by Gus Leodas
“For you, dear Shaba, I will establish a committee to look into the solution. You can count on that.”
He smiled looking pleased with his reply.
She didn’t believe him.
Shaba had lost the moment to discuss the country’s affairs effectively, hoping another opportunity would arise, better prepared to defend and implement her causes. She deemed it nauseating that adults would wantonly allow children to starve, especially fat adults.
“I’d like a drink to toast your future, Mr. President. Shall we join the others outside?”
“As you wish.” He used practiced calisthenics to stand, mixed rum and Coke for her and a martini for him. He said, “Here’s to our country’s most beautiful representative.”
“Thank you for the best president ever.”
They clanged glasses then joined the others.
A couple danced. Kintubi and Janan returned holding hands. Shaba approached them and nudged Kintubi with an elbow. Kintubi received the message, released Janan’s hand and moved closer to Shaba. They sat near the pool.
Banter and camaraderie among the group continued for another hour, restrained with Shaba’s presence. Alcohol chipped away at the formal barrier. Busambi continued to focus on Shaba, his glances obvious as his drinking increased. Dance music continued and stimulated. One couple disappeared. Shaba kept Kintubi contained by her side. The surroundings felt awkward to her and to Kintubi, who looked restless.
He leaned over and whispered, “Must I sit here all night?”
“No.” She stood. “Dance with me.” The order provided an opportunity to glide and face away from Busambi’s eyes. Kintubi stood, reluctant. They danced.
Shaba asked, “You can’t wait to start humping, can you?”
“Your conservative posture is stifling.”
“Should I leave? Listen, if your beloved president doesn’t stop leering at me, I’m going to kick him in the balls.”
“You’re reading him wrong. If he likes you, it’s only looking. You do look beautiful, and he’s admiring you. He’s taken by you.”
Her right index finger made sarcastic circles. “Wooo-weeeee!”
“Don’t let it get to you.”
“Maybe I’d better leave and let the party really start.”
“Don’t go yet. You should dance with him at least once, as a courtesy.”
“I don’t care about him.”
“But I do. Why can’t you be friendlier?”
“You mean sociable and lovable? Do you realize if he ever lay on me, he would kill me? You’ll have to pick me up with a scraper.”
“Only sociable. I have no intentions demeaning you by suggesting anything else. He’ll never make an initiative to violate our marriage.”
“I believe you. If I’m holding up this pending sex orgy, I’ll leave.”
“Don’t, but you are stifling.”
“In an instant I’ll bid goodnight to all and vanish with a headache, which I have.”
When the dance finished, he held her there.
“Don’t go yet.”
“Why not?”
“It may appear rude for you to leave early.”
“I can’t help it if I have a headache.”
“Act civil and smile. Busambi is watching us.”
“Welcome to the club. Have one of the girls cool him off when I leave. He’ll soon forget me.”
Busambi approached them. Shaba sensed he wanted to dance and quickly reacted to cut him off.
“Mr. President, I have to leave, a terrible headache. Would you please excuse me? I’ll be back later, after I take aspirin.”
“I hoped we would dance.” He grabbed her hand. “One dance.”
Shaba smiled to avoid rejecting him in front of the others.
“Mr. President, you’re irresistible. Do you have a favorite dance?”
“Something easy.”
“Kintubi put on slow music.”
Kintubi reacted afraid Shaba would change her mind. Busambi held her as close as his stomach allowed. Surprisingly, he danced light on his feet, graceful. His right hand slid up and down her back. The dance progressed in silence.
“You’re a good dancer, Mr. President.” It came out; something to break the quiet before the music ended.
“I should dance more. How’s your headache?”
“Better but still there. Forgive me if I leave. I should feel better after the aspirin.” The music ended. “Thank you for asking me to dance. I’m honored. I’ll return soon.”
Shaba left before he could offer what she considered his saccharin compliments.
He called after her.
“Feel better. It’s early. We’ll be here.”
She walked slowly as if in pain to add to her act and continued up the stair. She exhaled relief after she closed her bedroom door, escaping an awkward scenario.
The few drinks plus inhalation of second hand cigarette smoke added to her headache in the bedroom. She undressed, showered, swallowed two aspirin and lay nude in bed. Staring in the mirror, her mind scolded her poor effort in pursuing her causes with vigor and a better debate. Next time, she would make a persistent and emphatic presentation hoping to budge Busambi’s immovable mentality.
The aspirin worked; headache receded, giving way to drowsiness.
Shaba confirmed changing to a hotel. The party scene proved uncomfortable. Group hooking up had no place in her new life. She had no intention having sex with anyone except Kintubi and his head roamed elsewhere. No. This lifestyle had no place in her present life or in the future.
She shivered at the future thought of Busambi touching and making love to her. Tonight he may have become more outspoken and brazen as the evening wore on. She escaped on time, happy that her evening with Busambi ended.
Shaba wondered about Kintubi’s reaction if she offended Busambi. To hell with Busambi, her scruples were more important.
The tide of drowsiness came stronger making her lethargic to turn out the light. Shaba floated with the flow and slept.
The abrupt awakening startled her!
Frightening!
He pounced on her, his mouth wetting her neck and face, smelling of liquor, his breathing in panic.
Shaba screamed.
A hand muffled her mouth as she desperately flayed her arms to strike as hard as possible, fighting to close and cross her legs. His knees kept them open.
Shaba rolled, turned, squirmed without success and then tried to scream again. He wrenched her legs apart. Her mouth freed. She screamed then bit his shoulder fighting for her life. He growled from pain then struck her across the face. He breathed harder, his struggle creating a heavier breath. Her legs forced wider.
All her energy and strength failed to prevent his forced entry as he held her helpless arms down. He breathed louder as he rushed to finish his assault. When he did, a groan grappled with his breathing and his weight collapsed on her assaulted and conquered body.
Shaba, horrified, in pain, defeated, crushed, and victimized said nothing.
Neither did President Busambi.
He rolled over, his breathing difficult and desperate. The crushing weight lifted off her. He lay next to her staring into the mirror, unseeing. His laborious breathing fought to fill the lungs, to quiet his racing heart.
Shaba hurt. She left for the bathroom, a trickle of semen crawling down her thigh, her mind too numb to feel it. She locked the door behind her. Crying in anguish and pain, she repulsively cleansed herself.
Then she had a long remorseful hot bath. Her anguish tasted alien: hate, contempt, murder, and a cry for revenge wrenching her blood to race in violence and the need to pacify it by beating and beating and crushing him to death.
Nothing could change what happened. Raped. Whom could she tell? Kintubi? He’d do nothing. She chastised herself for going to the party, for coming back, for being helpless, and subjected to humility and abuse.
Her body raged for thirty minutes in the bathroom demanding retaliation
. Confused, she confirmed the definite resolve – It will never happen again.
Shaba opened the medicine chest looking for a weapon and found the toenail scissors – small, but a weapon.
Her thinking changed.
What if I’m caught? Justifiable self-defense will be the reason.
Killing him would topple his Administration. The Congo’s problems may begin to disappear: civil war, poverty, hunger and starvation, human rights.
Shaba held the scissors several ways to decide on the best method of holding them securely to make an effective weapon. She held them in the normal manner and snipped several times at air then felt the tips, sharp.
Shaba wrapped a blue bath towel around her body, opened the door, and peeked out. He slept, his snoring confirming. She grasped the scissors tight and inched the door open then wide. Walking on tiptoes, she approached the bed, scissors ready to strike.
Then she remembered the room’s door. It must be unlocked since he came in. She locked the door, the house deathly quiet, as shadows. She had locked the door before going to bed. How did he get in? Did she forget to turn the lock? What time was it? Two in the morning.
Shaba returned to the bed and stood over him determined, adrenalin racing. At that moment, he was the vile, contemptible, and grotesque object in her life, a despicable life form. She spit in his face with wild abandon. The saliva stirred him as it dripped down his right cheek. Then he settled.
She grasped the scissors and her thoughts firmly.
The throat. Rip out the throat. Open the scissors. Good. Find the jugular vein. There. Now push. Wait! What if he awakens? Maybe the scissors are the wrong weapon. They’re small and his neck is thick. Get the gun, Kintubi’s gun. I saw it the other day in the closet. Go and get the gun. That’s failsafe.
Shaba withdrew the scissors, hurried to the closet, yanked the gun from the holster, and checked for bullets. All chambers were loaded. She returned to Busambi cursing him under her breathe.
By the forehead first, then I’ll shoot his penis. Blow his brains out. You need to kill him more than once. Now you’re in position. Squeeze the trigger. Slowly. Squeeze the trigger. Kill him. He raped you. This is no time to cry. Stop shaking. Keep your hands steady. Pull the trigger!
Shaba’s body shook as her hands, wrapped around the gun, trembled.
Her finger refused to obey.
Its treason forced her to abandon the idea as her body cried and collapsed in frustration.
Shaba sat on the floor and cried grieving at her inability to kill, damning this weakness for the second time.
Her sobs competed with another sound, his snoring. Shaba wailed in her failure although this time for her country and her two children, for the poor and hungry – grand causes demanding sacrifice and courage.
Make the sacrifice.
Feeling beaten and whipped, she stood disconsolate, removed, and threw her towel over Busambi’s body to avoid looking at it and then returned the scissors to the bathroom and the gun to the closet. She donned a nightgown, approached the window, leaned against the frame, and stared into night.
The area around the patio nearest the pool retained some wetness. An empty vodka bottle perched on the diving board. A dress lay crumpled near the pool, the patio a mess of towels, disheveled chairs, and lounges while the insistent chatter from night insects played on as the full moon cast a golden reflection across the pool.
What time was it? She returned to the night table for the watch avoiding looking at Busambi – two-twenty.
She placed the watch on her wrist then picked up the Achilles Heart from the night table, massaged it in deep thought, put it on, and then leaned against the window, searching for a solution.
Hostile thoughts kept her awake until four o’clock. The Achilles Heart: this is the symbol of my strength for the cause of humanity – within my capabilities.
For the cause of humanity, I have failed.
Sleep demanded an audience.
She curled up in a soft chair and slept.
Daylight came peaceful ignorant of the night’s violence.
Shaba awakened with alarm from the uncomfortable position at seven o’clock. Busambi snored. She entered the bathroom, closed the door, and brushed her teeth looking older from ugly thoughts as she gazed into the mirror. The gaze turned to a vacant stare unconscious of the image. The stare elongated.
Shaba had to try again, refusing to accept weakness and failure. She crept to the closet for the gun then returned. Her hand never shook this time as she brought it to inches from his forehead.
May God forgive me.
The hand and finger paralyzed.
Tears developed and she wept. She couldn’t kill. All the rage and violence within her were cowards, traitors. She retreated to the closet, returned the gun then retreated to the bathroom. She looked at herself pathetically in the mirror, accepting disappointment.
She sat at the edge of the bathtub and mourned.
Then the perfect idea flashed, surprising her – shocking that she could think it possible considering such an idea contrary to an earlier resolve.
Her idea turned into a battle plan against the enemy.
Violence violated the Achilles Heart philosophy, making her feel better.
Shaba massaged the Achilles Heart…and her idea. Intriguing. The thought made her grin, then a wide smile instilling life into her life again, purpose, and a mission.
What was the other part of the Achilles Heart oath? – For the cause of humanity – within our capabilities.
Within our capabilities.
She would make the effort with no guarantee of success. To walk away a rape victim was cowardly, determined to exact personal retribution although by an unusual strategy…very unusual.
Shaba returned to the bedroom, sat in a chair, and waited for Busambi to wake up. At eight, he stirred and eyes opened. The unfamiliar surroundings disoriented him. Then he saw Shaba staring at him.
He stood weary. Groaning, and clumsy, wiped away the saliva unsure of the liquid, and held his aching head. He weaved to the bathroom with his jiggling layers of fat. Shaba could hear his bladder empty swooshing the water with an enormous capacity, then minor trickles. She heard his gargle. Then his body saturated the doorway looking disgraceful as a sex symbol, about to speak to Shaba then changed his mind. He waddled to the bed, sat at the edge, and with excessive effort and moans slid into his socks. Then he put on his shorts and approached Shaba.
“I apologize. I’m sorry. Had much to drink and too much you on my mind.”
Shaba stayed unflinching, he uncomfortable. She approached him, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed his mouth.
Her offensive crossed the start line.
“You hurt me that way. I didn’t know it was you at first.”
A surprised Busambi kissed her in return. She clasped his hands and placed them on her breasts.
“Do you have to go?” she whispered.
“Not for a time.”
“Good. Let’s get back to bed. I love your passion for violent loving. Something my husband was never able to do. Do it the same way…except this time, I’ll be ready for you. Okay? And no hitting, no biting.”
They did it again. His weight crushed and agonized as she whispered, “Harder. Harder. Faster. Faster.”
He gasped, losing breath. Breathing grew difficult in his determination to please her as he continued his labored rhythm. The cymbals in his head ended the symphony.
He sweated, gained control, and settled. Shaba watched his out of shape, overweight, heaving body struggle as she willed his heart to stop. When his lungs normalized, she leaned over, and kissed him.
“Wasn’t that much better and unselfish?”
“Been a long time since I loved anyone this hard.”
“Please don’t tell Kintubi we made love.”
“I won’t.”
“Let’s have a private affair. Can I meet you elsewhere? And since I’m still married, I need discretion.”
/>
“How about my place?”
“Is it private?”
“I am guarded constantly, but the guards never know what goes on inside my private chambers. There will be fine.”
“How do I get past the guards?”
“Come to the South Gate.”
“When shall I come?”
“How about Saturday.”
“I don’t want to wait that long. How about tonight?”
“Tonight?” He shrugged proud of the impact he made as a lover. “Tonight it is.”
“Good. I have little time here, as you know, and now that I found a physical lover, I want to take advantage. You don’t mind if I get selfish?”
Busambi smiled victorious. “I will anxiously await you this evening.”
She kissed him again. “Do you have time to do it again, now?”
“I’m worn out and have a busy day planned. I’ll be all energy and love for you tonight.”
“I’m excited already. Get plenty of rest.”
He dressed, kissed her, and left with a conquest grin painted wide across his face.
Shaba stared in the ceiling mirror, firm in her mission. Then she strode to the bathroom, and cleansed Busambi from her body with as much repulsion as before.
Kintubi climbed the winding staircase to the second floor with disbelief and ponderous steps. Janan had to be wrong. What she told him was impossible, ludicrous. There had to be a logical innocent reason why Busambi came from Shaba’s bedroom. When Janan mentioned seeing Busambi leaving the room, Kintubi sickened, appalled Shaba could be intimate with him.
The prospect forced Kintubi to sit when he asked Janan where Busambi slept. Janan had no idea. Janan checked the girls out at the pool. None spent the night with Busambi.
“Then where did he sleep?” asked a panicked Kintubi. Janan shrugged. Kintubi had to know needing to ask Shaba, positive Shaba would never act to spite him for rejecting their marriage, or be vindictive. Was he coldhearted and cruel to request a divorce? Was she spiteful? Did she change in that regard in America? She wanted to shoot him, pointing the gun to his head when first married. Were latent feelings surfacing, sleeping with Busambi her method for a vendetta?