“We also provide a ‘spiritual travel benefit’.”
“What is that?”
“It pays for your expenses if you need to go away to a quiet place for spiritual recovery. But we only provide it when the year has been ... especially busy. Officially, we do not set a minimum number of days you need to work before you can claim the benefit. Nevertheless, the Budget Office has placed an informal condition. You can only use the funds if you work at least eight days a year. That said, we are flexible. Your mental health is our priority. However, try not to use the benefit if you work less than six days a year. At that level, our superiors will begin to doubt your fortitude. Maybe even your work ethic.”
“That sounds good, Mr. Chairman. I am sure that working six days a year without a break for spiritual recovery will not place an unbearable burden on my soul.”
“Well said, Mr. Muranda. But remember the unwritten rule. Eight days is the unofficial minimum. Budget cuts. Every department is struggling with them. Still, if you work eight days a year, you will have 357 more to enjoy your spiritual recovery. Unless it is a leap year, in which case ... Never mind.”
Mr. Kuripa placed his plump forefinger on the bridge of his spectacles and slid them towards the tip of his tubby nose. Peering over the frames, he looked straight at Abel Muranda, eyeball to eyeball. Mr. Kuripa always did this when he wanted to stress an important point.
“Do not underestimate how much time you need to spend on spiritual recovery, Mr. Muranda ... Spiritual recovery is very important.”
Abel Muranda realized that expressing wisdom gave the chairman a profound sense of self-importance. It was Abel Muranda’s first interview, but his instincts told him it was wise to embrace a recruiter’s cherished values. The aspiring hangman nodded respectfully.
“Mr. Chairman, I will value every second I spend on spiritual recovery.”
“Perfect. Another benefit you will enjoy is twenty-four hour access to the prison chaplain. He has a cottage on the grounds of Mazambuko Maximum Security Prison. That is where death row is located. You can consult him in person during regular hours, but at night, you can only access him through his cell phone. Just to let you know, the chaplain is a truly pious man. The previous one was ill-tempered when contacted in the early hours. However, you should have no problems with Father Masuku. Still, as with all resources, after-hours access to the good Father is limited to three days before, and five days after any given workday. Outside of those times you must wait until the morning.”
“That sounds reasonable. Even priests need a break for their own spiritual recovery.”
“Exactly. Now to the substance. I will ask you the first question,” said Mr. Kuripa, scratching his chubby cheek with his fancy pen. The muscular Mr. Gejo leaned forward with great interest. His shirt was quickly losing the battle to remain intact. He still had not spoken a word. Even Mrs. Sibanda had greeted Abel Muranda and offered him a glass of water when he walked into the room. Maybe the big man could not talk and punish his clothing at the same time?
The chairman placed his pen on the neatly stacked papers before him. His eyebrows curled and huddled around his eyes. He was about to ask a critical question. He needed all his powers of concentration to process the answer.
“Why do you want this job, Mr. Muranda?”
“First, I am a hard worker. Second, I believe in justice. Third, I need the money. The drought in the countryside has been cruel. I lost ten cows. I had to kill all my chickens. As I mentioned before, I also sold my last goat to the man who led me to this interview. My goat’s name was Hurudza.”
“Like the lawyer?” exclaimed Mr. Kuripa.
“What lawyer?”
“Never mind. I am sorry for the loss of your livestock. Particularly your goat. He must have been special to deserve his own name.”
“He was the best goat in the world. Gwenzi goats are known for their hardiness.”
“Ah! Now I know why your village sounds familiar. It is the land of the invincible goats. Those creatures are like cactuses in the desert. Walking biltong! Dried meat with beating hearts!”
“They are, Mr. Kuripa. So when they start to die out, you know the situation is desperate. Hurudza was close to death when I sold him. Anyway, my livestock are no longer an issue. Taking this job will provide my family with good food and health care.”
The panel members listened attentively. Only Mr. Gejo did not write any notes. It was not clear whether he had a sharp memory or whether he would never forget the answer to such a question. He just sat there, constipating his shirt.
Mrs. Sibanda was next. “Mr. Muranda, are you not afraid of ngozi?”
“I do not believe in ngozi, Mrs. Sibanda.”
“So you do not believe that if you kill a man, his spirit will torment you and your family for generations?”
“I am not a superstitious person, Mrs. Sibanda. Besides, even if such a spirit were to rise from the corpse of a man I executed, I am sure it would understand that I was acting on behalf of the state. The spirit will have to take its grievances to the people you represent.”
Mrs. Sibanda and Mr. Kuripa scribbled furiously. Mr. Gejo simply stared. Apart from the occasional twitch of his giant moustache, he remained motionless. The chairman turned to see whether his hulking colleague had any questions. The big man shook his head. Mr. Kuripa continued.
“Let’s discuss hanging protocols. Would you have any difficulty executing someone who is not wearing a hood?”
“I do not understand, Mr. Kuripa. Why would the prisoner wear a hood?”
“Well it’s tradition, I guess. Every vocation has its traditions, you know? Through the ages, many cultures have chosen different approaches to the death penalty. Some have used firing squads. In this approach, a group of men all shoot the prisoner at the same time. That way, no one knows who fired the fatal shot. The burden of killing is distributed across many shoulders.”
Mr. Kuripa patted his own shoulders to mark his point. Secretly, he was congratulating himself for his knowledge of the subject. Secretly, everyone in the room knew that this was exactly what he was doing. He continued sagely.
“A diffuse guilt provides for diffuse consequences. If you can spread the guilt over enough people, each person’s share of the repercussions is reduced to a harmless moral shortfall. When everyone is guilty, no one is guilty. At least that’s the rationale behind the firing squad. Everyone sleeps a little better at night. But note that this method was more commonly used in Europe and the Americas. It is relatively foreign to the African continent. I guess we like our killings to be up close and personal.”
Mr. Gejo flinched imperceptibly. The vibrations rippled gently through the room. Only Mr. Kuripa did not feel them. He continued his monologue on execution protocols.
“Our hangman will not have access to a firearm. Neither will he be allowed to manhandle the prisoners. If that was our chosen approach, we would have recruited from – ”
Mr. Kuripa had started to turn in Mr. Gejo’s direction when he quickly snapped it back to face Abel Muranda. The chairman massaged the base of his neck to sooth the muscular hiccup that had caused the suggestive twitch.
“I must improve my sleeping posture,” he muttered with an awkward wince. Mr. Kuripa had no future as an actor. Before anyone could digest his dismal performance, he quickly returned to his field of competence: human resources.
“This will be a lonesome occupation. Unlike the brotherhood of the firing squad, the hangman cannot resort to the strength of other shoulders to share the load. Only his conscience will sustain the piercing pressure of the spiritual needle-point. The only question is whether a hood will be involved or not. One approach is to place the hood on the prisoner. That way, no one at the execution sees the face of the condemned man before he dangles from the rope of justice. Another alternative prefers that the executioner wears the hood. Some systems even require a combination of the two. This latter option is known as the ‘mutual anonymity approach’.”
> “So how can a hangman see what he is doing if his head is covered?”
“In those cases, the executioner’s hood has two peep-holes punched into the front. He can see without revealing the rest of his face. This arrangement allows him to escape the wrath of the prisoner’s spirit, while protecting his reputation as a cherished member of his community. This protection is vital where executions are performed with an axe. The public can excuse a man who pulls the lever of a gallows, but they cannot summon affection for an executioner who beheads with a blade. The differences between the methods are irrelevant, if you ask me. But visuals are everything. The dramatic flair of an axe can overwhelm our satisfaction with the underlying justice it delivers. That is probably why axes have lost favour in many systems.”
“That is comforting to hear, Mr. Kuripa. I would reconsider my interest in this job if I had to use an axe.”
“Wouldn’t we all? Let’s return to a more civilized subject. Can you hang a prisoner without either of you wearing hoods?”
“Well, to be frank, that was my expectation when I came here. I knew nothing about the different approaches to the death penalty. Now that you have informed me of the hood option, I must confess that I do not like it. I believe that if you are going to kill someone, you must be willing to look them in the eye. If you cannot do that, there is no justice in your motive. No justification in your conscience.”
Mr. Gejo’s eyes sparkled at the response. A subtle spasm in one of his biceps alarmed a fly that had nestled on it. The insect fled towards the open window. Mr. Kuripa hardly noticed the reaction. His intellect was formulating a mind-bending postulation of its own.
“You make an interesting point about motives and justifications, Mr. Muranda. But many brutal killers can murder their victims while looking them in the eye. Some even enjoy it more that way. Does that justify their motives?”
“Maybe not their motives, Mr. Kuripa. A hangman’s justification lies in the authority granted by the state, not the pleasure they may get from the act of killing. I would also like to add that on a personal level, I do not think highly of such people.”
“Neither do we, Mr. Muranda. It is comforting to know that you will enjoy no gratification from looking into the eyes of the prisoners you will execute.”
“There would be no gratification on my part.”
Mr. Kuripa scratched his cheek as he regarded Abel Muranda with curiosity. He made a brief note and continued the interview.
“Mr. Muranda. Let me present you with a scenario. Suppose you had to execute a man you thought was not guilty. He is protesting his innocence as you strap him to the gallows. He is only twenty years old. Let’s say he was eighteen when he committed the capital offence. The boy looks like your son. He is crying. Would you be able to go through with the execution?”
“Yes.”
The panel waited. The expected elaboration never came.
The interview lasted another forty-five minutes. Only Mr. Kuripa and Mrs. Sibanda asked any questions.
Did he have any trouble sleeping?
Yes. But only when he worried about money to feed his family.
Did he find it easy to forgive people who wronged him?
Yes. Unless they wronged his family.
Was he a religious man?
Yes. But only when his prayers for his family were answered. Right now his faith was tentative. The outcome of this interview would resolve his indecision.
Did he have any chronic health problems?
Apart from poor eyesight in his left eye? No.
Did he frequent prostitutes?
No. Had he not made this clear earlier? Besides, he did not know of any in his village. Or the next one. There may have been one a few villages down ...
How would he handle the guilt of taking a life?
By looking at his family and knowing they had access to health care. The guilt would take care of itself.
How many children did he have?
Three.
How many dinner plates did he have at home?
Two. But nowadays, the whole family ate from the same plate. It was large enough to fit the food they had.
How many meals did the family eat each day?
One.
How many goats did they have?
None. He sold the last one to the man who got him the interview, remember?
Of course. How about a sense of humour? Did he have one? He had shown promise earlier in the interview.
Well, only his children found him funny, but they were young. It did not take much to amuse them. However, if a sense of humour was a requirement of the job, he would work night and day to develop one.
Did he drink?
Always. In better times, he enjoyed goat milk. Nowadays, he only drank water.
How about alcohol? Did he partake?
Only if drinking it would increase his chances of getting the job. Otherwise he had no intention of picking up the habit. Alcohol tasted bad and made people stupid. Abel Muranda did not want to be stupid.
He need not worry. Drinking alcohol would not be necessary. The job was for the courageous, not the stupid.
And flowers? Did he like flowers?
Only those that grew from food-producing plants. Like sunflowers.
“We have one last question for you, Mr. Muranda,” said Mr. Kuripa. “In principle, do you believe in the death penalty?”
“To be honest, I have not given it much thought.”
“Well, now is a good time to do so.”
Abel Muranda looked at Mr. Kuripa with a thoughtless glare.
“Upon reflection, my answer is no, Mr. Kuripa. But I do believe in my family. If my beliefs prevented me from pursuing this job, I would be subjecting them to the death penalty. So whether you hire me or another candidate, people will die. I would rather it were not my family.”
“So it is all about your family, Abel Muranda?”
“It is.”
“Let’s say you got the job. What if you found a suitcase full of money the next day? Assume the amount is more than you need to give your family a good life. Would you abandon us?”
“I always honour my obligations, Mr. Kuripa. I would do the job while you looked for someone else. In any event, I do not expect to find a suitcase full of money. A wise man once said: ‘If you plan your life around the hope of finding a suitcase full of money, you will starve to death.’”
“Which wise man said those words?”
“Me. I only thought of them right now. A true survival instinct always assumes that starvation is one’s fate. Life is a constant battle to change that destiny. Dreaming of unearned riches is foolish.”
Mr. Kuripa and Mrs. Sibanda scribbled furiously. Mr. Gejo simply stared at him. Abel Muranda ignored him and continued.
“Mr. Kuripa, last month one of my neighbours sat outside his house for a week until he died. He had lost two children up to that point. At first we, his neighbours, fed him and his remaining family members. In the end, it became impractical so we stopped giving them food altogether. We had to look after our own families. So they all died in agony. The man expired a few days after his last donated meal. He abandoned his wife and three surviving children to die in his absence. Starving to death is a physically demanding business, Mr. Kuripa. You do not have to invest any effort in it, but make no mistake: it will invest a lot of effort in you. Hunger works the body with a cruel discipline. Even when it knows that you are beyond recovery, it will not loosen its grip. You suffer until the vultures are confident that they can start feeding without much opposition. At that point, a more interactive pain begins.”
Mr. Kuripa and Mrs. Sibanda glanced at each other. Mr. Gejo kept his gaze on the candidate. Abel Muranda paid them no attention. His answer had drifted into a vocal account of an internal trauma.
“Those creatures … The ones in my village are hardier than scavengers elsewhere. Gwenzi has ‘digging vultures’. They are never satisfied with eating a creature that died in the open. They
will watch a funeral procession, and after the mourners have left, those birds will descend on the grave and start digging. Their beaks can peck through an elephant’s skull. Their claws can dig furrows that would shame a plough. If the grave is shallower than the height of an adult man, the vultures will get to the corpse ... even if they have to dig all night. So when someone dies, we must bury them under massive rocks to prevent this final humiliation. This makes the birds furious. You can hear them screeching in rage as their beaks fail to breach the tomb. The pecking noises haunt the darkness. You can feel the sound wriggling up your spine. It feels like they are eating you in advance… sending you a warning to say: ‘Pray that they do not leave a gap in the rocks when they bury you. If they do, we will pluck you out strand-by-strand. Muscle fibre by muscle fibre… Like a ball of cotton that’s wedged in the crease of futility.’”
The room was still. Abel Muranda looked towards the panel and asked: “How can you tell if a carcass has been eaten by a Gwenzi vulture?”
“How?” asked Mrs. Sibanda. Her voice had fallen to a whisper.
“You can’t. There is nothing left to find. They eat everything, including the bones. Those birds are aggressive. Especially during mating season …”
Mrs. Sibanda leaned back in her chair and crossed her hands. Her eyes remained fixed on the candidate.
“Their cry is like nothing you will ever hear in your life … For days, I saw those birds watching patiently over my dead neighbour’s family ... That was a tragic fate for people who were not guilty of any crime.”
Abel Muranda emerged from his nightmare and refocused on his prize.
“Beyond my family, I also plan to help others in my village whenever I can. So even if only a third of the people on death row are guilty, there would be more justice in executing them all than in abandoning this job. My salary would save many more lives. It would also give my family a new life. And free health care. Surely there is a lot of justice in that?”
Chairman Kuripa shuffled his papers with finality. The interview was over.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Muranda. We will let you know after we make our decision.”
The Hangman's Replacement: Sprout of Disruption (BOOK 1) Page 2
