by Kiru Taye
Then Tiye Himba had bought her and had trained her to become a killing machine.
However, none of the training had been able to scrub the Catholic guilt from her mind when she’d undertaken her first kill. Unable to visit a priest to confess her sins and seek penance, she’d resorted to self-flagellation.
Until she’d killed a woman for the first time. The self-reproach hadn’t reduced the guilt.
She’d ended up at Arufin with a man who took her to one of the rooms. He’d tried to tie her up without her consent. She’d hit him, almost killed him before security arrived with Osagie.
Instead of throwing her out, Osagie had taken her to his office and spoken to her. He’d explained he could help her. Since then, she visited Arufin only to see him.
Osagie had once asked her to work for him. She’d turned him down. Her loyalty was to the Himba clan.
However, Don Himba wouldn’t be happy if he found out about Xandra’s twisted cravings.
Hence the need for the discrete visits to Osagie and the implicit level of trust required between them. They had a lot to lose if anything went wrong.
“In the name of Arufin, I will hear your confession, child,” Osagie said in a smooth, deep voice.
Head bowed forward in contrition, Xandra said the words of penitence. “Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It's been three months since my last confession.”
One childhood confession replayed in her mind.
The other kids had delighted in making fun of her and calling her ugly names. Every time she’d complained to the nuns, they hadn’t done anything to stop it. One day she had taken matters into her hands. When a kid called her a freak, she jabbed him in the throat. A nun had dragged her to the confession box and made her testify to the priest.
She’d learned valuable lessons from the event.
Firstly, people respected strength more than weakness. The kids never picked on her again because they knew she would hit back and wasn’t afraid of the punishment.
Secondly, never get attached to anyone or anything. The nuns sold her to Himba and sent her away from the only home she’d known.
Mostly, repentance was cleansing.
These days, she wouldn’t consider revealing sins to a stranger. Priest or not. She would have to kill the person afterwards.
Now, this staged performance provided the same mental purification without the hazards.
“What are your sins, child?” Osagie asked the question she had come to expect from him as part of this routine.
“I used rude words many times.” This was the easiest to confess, a remnant from childhood when you had to admit after using colourful language. She always started with the easy sins and ended with the most difficult.
“I lust after men and women.” She never confessed this sin in the past tense as it was a part of her. Something that no amount of contrition would ever wipe out.
“I’ve killed fifteen people in five years.” Including the three men, she’d killed this morning.
Delivering death was her job, what she’d been trained for. While other teenagers were in high school, she had spent the time in a military facility being taught a hundred and one ways to take lives. This was another sin she couldn’t escape. Another part of who she was.
After she left the military facility into the employment of Don Himba, she’d been excited about being able to utilise the skills that she’d learned. She hadn’t given thought to the people she’d be ordered to execute. She’d been eager to show loyalty and to belong to a group with a defined purpose.
Soon, she found out that even in a group of gangsters, she was still considered a freak and an outsider, first, as a woman in a man’s world. Then as an assassin. The men feared her. They knew if the boss ordered a hit on them, she wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.
“I feel anger when I think about the orphanage.” Her back muscles tightened, and her jaw ached. This was the big one. The big sin. The infested cancer eating her up inside. If she ever went back to the orphanage, she would put bullet holes through the skulls of the mother-nuns.
What else should she feel? They had sold her to Don Himba, who moulded her into a monster.
“Say your act of contrition,” Osagie said in a firm yet soothing voice, drawing her out of her messed up thoughts.
“I’m sorry for my sins. Please help me to do my penance and to do better,” Xandra said, injecting remorse into the words.
“I absolve you of your sins. Go and stand before the cross to begin your penance.”
She counted out five heartbeats before walking over to the St Andrew’s cross. Facing the wall, she listened for him.
Fabric rustled as he took the robe off first and then the t-shirt underneath.
She stretched hands and legs across the bars as wide as she could go while keeping balance and gripped the wooden frame.
As part of their agreement, she wouldn’t be restrained physically. She could never give anyone that level of control over her body. Not even Osagie.
Still, she offered her body in this manner.
This wasn’t romantic. Nor was it supposed to be.
Sex was a minor side, and sometimes it didn’t happen during the session.
Once she left here, he didn’t contact her and vice versa until they both wanted to book a new meeting. Usually, she was the one requesting to see him.
His boots thudded against the bare floor as he strode over to the rack. He was a striking man with tattoo artworks all over his arms, chest and back. His narrow hips and long legs were in black trousers. He reached for one of the thin, black rubber canes on the rack, weighing it in his hand and running his palm along its length as he checked it. He flicked it through the air, and it made a swishing sound that promised an intense sting.
Satisfied, he strode over to stand behind her. His warmth settled on her skin just as his breath fanned her ear and nape. “For your penance, you will receive thirty strokes of the cane.”
Two strokes for every person she'd killed. Just what she needed. Pulse racing, she closed her eyes.
“Yes, sir,” she replied in a breathless voice.
THREE
SWISH.
THWACK.
Sting.
Flinch.
Grunt.
Breathe.
Repeat.
This was how it started. The steady rhythm of the strikes made Xandra anticipate each one, yet unprepared for its impact on her body. Soon her back flamed and the burn detonated all over nerve-endings.
Halfway through, she struggled to keep count of each hit, brain now consumed by hurt. Mind kicked into ‘fight’ or ‘flight’ mode, adrenaline flooding her veins. Fingers dug into the wooden frame as her grip tightened. Otherwise, she’d lash out at the man behind her.
He was confessor. Punisher.
She deserved every blow. Every hurt. For the sins she’d committed. For the lives she’d taken.
Please stop. I won’t do it again.
Gritting her teeth, she fought against the pleading cry threatening to escape. A promise to stop would be an outright lie. The day she stopped being a hitwoman would be the day she died. Taking the punishment was the only way to absolve her crimes.
The grunts turned heavier. Knees weakened, she clutched the cross with painful digits, determined not to crumple onto the cold floor. Defeat wasn’t for her.
Lungs constricted, she struggled to breathe, only managing shallow inhales and exhales. Dizziness made her body sway at each impact. Just when black spots hovered on the periphery of her eyesight, the strikes stopped.
Leaning against the cross, she tried to catch a breath, to get her balance back.
Osagie stood beside her, raising her right arm over his shoulders so he could support her.
“I’m okay.” Her voice sounded alien as she struggled and tried to pull away. She never liked showing weakness.
In the two years since she’d been meeting up with him, he offered aftercare each time.
She always rejected it. She was suspicious of any form of affection.
In the context of what they had; he felt the need to complete the cycle—from confessor to punisher to comforter to lover. He could wear all those hats if she let him.
But she didn’t want their ‘relationship’ to become more than it was.
She didn’t care who else he played with when she wasn’t here. She didn’t care if he had a harem of ‘lovers’ at his beck and call.
All she cared about? That he was available when she needed him.
Osagie didn’t let go. “No, you’re not okay. Thirty was more than you’ve ever taken before. You’re going to let me take care of you. Or this is the last time I do this with you.”
Turning her head, she looked at his face. His lips were stretched in a taut line. His eyes were blocks of glinting granite. He wasn’t going to negotiate this. If she didn’t allow him to take care of her, this would be the last time.
Narrowing her eyes, she flexed her arm, shaking him off. He let go but didn’t back away.
They glared at each other, both trying to assert dominance over the other and take control of the situation.
Locking her knees, she balled hands into fists. Her body became weak as the initial surge of adrenaline waned. She was using the last of it just to stand upright. Her pulse sped up, the beats whooshing as her anger rose.
“What the fuck, Osagie? This isn’t our deal,” she said through gritted teeth.
He crossed his arms over his chest and raised one dark eyebrow. “Our deal states that while we’re both in here, I’m in control and you do what I say.”
“Yes, but the rules also say I only do the things that are within my limits, damn it.”
His eyes turned cold and hard. “I was just trying to help you over to the bed so you could rest and I could apply some salve to your back. How is that beyond your limit?”
He was correct. She hadn’t explicitly named ‘aftercare’ in the hard limits. “But you’ve never insisted before.”
“Because you’ve never been this—” He paused as if searching for the right word. “—exhausted before.”
He said, “exhausted.”
But she heard, “weak, vulnerable, powerless.” Her spine stiffened, her chin rising.
“Blue,” she said, ending their session there and then with the simple safe word.
Something flickered in his gaze that she didn’t recognise. He nodded and stepped away, turning his back as he strode to where his navy-blue shirt hung over a chair. He slid his arms in, buttoned and tucked it in before facing her, hands shoved into the pockets of his black trousers.
“You know, one day, someone is going to strip control from you totally. You won’t be able to do anything without his permission.”
She suppressed the desire to laugh in derision at his words. To refute them. She should ask him why he hadn’t attempted to assert his authority over her.
If any man could’ve tried, it was him. He had enough men in this building to attempt to overpower her. He could try sedating her with drugs. He had the resources, and it wasn’t beyond him to do something like that.
But he hadn’t. So, what was the point of someone else trying? She would kill anyone who attempted to force her. She would never give up control for anyone.
“And, no, I’m not that man,” he said as if reading her mind. One corner of his lips curved up in a half-smile. But the look in his eyes was a mix of frustration and understanding. “Take care of yourself, Xandra.”
Without waiting for a response, he strode to the door.
“Osag—" her voice sounded shaky. Coughing, she cleared the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat. “Osagie, do I need to barricade the door when you leave? Do I need to have weapons ready when I walk out of the room?”
He jerked his head to the side so he could look her in the eyes. “Although our agreement is over, our truce still remains. You can visit Arufin anytime you want. My men won’t harm you in any way unless, of course, you’re trying to harm me.”
He smiled as he spoke, his meaning clear—If she ever threatened him or his business, he wouldn’t hesitate to order her execution.
“Thank you,” she said, feeling a little release of tension in her shoulders. She hadn’t been relegated to ‘rival’ status as it had been before.
He nodded, turned the lock and opened the door. Then he was gone, the slab of wood slamming behind him.
Her knees buckled, and she slumped to the hard, cold floor, head bowing from exhaustion. She stayed there for a few minutes and concentrated on gulping in air and regaining some equilibrium.
No matter how much she tried to shake it, a knot wound her belly tight about not seeing Osagie again in a personal capacity. They’d had a satisfactory arrangement. Not in a conventional sense. Still, it had worked. Why did he have to ask for something she couldn’t give him?
She dragged her body to a standing position and walked to the closet. Methodically, she put the clothes on and grimaced. Her back still burned from the cane lashes, aggravated when the cotton grazed the sore skin.
She puffed out a sigh. If Osagie had stayed, the session would have progressed to sex.
The last time, she’d been bent over the bed, him behind her, fucking her. Their moans and groans had filled the air along with the musky scent of sex and sweat, the sting of it on her sensitive skin intensifying the experience.
Her pussy clenched and she moaned, scrubbing a hand over her face. She could undress and pleasure herself with her hand or use the shower. But she didn’t want to stay here any longer than necessary, in case Osagie changed his mind about maintaining the truce.
Her phone buzzed as she tied the laces of her fancy sneakers. She pulled it out from the pocket of her tunic, entered the encryption code to unlock it.
There was a message from Zoe Himba: Zoe’s. 1 pm. Bring the parcel.
Xandra sent a reply: Got it.
Messages sent between them were encrypted to prevent anyone else intercepting them. Still, Zoe didn’t want anyone linking any of Xandra’s activities to Don Tiye Himba. So, they kept contact simple.
Checking the room one last time, she headed for the door. Her hand was hidden in the pocket of the tunic, covering the gun in case she had to use it. She would aim and shoot through the fabric if necessary.
She opened the door a crack, listened for sounds. Nothing. A peek into the hallway showed that it was empty. She walked to the lift. The ride down was without event. Music still thumped from the main club floor. The reception desk lay empty.
“Good night,” the guard at the exit said.
She nodded in response, exited the building and glanced at her watch, five minutes past three o’clock in the morning.
The partial moon was obstructed by a dark cloud, and most of the earlier revellers were either inside the club or had gone home. Stragglers remained in the streets, staggering drunkenly or chatting noisily with their friends. A few streets down, a car with steamed windows rocked in place.
Xandra could imagine the fun the people in there were having, reminding her of what she’d missed with Osagie tonight. The only regret of her life—she couldn’t have intimate relationships the way other people did.
Sighing, she strode to her car, checked it for any trackers or explosive devices and got inside. She left the window open on the drive home, grateful for the chilly air on her face chasing the tiredness away. Five hours later, she repeated the usual security routine before stripping, taking a shower and crawling into bed. She managed to set the alarm on the phone before sleeping.
***
Zoe’s was an African fusion restaurant in a neighbourhood of designer boutiques and tea shops. It had flower boxes of orange tulips, dark wooden tables and cushioned seats set up outside on the terrace overlooking the river.
Two of the foot soldiers, Vanni and Bruno, sat at a table, smoking cigarettes and playing a draughts board game. They acknowledged her in greetings and chatted briefly.
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Inside, Zoe met her with a warm, tight hug that lingered longer than it should. Zoe was the ‘handler’ or ‘intermediary’ for want of a better word. She negotiated the contracts with the clients, loaded them up onto the server.
“How are you doing, Xan? We don’t see you around anymore unless Papa summons you.” Smiling coquettishly, she batted her thick, black lashes.
Shrugging, Xandra extracted herself. “You know how it is. How are you doing?”
“Waiting for you to sweep me off my feet.” She winked.
Xan chuckled. “Abeg. Your father would use me for cooking pepper soup if I ever looked at you that way.”
Zoe had never hidden her attraction to Xandra, and they’d once shared a brief kiss.
However, while Xan desired the pleasures of a willing adult, she didn’t want the complications or the bad blood associated with a failed relationship with the daughter of her boss.
“Oh, come off it.” Zoe waved one hand in dismissal as she arranged the centrepieces on the tables, unnecessarily. “I can convince Papa that the two of us will make a formidable team.”
Zoe was the daughter of Don Himba and, at twenty-nine, one of his capos. When she’d left university with a law degree, her mother had wanted her to settle down and marry a nice young man. Instead, she’d gone to work for her father. Whoever married her would become the future Don. That was pretty much guaranteed. There were a few men who had their eyes on her, although she remained single.
“And you think the men would want a woman in charge of them?” Xan asked the obvious question.
If there was anyone in the Himba family that Xandra could trust, it would be her. But the other woman’s first loyalty was to her father and the business.
“If it were just you...” She shrugged. “But you and me? No one can touch us. Think about it.” She waved her hand towards the stairs and smiled. “Go on up. Papa is waiting.”
Xan returned the smile. “I’ll think about it. It’s good to see you again, Zoe.”
“Same here.”
