Yes my ‘car’ is stuck in the mud and it’s not really a car like the ones the cool kids have. What is a car though, other than wheels and an engine unlike the flashy common “toys” other kids have
This is No “Toy” but my creation; My Design; not to be shared like some playground candy-bar.
No flesh to cover its wired nudity.
The man on t.v said to re-cycle so i’ll use the mill carton box to compliment this fine invention (later).
He hid the scissors.
He says at the rate i use them, i’ll end up correcting HIS mistake!
No matter, i know where he hid them; i followed him with stealth accrued over the years; he dropped them into the ‘SAFE’, where on telly thieves are always trying to break into; i empathize with them for my treasures, my wonderful creations lay hidden.
He calls them ‘Toys’; a disgusting word to describe something common not to be proud of. What my hands made are unique, and it wasn’t like he was going to buy me anything better any time soon.
He never did.
His argument, was that he was already doing enough fattening up a pig. ( I am yet to see this pig named constantly in my presence, I am Confused!)
Oh yes The Scissors!
He isn’t home yet, never is till that hour when he wakes me with a rain of blows as usual complaining of why i sleep like the fat pig instead of being vigilant to open the door when he comes home. He thanks his bottles that he had the brights to carry along a spare.
Yes let me go for the scissor now.
But i am halted on my breach to his room by commotion outside. My tiny little legs run at full speed like the ‘Flash’ on t.v.
I see one man snatching another’s phone and wallet. So violent, if only he asked for them politely he might have got what he wanted. He punches the ‘victim’ then cries out loud “Mwizi!”. Two more men crawl out of the darkness, they chant along “Mwizi!” “Mwizi!” .
The mob swells at an alarming rate and so do the blows on the ‘victim’,kicks are complimented to the scene and now dust rises in the air to even out the cries of pain and those of anger.
“Weka Tyre!”, someone bellows.
“Weka Tyre!” bellowed with a distinct slur.That familiar saliva riddled slur.
I look up, ‘Papa’ is back already, earlier than usual, i suspect his shark like instincts already snuffed out the scent of blood in the air and like batman signaled in Gotham, his skills are beckoned.
“Weka Tyre!” he screams hurling one into the eye of the mob.
“Please!” the man in the middle yelps, only for cries to be drowned by a multitude chorus of “Weka Tyre!”
I run to Papa, tug on his sleeves; they must know,its the wrong man.
His fiery eyes only fueled by his bottles, stare back at me rimmed by nothing but hate and contempt, resembling those of a rabid dog, always thirsty never to be quenched.
“Papa Stop!” in the midst of the crowd’s chorus it meekly resembles a whisper.
“Papa Sto…” my words get swallowed back whence they came as a constant ringing plagues my ears as my cheek feels like i have been stung countless times. This pain oh so very familiar.
Those massive hands never known to be of affection have yet again meted their duty.
“This is no place for the weak and lazy of your sort. Go back to your mother’s grave and play with your ‘Toys’,” he bellows out as the stench of his past-time washes over me spewing forth his menu of cheap liquor. “Be of use and get Papa a matchbox to send this thieving soul to hell, or i’ll light your bed on fire the minute i get home.”
There is no need to run and fetch, i can smell gasoline in the air as a can is upturned on the yelping man, and there is the faint sound of a match being fumbled to strike fire. The wind knows of this injustice and howls dim the match every time it comes ablaze.
I scream “Papa No, not him”, yet again i find myself on the ground this time belly throbbing of pain, he kicked me to the ground he says it is to be my new home.
Before i can gather my little legs to stand my body weight, the darkness is ripped apart by brazzen light and the most heart-wrenching scream to plague my ears even the ringing by the slap has ceased.
Between the mob’s centipede legs i see one set dancing around as the fire-light licks along to the same rhythm. The mob goes silent, leaving the shrill cry to take center stage.
The cry curdles my blood, more high pitched than the time Papa bludgeoned ‘Sticks’ my scrawny pup to death for chewing on his shoe. I glance around, the thieves have fled the scene having fueled this mob and let it raze on.
The mob stands by fixed and transfigured watching the fire and screams dimming down, hungry to let their eyes feast on this design carved by their own hands, along with the scent of salted burnt flesh that envelopes and chokes my nostrils, i smell guilt.
I walk back to the house, hands shaking devoid of speech or thought. The man was no more, could i have done more? should i have tried? would they have let me?
BUT! They are the Adults the ones who reason what is wrong and right, was this Right? It must be, like that time me and the neighborhood kids cornered a stray cat, tied its tail with a kerosene dipped handkerchief and set it on fire. But the cat never died, just ended up with a singed tail.
I stumble back in to the house and onto my bed where my teary eyes let loose their prisoner and sleep swayed me to sleep fading out that man’s eyes flooded with agony and pain.
“Yet again you sleep soundly, filthy mistake. You robbed me of my wife and now seek to rob me of the shelter to my own house, yet you knew i was outside.” His words individually emphasized with blows to my person.
And just as he came he slinks back to his den, where he will slumber as soon as his head hits the pillow. His blood-thirst quenched, that burnt man saved me most of the blows; i figure he is very tired, he put his only into that execution.
In the darkness, I contemplate my sorry state.
Is this what other children go through?
Is this how i am to live the rest of my years?
These thoughts answered only by the silence of the dark. No i must distract myself and come up with a new creation, but i need The scissors.
They are still in the ‘SAFE’.
“Go and get them” a voice reassuringly whispers.
I feel a surge of confidence and brevity uncommon of me, i sneak to His chambers.
His sleep is laden with liquor, of-course he wont hear me, but yet again imminent capture has consequences so i step wearily.
I stare down, in my hands i have the scissors yet i make no move to retreat.
“It must END!“
“It must end Today!” chimes the voice.
In his bedside drawers sits my other treasures accused of being ‘Toys’. My Creations insulted, the thought swells up rage in my chest. How can he take what is Mine to hide away and insult? How can he help kill an innocent man and not listen to me, only to sway to sleep without guilt? How can he not call me son instead of ‘Pig’ and ‘Mistake”?
I know what i must do, the fear in me is being replaced with excitement, i can feel my eyes dance with the flames of rage as His do.
I strike, with unknown precision and impulse at his throat, his jugular springs forth a fountain of blood, where his pathetic voice bellows out, where all those hurtful insults emanate. His eyes all bug-eyed wondering Why? What is happening? Slowly i figure he is coming to realization of the goings on or maybe he is just going into shock from the blood loss.
“Again! Be sure” whispers the voice
I strike again. This time he claws at me and tries to plug up his life essence spewing forth like an open sewer line My hands are warm and slick from his blood, my heart thumping excitedly enough to rip forth from my chest. I feel exhilaration like never before.
“Finish it!” the voice beckons.
Hands steady with renewed resolve, i strike again.
His hands fall limp and his last gasps for air are only drowned to disgusting gurgles as he drowns in his own blood. I stand rooted for what seems an eternity till the voice urges me on “It’s done, now we need to be quick”
“They will come for you“,
” But they cant send me to jail” i answered back defiantly
“There are jails for 10 year olds, THINK!“
“Help me!” i scream out
“Weka Tyre!” now more incessantly.
Yes i agree.
Its late at night, the hour in which my now gone Papa usually wakes me up. No witnesses, the mob already quenched of their weird thirst now asleep devoid of guilt and the over powering stench of the dead man.
Dragging Papa was not quite the task, i have done it countless times before when he is lying in a stupor of his own piss and into the house. Now limp as he is, his body almost feels light of his soul and life force. I drag him to the curled up body of the dead man, smoke still fuming around the corpse and rush back to the house not far away to grab our own jerrycan of kerosene and a spare tyre the neighborhood kids usually play with.
Standing over him, i stare into those cold open eyes, never again to be filled with rage and hate. I am awash with relief:
Never more to be awakened in the middle of the night with blows and kicks,
No more shall i cower in fear,
No more shall my creations be labeled ‘Toys’.
“He deserved it!” the voice cuts through with such clarity you would think someone was whispering int my ear.
I name him “RON“. Short and precise.
Ron whispers for me to hurry, we shall be arty no witnesses stumbling across us at this crucial jumper when success is at hand.
Dousing him with the entire can, i spark off the match and slither behind a building not too far though. This moment of freedom shall be savored for a bit longer. Ron concurs.
It is done!!