Twisted Times: Son of Man (Twisted Times Trilogy Book 1)

by Vincent de Paul

  The day came, and the hour hand struck the exact time of the party on schedule. People started to swarm in. The air of Blues and R&B was like that of an aria in a romantic chick flick.

  Carol Mwangi was thinking that she couldn’t really resist the cute guy from the Nashville University who had been flirting with her friend the whole time. What the hell was he doing here? He was supposed to be studying. She had seen him, actually met him – who wouldn’t have? In the media circles, that is. The vocal SANU leader was like a pharos in Nairobi, instant celebrity when he won the SANU elections with a whooping two thousand margin when he was in second year and had maintained it since then, the first one in the history of Nashville University to be elected in his second year and keep the post for three years. She had interviewed him, one-on-one. It was said that the SANU leader was charming, charismatic. Another Martin Luther King, Jr. in the making.

  Why not go ahead, it’s a flirt and dart party, NSA sex if anything is to happen past the flirting, right? Carol thought.

  It was past ten o’clock and nothing seemed to change. Actually, it was as though the party was just beginning. Carol was enjoying the SANU leader’s company, his charm, and jokes.

  Just when her friend left for the ladies did she make her move, but the guy dashed her hopes when he quipped, “I don’t like much of this. I’m done here. I should be going back to…” Urbanas said.

  “What are you afraid of? It’s not like I’m going to jump your bones,” she said smiling coquettishly.

  He liked her smile because he smiled back.

  Just that look baby… you are daring me to bring my best moves.

  Carol gave him a peck on the cheek. She wanted to kiss him on the mouth, though. Something was happening inside her. A confection of feelings. A tingle ran through her, a kind of an electric spark that almost electrocuted her. She had to hold onto something else to avoid collapsing in the arms of this young academic boy.

  She gave him the wink and signalled he follow her. She led to a semi-darkened hallway at the back of the club. She always avoided the paparazzi, but she did not care this time.

  They kissed in there, and it was so good as she’d have hoped, wanted it to be – sweet. The strange thing was that he did not try to cop a feel along. She was alright with that.

  “It’s kinda hot here. What do you think?”

  “Yeah,” he conceded. Everything was going like a dream. They kissed again, deeper this time. She felt him tremble against her and she wondered whether it was from cold or desire. She kinda knew what it was.

  “You are a pretty good kisser,” she told him.

  “You are a pretty good kisser yourself, actually the best I have ever had in my life,” he kidded. He had never had a woman in his life. The whoring cunt in Nakuru who had made him lose his career in the military was just pleasure – like everybody else was doing, to release training stress – and he never kissed prostitutes. So, he did not know how a good kiss was. Or maybe that was good for him.

  Carol was a go-getter, a celebrated bachelorette, the type of alpha female that women vogue mags idolized. Maybe she was more than that, a femme fatale. Her father wanted her to be a secretary – to be seduced and screwed, in all sense of the word, day in day out trying to make it in the corporate world, but she had told him to his face that she did not want it that way. She instead became what she wanted. A journalist, a national security journalist, a crime reporter, treading dangerous waters, daily putting her life on the line.

  Now, Carol felt she wanted something, somebody actually. She was going to take what she wanted – him.

  CHAPTER 58

  The Westlands road seemed almost deserted at this hour except for a few vehicles leaving Club Galileo. Carol’s spiced up BMW was one of them. Alicia Keys was on the DVD playing – Like you’ll Never See Me Again, then A Woman’s Worth. They arrived at her house without her knowing it. They couldn’t wait to get in the house, to the bedroom. They started kissing the minute she opened her front door. Did she lock it behind?

  The guy was taking his time. She liked it. She told him so. He had slow hands.

  At last they entered the bedroom. She couldn’t wait to have him inside her. She was already melting, dripping wet. She could feel the wetness dripping on her thighs. She was ready for him like crazy. What the hell was the guy waiting for? Couldn’t he see that she was achingly ready for him?

  Then it happened. He scooped her up as though she were a toddler and carried her to the bed. “Let’s play a game, baby. A nice game.”

  “Please…”

  He played with her body. He teased her. He tied her to the bed posts after undressing her with all bridled care of a man in love. God, the guy was the bomb. He was doing BDSM stuff she saw only on porn movies she watched in her privacy and fantasized about to her. She lay there in before him nude, aching for him, aching for something she had not had for long, aching for everything the body of a man could offer.

  But what’s he doing? I don’t like this now. I want him not a toy…

  What she saw plummeted her soaring temperature to below freezing point in a matter of seconds. Without a warning, all the wetness she had dried up. Whatever she was seeing was straight from a horror movie. Her date had a gun. She knew what a guns did.

  Then she knew what was going to happen in her mind. There was going to be no sex tonight, probably none ever. The day had come for her to kiss goodbye the good life. The thought did not even materialize before she plunged into the abysmal darkness. She was dead before she could even figure out that she was dead.

  “Go and write this in the papers in hell… national security reporter,” the killer said.

  CHAPTER 59

  Monday, 31st May;

  Urbanas entered his room panting. He had run six miles today. As he readied himself for the much needed shower, he heard the Easy FM’s breakfast show presenter babble something to do with the loss of dignity and respect for human life. That was the day’s morning discussion. Fans called primarily not to contribute to the heated discussion but to hear their testosterone and progesterone voices on the radio; then they would brag for days that they talked on the radio.

  He was getting his books when he heard it in the news headlines. I must wait and listen to the damn news.

  He glanced at his clean shaven face in the mirror. Yes! It was the look that everyone liked. He looked at himself without the disguises. Disguises made him look funny, look and feel like a mask.

  Lives that have been lost on my count are innocent, he observed sympathetically. His friends and he were just doing their job albeit an unorthodox one at that. He knew too well those whom they had killed should not have died anyway but he could not abet the police to arrest him and the law to fall on him like a ton of bricks when he knew too well the consequences of such an action.

  Urbanas listened to the news about the dead journalist found murdered in her Parklands’ apartment. The newscaster had an edged voice with a hush of hysteria which Urbanas was familiar with; such hysterical voices he had heard over and over as they reported events and news of national concern, national importance, and national security.

  The newscaster’s reportage was concluded with a message of condolences to the slain journalist’s family not only from Easy FM but the whole Nation Media Group.

  Urbanas tightened his paisley tie. His mind was crowded with the images of the journalist’s nude nubile body, her breasts the way they were full with anticipation, and the way the walls of her womanhood were dripping wet with desire. He understood who he really was – but he couldn’t just jump from his life to the horrible reality of what he ought to be.

  He did not want to think about it. Not today, not ever.

  CHAPTER 60

  I did not need to listen to the news further to know what had happened to the Imperial Media Services’ Moonbeam reporter, Carol Mwangi. Had I had the opportunity of warning her early in advance I would have.

  Before my abandoning the life of crime, I
had heard about her; she was becoming a pain in the butt of some businessmen, politicians, and government officials by her stinging reportage.

  Carol had carried out an undercover investigation on drug trafficking at the Coast and what she unearthed was live wire. She was behind the Mexican Drug Lords Thrive at the Coast exposé that had made headlines a few months before. It was Urbanas who told us. He had been called and told to watch her. Watching meant that he was on stake-out waiting for the right moment to strike, to kill. And now he had done it; I was cocksure it was he who had killed Carol Mwangi only that I could not stand and testify against him.

  It was said that Carol had contacts everywhere that fed him with information: security forces, criminal gangs, secret government spy agencies, private investigation agencies, and the general public. Being an investigative reporter is not a walk in the park. Now she was dead, because of her reportage. I remember she had won the coveted International Journalism Award and a Pulitzer the year before, making her the first African journalist to win such a prize.

  Rumour had it that she had been offered fifty million shillings to remain silent and disregard the Ksh.5 billion cocaine haul saga she had published in the Moonbeam and sister papers but she had turned down the offer. Stupid bitch! Someone should have advised her that common sense would take her places and going for the job instead of the fortune was the most foolish thing which she did.

  Everything about her was known. One of her informers had met his untimely demise a day before their scheduled meeting. The realization was almost paralysing to me. The contact was none other than Uncle Job. I did not want to think about it. I had better things to do. I wanted to study. It was no longer the good old days when I used to reap where I had not sown.

  When I joined Mavis my performance dropped drastically. Urbanas told me not to fret. Dramatically, I started being one of the best students ever in Nashville University. It was very simple – the best student, I mean the student who used to do better than others, was coerced to be giving me his papers to copy during exams and if he tried anything stupid he would just disappear. He had no option than to comply and of course he was automatically on the payroll.

  In year two, semester two, something unexpected happened. We, I mean I, were sold out. Somebody leaked the information to the Dean of studies and surveillance was put on us. On the third paper we were caught exchanging papers. It was a complete fiasco – the end of my being among the best students who could get first class honours; the scholarship was almost being withdrawn were it not for Urbanas.

  Urbanas came to my aid again. He gave me an idea that I was afraid of taking; but he kept on telling me to take the less travelled road.

  I had to do it... take the less travelled road.

  Professor Eleanor Kamau was not only irritated by my entering her office uninvited but she was also livid, furious. She was a no-nonsense woman in her late forties heading the AGBM department. She was well known as a loner for she stayed most of the time in her office doing nothing but reading financial magazines and publications. Other lecturers knew better than to invade her territoriality.

  When I entered her drudgery office and found her on her irksome leisure – she was reading Business Woman – she did not even conceal the rage but I cared not. She had not answered my knock and I had no otherwise than to go in uninvited.

  “How dare you walk into my office as though it were a lavatory? Get out of my office and do what...”

  “I’m sorry I can’t do that,” I said matter-of-factly.

  “I’ll call security.”

  “Go ahead.” We had already disconnected her office’s landline. Moreover, I was not me. I was some other light complexioned guy.

  “If you could please have a look madam...” I handed a khaki DL envelope to her. I watched her open it.

  It was what I expected.

  Her face turned sallow, colourless, and eyes bulged precariously as though they were about to pop out. She studied the contents of the envelope with her mouth in big O. When she was done I could see that she was dazed, confused and she demanded, no, needed an explanation.

  “We all know Dr. Alex. He is not your husband.”

  “So? What’s wrong with that? It’s my personal life.”

  “Your husband is Mr. Malcolm Kamau of Rehema Studios.”

  “What’s all this about…”

  “So, it means you’re having an affair with Alex behind your husband’s back.”

  “And...wh...What is wrong with that? It’s my life.”

  “I know it’s your life, but I think you well know what this can do to you; to both your marriage and career…”

  “Is he the one who hired you to spy on me?”

  “On the contrary, madam. What I wanted to tell you is that you will see this in every possible public place for people to see how immoral the make-believe Professor Eleanor is, the unfaithful bitch. But...”

  “But what?”

  “You can save the situation here, madam. It’s very simple. Pass me in my exams and...”

  She laughed derisively and said, “You want me, Professor Eleanor Kamau to pass you, a Pudden-head, in your exams or you blackmail me? Forget it. In fact, my marriage has been on the rocks and I have applied for divorce. I have been looking for something to give him reasons good enough to divorce me. Actually this would be enough substantial evidence for him to win the case against me if he can’t put up with an unfaithful bitch” she said. “And now, if you’d excuse, I have more important things to attend to. And, thanks Mr...”

  Time for plan B, I thought.

  I did not have anything to say – I was lost for words. It did not go as I hoped. It was time for plan B; and C if B failed.

  “I said leave my office or I’ll call security,” she blurted out.

  “Professor, you won’t see me leave this place unless you...”

  “I won’t see you leave? You want me to close my eyes. Enhe!”she removed her wire rimmed spectacles, put them on the table, closed her eyes and told me to leave then.

  Seething anger stabbed all through me. A thought struck me: my Berretta pistol was concealed somewhere in my waist. I did not want it to end this way. Let no emotions come in your way. Just do it. I did not even cock. I just pulled the trigger.

  “Go and divorce your husband in hell,” I said as I closed the door behind me.

  It was never known who killed Professor Eleanor. They said it was an outsider. The description of the guy who was seen entering and leaving Professor Eleanor’s office fit no one’s in the campus. The motive of her death was inconceivable for she had no enemies. Who wanted her dead was a mystery, and her murder has never been solved.

  The one who took up her office was more than co-operative. But that was then and this is now.

  CHAPTER 61

  Samson was a little dazed by the turn of events. The reality of what was happening seemed to paralyse him. This time round they almost got nabbed. He did not like how he was being forced to do some things, bad things – really bad things – by the circumstances, like the killing of that reporter.

  He thought of his life. To many who knew him he was the most successful businessman ever whose wealth was nothing but God’s blessings. Being a devout Catholic and a prudently devote member and propagator of justice in the Catholic office of Justice and Reconciliation Commissioners, a movement founded by one Bishop Joel Kamau the chairman of the Episcopal Conference of Kenya, to voice out the need for justice and reconciliation in the society had earned him unprecedented votes of confidence and trust. On top of that, his position in the Ministry of Gender and Culture as the Assistant PS granted him the necessary publicity. He was a well-known man of God and civil servant.

  I hate what I am, he said to himself.

  What am I? Nothing worth. He asked and answered his own question. He was nothing but scum, a terrible sinner, and a daredevil – a terrible excuse of a human being, Samson concluded for himself.

  He checked his wrist watch. It was
almost time.

  For him life was a game. Cat and Mouse. Hide and Seek. Win-lose or lose-win. The problem would be when he would be the mouse, the loser, the one to hide.

  This day there was a meeting he was attending.

  Ten minutes later the meeting was called to order by the chairman and they were reviewing their previous meeting’s minutes. There were no matters arising from the previous meeting’s minutes. They did not waste time.

  Agenda one was discussed, two, and then three. It was two hours later when the meeting was adjourned. They had come to the conclusion that they needed to be more careful in what they were doing. The PS for the Ministry of Finance and the Assistant Minister for the Ministry of Industry, both members, were to take the necessary steps to ensure that everything was according to plan.

  Once the meeting was over they entertained themselves, danced to the tune of samba and rumba played nonchalantly from the Chairman’s 300G Sony home theatre. They drained everything from his refrigerator, drank all the wine from his cellar, talked, laughed, others giggled naively as though they were coquettish school girls as the alcohol took toll on them, and cracked expensive jokes.

  The ancestors, the spirits of those who had gone before them, had accepted their sacrifice. The spirits were appeased and thus those living were to continue having bountiful harvests, happier lives.

  It was late in the night when their meeting ended, actually their flirt and dart party.

  CHAPTER 62

  When the meeting ended they went straight home. That’s what they were taught by their mothers – wives should be like that. They had been brought up well – with a sense of belonging and respect for the vocation of marriage and great honour and veneration for the housewife career.