Patrick Munyata Photography

365 Days of Activism; Rose’s Story.

This is her tenth interview. You can tell by the tired look on her face. There is no excitement. Only a tiny flicker of hope dances in her eyes. It is as if she already knows what will happen in the interview room even before she steps in the fancy glass room across the hall. She has been here before. Nine times before. She shifts uneasily, rubbing her rear against the farting leather seats. She must not sweat on the borrowed blouse she wears, that was the deal she made with the second hand trader in her neighbourhood. Her dying phone has been vibrating for minutes now, it must be her mother sending her one of those encouraging bible verses. Mama should stop insisting on Jesus, he left a long time ago. She reaches for her ankle, the crooked black heels are killing her. She had to walk all the way from home on her worn bow shaped heels. Her only pair, for now.

She is not alone in the waiting room. Three ladies sit next to her, there is an anxious gentleman who rubs his form against the wall like a cat on a tree. Staring at her competition she resigns to fate. She could have worn her worn push up bra. The one that shifts her breasts all the way to the neck just like the girls next to her. She was supposed to wear her little black dress – the one that abruptly grinds to a halt at the tip of her vagina –had her mama not set the skirt ablaze. She hates her mama and her cowardly ways incited by Jesus. She should have carried her red lipstick just in case she was needed to smile better. Last time, she almost got the job but her cracked lips could not be allowed to suck the manager’s wrinkled penis sticking out of his zipper. She should have borrowed that deathly perfume from her best friend. The kind of perfume that intoxicates a room, suffocating everyone in it. She is dressed in an oversize once white blouse, some unsure black skirt crying out for help and black heels about to give in -and up. Her best wardrobe. She has, stuck on her head a polite weave that had to be begged to fall into place-for hours. She has attempted class by hanging on her neck, chipped pearls. Her lips are wet from plastering saliva with her tongue after every two minutes. In her sack, lays an envelope containing her academic papers. She holds a degree from a local university, Second class upper division in Business Administration.

She sings in the church choir. She cooks for Sunday school children to pay off her debt. The church paid her university tuition, she has to give back. On her graduation party, the pastor cornered behind the tank. He grabbed her virgin breasts and ate her lips. She was sure she heard something nasty poke her thighs. She was saved by an old woman passing by. She fought with her mother when she insisted on quitting the church, she did not want to go back there. The devil camped there. Her mother slapped her and yelled – you will go back there and serve Jesus! She went back, the pastor repented for her stubborn ways. She fought him off- again and again. One day, auctioneers pounced on their shack. Mama had gone to bed with a Shylock, there was no money to pay back the loan. Mama run to pastor to save her only property. Pastor prayed for revelation, He promised to offset the loan.

The story is told of how Pastor had his cake and ate it. Sited in his office, he lay on the table two envelopes; one with a neat bundle of cash in favor of mama, the other with a shinny Compact Disc marked ‘pussy penetration volume 1’. She had three seconds to make up her mind. Her life- her body- her mother- her siblings – her home – her body – her life- her mother – her future- her mother…

Pastor hated virgins, too much hard work with no results. He told her- go home and watch the ‘movie’ learn how to turn and twist, learn how to mourn like the brunette with a tattoo on her naval and shave your vagina, I like my chicken plucked. He continued- if you want your money you will meet me tomorrow in my office, do not wear underwear. She went home and cried silently. Pastor’s dick was not part of the plan. She wanted to get a job, marry a nice man and lose her virginity on her wedding night in some comfy hotel bed. That was the plan.

She watched the movie in her friend’s house. Her friend had quit school. She now made money from sliding up and down on metallic and fleshy poles. Her friend did not seem to mind the show. She did not flinch when the man on TV gagged the nude mourning brunette whose puffed breasts run in all directions. Pastor had an over active imagination. He wanted her to part her legs just as wide as the pale girl on TV. She had never patted her legs like that, not even when crossing the river.

The next day, the sun found her awake, itching her privates. Her friend had prevailed upon her to shave her ‘enchanted forest’ using an old razor and foam induced from a tiny bar soap. Her thighs were sour from legs apart practice tutored by mourning instructors on Pastor’s movie collection. Mama’s porridge was cold and sour. The journey to the church took forever. She felt like a sacrificial lamp. She shook with rage and fear. Perhaps if her dad had stayed to fight for her…

You can see the pastor’s glee. I know you see it. You see him welcome her to the office. You see him lock the door. You see him stare at her ripe buttocks. You see him part his penis as He tells her- you made the right choice. You see her lost in a whirlwind of thought. Her see her thoughts sing to her – you do not have to – you are better –worthy – do not let this bastard take away your soul. You see her eyes suddenly sparkle. You see her lips quiver. She is saying something. You are struggling to make out her words. I hear what she is saying – I want to leave- I do not want to do this- we do not need your help. That is what she is saying. Do you see the pastor change to a bright shade of anger? Do you see him corner her? Do you feel his slaps linger warm on your cheeks? Do you feel your breathe run out as she strangles her? Do you fall of your seat when pastor throws her on his desk? Do you feel the urge to plant your nails on your favorite sofa set as she fights him off with all she has? Are your thighs tightly shut as her runs his brutal hands between her thighs in search of her vagina? I know you do!

I command you not to shut your eyes. Do not cover your ears. Hear all evil see all evil. Listen to her muffled wail as he enters her. Listen to his growl as he plunges past her hymen to her sacred depths- again and again. Listen. There is a pocket knife on the table. She has seen the pocket knife. Pastor is too busy thrusting to notice the knife. We are all rooting for her –reach for the knife- stab the bastard. She stretches her numb hand to reach for the knife. He is heavy on top of her restricting much movement. She is trying to move, really she is. Almost there, almost there, one little push and you she has the knife… In a feat of stolen pleasure he grabs her hands and flips her like Indian dough, her breasts pinned against the good news bible, his hands on her mouth, she bites her lips to wade off sudden pain stemming from her back. What is he doing to her. Ten minutes later and a series of Vagina pounding Pastor Slumps on the seat after wailing –Oh jesus, oh jesus as he splashed his seed all over her back.
She is stuck on the table. She feels dead. She does not mind dying. She does not cry anymore.

“Can we have Virginia Proceed to the interview room” screeches the young girl with the fake British accent standing at the reception desk.

The ‘big boobs’ girl next to her stands and adjusts her padded breasts before proceeding to sashay her not so fine self to the interview room.

She reaches for bag and pulls out the envelope which holds all her academic papers. She flips through them one by one. Newspaper articles falls out. She picks them and smiles at the headlines ‘Search continues for missing pastor, Serial killer on the loose’. She stares blank at the articles. She raises her head to fight back a ball of tears threatening to roll. It has been seven months now since the pastor mysteriously disappeared. It has been eight months since that fateful day in pastor’s office. The article assures that the police are following crucial leads after discovering a box full of pornographic materials in his office. Her Mama has not stopped fasting for pastor. Her Mama believes the devil is to blame for all the accusations reveled against pastor. Mama believes Pastor will come back. There other articles warn of a serial killer found of stabbing the victims and chopping off their private parts using a pocket knife. The article notes with concern that all the nine victims were well established business managers in their respective fields…

Resting her head, safely clutching her papers on her chest she knows Pastor will never come back. Pastor- wherever he is- is decorated by a million wounds inflicted by a sharp pocket knife on one Sunday evening at the altar. His eyes are gouged out. His penis was a delicacy to some emaciated stray dog. If only her mama would stop drinking water from the church well, If only she stopped drinking Pastor’s remains.

“Can we have Rose proceed to the interview room” the fake British starts

She organizes her papers and stands to walk to the interview room. Her bag suddenly falls splashing all its content. She drops on her knees and picks everything up- a bottle of water – a pen – a notebook- one identity card- a roll of tissue- a Cadbury chocolate wrapper and a silver pocket knife. No one notices the silver pocket knife.

James Munyeria Photography



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