Getting rid of Randy

I want to kill him, even though he is dead. He lies on the coffin looking so handsome, so regal. Even in death, he looks like a winner. The mahogany coffin does not seem to have the last laugh. He looks like he might just smile and get up. My loathing for him doubles and tears wet my cheeks, messing my make up.

“It’s alright,” our son sandy says as he put his huge arm on my shoulder. I look at him and try a weak smile. He looks exactly like his father. He is tall, well-built body with a handsome face that looks as if he would smile even when he is an angry as hell.  I have seem him do that before.  And the boy didn’t shed a tear when the police told us of his father’s death.

I hold on to him as they lower my husband’s body into the grave. His friends and colleagues look in disbelief. Randy is dead, murdered in cold blood.

The story in the newspapers the day after his body was found in a ditch on the outskirts of Nairobi failed to mention that he was naked. The report was that he was shot by thieves in a carjacking that went wrong. At least the part of the carjacking going wrong was true. Anyone who knew Randy knew he would never part with anything without a fight.  What they didn’t know was that I killed him.

Thirty years of marriage, thirty years of lies, thirty years of misery. I had to bring it to an end. There was no way I would let him divorce me after all we had been through together. I was not going to let that whore get him. I had accepted from the first year of marriage that she existed but would not let her take my place.

And so I met with him out-of-town to talk, that’s what I told him over the phone and it was there that I took care of him. I had him undress in the car, promising him great sex and when he was naked, I shot him three times in his chest and watched him gasp, crawl out of the car into the ditch. He didn’t want to die. He thought he could crawl to the hospital. Stupid idiot!

His coffin rests at the bottom of the grave, my son and I threw soil over him. We walk slowly to the car, friends and family consoling him. I stop, turn back and look at the grave. I have finally defeated him, I think and get into the back seat of the car. Sandy sits next to me and holds my hand. As the driver starts the car, he bends to wards me and whispers. “I have pictures of you shooting him.” I look at him and he gives me his father’s smile and looks away.



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