I didn't kill her ... Part 1

“They thought I killed her, or perhaps caused her death; all the more reason her brothers wanted my head at all cost. Where did I go wrong?”

I was sorely depressed with a serious headache when I woke up this morning.   My entire body was wracked with pain.  My mouth had the distinct taste of blood.  As I slowly descended from the bed, I asked myself, “What is wrong with me?”  I managed my way into the bathroom and as I leaned over the sink to wash the vile taste from my mouth, I was shocked when I looked into the mirror and saw my own face, swollen and bruised.

Starring at myself in the mirror, I struggled to recall the events of the past night but all solutions eluded me.  The shrill ring of the phone brought me out of my daze.   I lifted up the receiver in the bathroom, and questions followed my response, “What was wrong between you and those guys last night?” Queried Sandra, my date of the previous night.  Hearing her voice, I suddenly remembered the run-in with Luqman and his gang.  Luqman was the brother of Sally, my former girlfriend.

Memories quickly flooded my mind.  I remembered leaving Lobster Restaurant through an open pathway.  As we were walking along, laughing and talking, I heard somebody shouted from behind us, “You think you can kill my sister and enjoy living in this world?”  Not realising that the person was referring to me, I continued walking down to where I parked my car, with Sandra and a friend, Abdul, walking by my side.

I opened the car doors for my date and returned to the driver’s side to occupy my own seat.  As I did so, someone grabbed me from behind and another person hit me on the head with a bottle. The shattering of the broken bottle brought Sandra to the scene, she yelled for help that came in a twinkle of an eye. 

Water was poured on my head.  I regained my consciousness, but the whole world seemed to be rotating.  Luqman screamed, “He is a devil, he killed my only sister,” Luqman accused.  Hitting me repeatedly, he may have succeeded in killing me if not for the intervening bystanders.

“What are you talking about?”  Sandra cut in, “Why did you say that?”  She asked him angrily.  Abdul starred at me, wailing in dismay.  He had accompanied Sandra and I to dinner.  A young boy of twelve whom I had helped by paying his hospital bill and later adopted as a son, he could not understand what was happening.

An old man from the crowd looked at Luqman and said, “Fear God; don’t accuse a fellow human being wrongly.  ‘Allah giveth and taketh’.”  Luqman looked at the man sheepishly as one of his friends told Sandra, “Think you are in love?  This guy will use you for money-rituals before you realise what has happened to you.”

As soon as he said that, the onlookers passed their commentaries, “You can’t trust these young guys…. He may have used the person for a ritual … that served him well … they are cultist – that’s how they deal with themselves… … …these drug-boys…”   I lost every word; calling “Luqman” repeatedly.  

At last Luqman and his gang left with a strong promise to kill me if he ever ran into me again.  I became terrified!  My only thought was to escape from the scene.  Luqman could do anything if he changed his mind.

Sandra’s gown was stained with the blood gushing from a cut on my head. I cried like a baby; not for the pain of the beating, but for the false allegation. 

A young man of about forty came back with an ice-block, cleansed the wound and consoled me, “Surrender everything unto God, He knows better; if they have cheated you, God knows how to pay them back.  And if you have done what they accused you of; ask God to forgive you – He is ever merciful!”

I looked up at the sky and said; “God would judge every hidden thing.”

I almost collapsed.  I had lost much blood and was without any confidence. I couldn’t imagine myself crying like a baby.  I wished I’d fought with Luqman and his cohorts or perhaps got them locked up in police cells for the embarrassments, but I thought of Sally – the first lady that believed in me.  I asked Sandra if she could drive.  Beyond that, I couldn’t remember the rest of what had happened last night.

Deep in thoughts of Sally, I heard Sandra asked, “Can I come over?” Her question seemed to bring me back to life.  But at that moment, I could only think of my relationship with Sally and how we separated before she was cut short in her prime by the wicked fists of death.  ‘Don’t bother, I’ll be fine” I answered Sandra.

“I think you need me…” she kept hammering and urging.  But instead of responding, I gently put down the receiver.

I went into my room and picked up a picture of Sally.  I looked at her lovely face and ever smiling mouth.  I viewed her attractive eyeballs that knew no hate.

I dropped on my knees and cried like a baby for losing such a valuable jewel…

Sally and I finished our secondary school education in Central Government College in 1987, a time I hardly knew anywhere apart from my father’s farmhouse and my mother’s garments’ shop.

After the valedictory service on the afternoon of June 18, 1987, I went straight to the village to look after my father’s 425 acres farmland as a manager. I lost contact with all my friends.  Visits to the city were rare, except when shopping for farm needs.  I stayed on and worked in the farmhouse for two years before it dawned on me that I had to go to school and better my career.

I returned to the city and enrolled in a summer class to prepare me for the university entrance exams. I had already obtained all my WAEC O’level papers during my final exams in June 1987.

One afternoon in February 1990, after a busy day work in “Greater Tomorrow” coaching centre, I went to a nearby restaurant for lunch when I heard a lady’s voice echoed, “Scooby Doo”, the nickname I answered to when I was in secondary school.

I looked around and found no one I knew except a beautiful angel smiling at me.  The lady was dressed in a red blouse with an inscription, ‘A day with me; 4ever a change and black corduroy trousers.  On her feet was a pair of black Moccasin loafers’ shoes.  She moved toward me wholeheartedly, calling my full name, “Dennis Demola Thompson”.  I offered my hand to say hello when it dawned on me that I was looking at the once tiny Sally Momoh.

“S … S … Sa…lly!” I stammered in awe. 

Taking in my six feet, two inches height, she said, “You are now a giant!”

“What of you, a thief accusing the owner of the stolen property?” I joked.

“Am I as changed as you?” she queried, “Francis told me you are now a farm manager.  It means you must have eaten a lot of growers’ marsh.” She added jokingly as she reached to move one of the long braids from her face.  

“I saw Luqman about two years ago; he told me you had traveled to the U.S. for further studies.  Are you on hols?” I asked, packing my books together and settling my bills.

“I’m a medical student at the National Premier University, The Gambia not The U.S.A.”  I envied her for the statement but I wasn’t surprised.  Sally was one of ‘the efficos’ (the brilliant students) in our school in those days.  I also remembered she was the best female student in the country in 1987.

“And you, Mr. Farmer, do you want to call it quits with education?” she asked.

I reluctantly responded as I took a seat opposite hers, “No, I am taking the coming exams in April.”

“That means you must have studied very well, the examination is two months away.”  She kept gesticulating as she talked.

“Yeah, I’ve tried”

“You better,” She pointed at me warningly.   “I wouldn’t take any excuse for failure from an old Major” She said, mockingly comparing me with the George Orwell’s Animal Farm’s character.

“I am prepared and I will pass by God’s grace.” I surrendered to the challenge.

“Amen.  You just have to be in school by the next academic session,” she paused and looked straight into my eyes as she stated; “All your friends are now in 200 levels.”

“Thanks!” I said surprisingly. Sally used to be a weakling. She hardly talked in those days but how time and exposure can change people.

“Can I drop you on the road?” She asked and I willingly accepted.

She conveyed me to the nearest bus-stop in the 500sel Mercedes Benz coupe she was riding and for the first time I felt… … … … as the track of Milli Vanilli’s ‘When I die’ blasted from the sound box.

We lost contact after that afternoon.  She went back to school and I focused on how to pass my exams, which I slimly and luckily passed.  My score was pegged as the cut-off mark for Business Administration in my university of choice that year, making me the luckiest guy of the year.

 Culled from the Novel - I didn't kill her