike is the prettiness norm, here it is such appalling and horrifying abhorrence. Plump but not extremely round and chunky with a fighting-fit shaped body is more up-to-the-standard here. Is it a misdeed to want to stay slim and in good physical shape if I may ask? “I am getting hold of nonstop water here,” this was uttered on my third or fourth visit to Tuchie—the school and car park merged itself, “because I have a lot of costmes and clothes to wash.” “Eh, eh, I want to carry a lot of water here, ladies. I am white and so I bath 20 liters of water all on my own. Respect that please, will you?” “I do not wear out,” says another, “I am a woman and women never tire out.” Giggle burst and hoot out loud all about me. Children name call as customary. Others dance and fool around. Eyes for a split second check and sieve my reaction. Until some bony, shady-skinned woman calls me a ‘dog’ in a very roundabout manner, I take my long-repressed stroke straight away. With one earphone fastened into my ear, I start singing, twisting the lyrics to Rihanna’s ‘S&M’ to: I like it doggy, doggy—dog on, dog on Na, na, na, na, na Dance, dog, dog, dog, doggy, doggy Dance, dog, dog, dog, doggy, doggy Talk, dog, dog, dog, dog Laugh, dog, dog, dog Hold the pipe dog, dog, dog, dog Move it left and right… As soon as I start this, the amusement expressing and in high spirits women discontinue their acts and seem overcome. I intone not considering of the recurrent attacks on me, which I grapple and tussle back until everyone gives up and quits on me. A young man outside of Tuchie’s gate talks to his friend and yet in some way to me in that aberrant way, “Are you a man really?” I put it in song speedily: Are you a man, man—really, really, really? Later on at home there commences the name calling. I shriek out, “Sankwa,” and, “Matthews,” whenever a name is bellowed out raucously. The same seven-year-old Sankwa and Brighton I talked about before is Matthews too, though he littlie knows and recognizes this name because no one ever hardly calls him by it. Clera, my noxious aunt, is his mother. She gave birth to him when she was fourteen years old, in eighth grade, having fallen pregnant with him at a naive age of thirteen. Whenever he is there, I call, call him. Whenever he is not there, I still call, call him; just so to offset and work against those call-calling kids and men and women. They call back more resolutely and doggedly after I do that and so do I too. Then they give up at long last all the same and go on talking and conversing ill and hurt-meant against me. I will punch back soon, I promise. For now, there are those irritating and irksome cat calls left to deal with. Of course. They are made and brought into being in my presence the more just so to aggravate and drive me mad. 12:33 AM. I must now discontinue writing and check everything over briefly and then fall sleep. Tomorrow I will have more escapades and fads to share with you. For now, Sam just wants to solely sleep and Mirth only wants to dream so bad about Charles. I don’t know where she is going with him essentially. More particulars in relation to him shall be in the coming chapter, The Love Café. It was suppose to be this chapter as a matte of fact. I am horribly sorry that I have jabbered and talked nonsense about something else instead. Oops! ***HAVE A ‘KIM PERFECT’ KARDASHIAN DAY***
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