THE HUSBAND FROM HELL.

By Brian Nzomo.

“In sickness and in health, for better for worse, till death do us part…” the words of that sacred vow reverberated in her mind.

“If you don’t leave this house, I shall kill You,” the threats by her husband interrupted the echoing vows that resounded in her memory like an ever looping vinyl album on the gramophone.

Here was Sylvia. Embrawled in a dilemma whose solution she hadn’t the slightest idea. Conflicted she was. For how was she to leave the man she had lived with for seven years? How was she going to raise her seven year old son without his presence? Who would save her from this conundrum of misery that now reared its grotesque head inside their once blissful affair?

“I’m tired Sylvia. I’m sick of you. The sight of you disgusts me. You make me wanna puke. You and that mango-headed son of yours whom I doubt even belongs to me,” her husband William roared last evening. He had refused to eat anything she prepared. And when she insisted he eats, he took offence and flared up with rancorous words meant to pierce her. Batter her soul even more.

“If there is anything I regret in life is marrying you. It was all a big mistake. And now darling, I want to repair my life and make amends to that mistake. Which is You!”

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she remembered the harsh accusations William gave last evening. How he accused her of entrapping him with another man’s pregnancy by luring him to get drunk and sleep with him eight years ago.

“If there is anything I regret in life is marrying you. It was all a big mistake. And now darling, I want to repair my life and make amends to that mistake. Which is You!”

“Look at him! Look!” William pointed at her helpless son slumping on the arm chair at the corner of the sitting room. Saliva dripping from his lips to his sweater. His lipid eyes settled upon the floor. “That abnormal piece of shit you gave birth to in the name of my son. There. See. Do you think, I, William the Timbuktu chief, William Wuod Ogola. The monsieur eleganté himself. L’Grande homme de Siayaville…Will sire that crap in my name?”
Her tears trolled down in more soresome streams. Her sobs becoming louder and intense.

Sylvia was positive that she had never slept with any man except William. How he denied fathering her son diagnosed since birth with Cerebral palsy stoked a sombre rage in her, one that none would ever assuage. William stood his ground. He wanted out.

Sylvia clenched on. Her son needed more care and support. She alone could not amass the much needed medical attention her dear Graham required. Since agreeing to William’s proposal of marriage, one that came as a result of guilt and necessity, she left her workplace as a teacher at a private primary school. William advised that he would need her to be a housewife once he married her. And she did. For she loved William with unquenchable passion, and was determined to see the relationship work.

Seven years down the line. A cold marriage buried in the frigid soils of indifference. William was trying everything he could to push her out. He knew a legal divorce would jeopardise his financial position and was careful not to consider it. He wanted her to get tired and leave at her own will. But Sylvia was as stubborn as a mule. The merciless poundings and beatings, the harsh treatment and his open adultery under his matrimonial home with not one or two…but numerous whores. But none could shake off the obstinate leech that was Sylvia.

Sylvia prayed. Hoped for a change. But nothing. god as always, never manifested. The ball was on her court. She would either leave penniless, or transform into a jezebel for her challenged child. She chose the second option. After months of torture and pain, her reflections staged her at the devil’s pulpit. For her baby…

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If William wanted her dead, she would claim his life first. The plans were already charted and registered. Now what remained, was the ball to be set rolling.

Sunday. She met with the manager of Apricot banking. Here she knew William had stashed millions acquired through embezzlement of funds from the company he was working for. The manager was at a dilemma. Here was Sylvia threatening her to either transfer those funds to her secret accounts, or blow up the whole story. For she had evidence which she could forward to the EACC, the Central bank and worse, the media. Apricot banking Ltd. was on the media spotlight over possible stashing of money meant for Cancer treatment. This novel explosion could spell further doom for them. What choice did he have? He did as commanded. And promised not to utter a word to William.

Monday. William came home and found Sylvia dressed in the shortest mini skirt he had ever seen. He inquired where she was going looking like a whore, Sylvia scoffed at him and continued applying her make-up.

“Where the hell are you going? At eleven pm,” William barked. Sylvia rebuffed, “My friends and I have an after-midnight party at Club Imperial. I can’t miss it…”
“And Graham?” William asked in annoyance. Sylvia smiled in contempt and gazed him from head to foot. “What do you care? He isn’t your son anyway…” William kept silent. He had no way of responding to that. Sylvia had owned him on that one…

“Can’t you have shame for once mwanamke,” William sat on the side of the bedan. “Its eleven pm. P.M. Sylvia. A married woman should not be out there whoring…”

“And who am I married to?” Sylvia asked again. William looked surprised. He did not expect his sweet wife would crop up such annoying resistance. No! Maybe he was dreaming. This was not Sylvia.

“Now listen to me!” His voice rose in rage, a fiery hue of threat in it. “Undress right now. And get back to bed. This…”

“Can you just shut up!” Sylvia rebuffed and stood up. “If you have the balls to stop me, do it! What kind of a man shouts like a mad rabid dog in the dead night because of his wife. Real men have their wives buried in exhaustion and tear after a tremendous bout of sex. Real men have their wives’ heads in their chests right now. And since you don’t even fall on the definition of a boy, I’m free as a woman to get out and party all night. Exhaust myself because you ARE A FAILED BUFFOON! Good night William. And fuck You!” Sylvia then left. The night was long. William slept alone in the ocean of his house. His son Graham was at an aunt’s place.

He was still in shock over that night’s valiant Sylvia.

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3pm. Three goons came in that night at William’s house. William was dead asleep. He couldn’t hear a thing. Ten minutes later, his breathing became hushed. He felt funny. Then his heartbeat slow and diminished. His body filled with perspiration. His movements immobile. Two minutes later…After a painful struggle in the curtain of end and life, it was over. William made his last gasp of air, as he died in silence. It was 3:15 am. The garbage truck wheels could be heard ramming across the estate’s tarmac. It had come to collect the week’s refuse.

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The burial was short and unlively. Sylvia wept the most and had proven inconsolable for two days. She dressed only in black robes and refused to eat.

The third day after the burial, the coroner’s report stated that William had died after a short interruption in his brain’s breathing response. Sylvia smiled. The gas had worked perfectly. And now, she had everything in her name. There was no will and she knew William’s brothers and sisters would try to snatch it from her. She had no time for legal battles. She heard they take decades to resolve.

She sold off the property and liquidated it before the tussles began. William’s brother Martin Owano had already began eyeing some of his late brother’s property. As well as Denis Onyiso. By the time they knew everything was sold off, Sylvia Atieno was on board an Aussie flight with her son Graham. Set off for Melbourne, Australia. For life…

Brian Nzomo is a Communications and media student at the Kenyatta university. He is also a writer who does poems, short stories and essays. You can contact him: bryonzoms505@gmail.com. or follow him via social networks. Facebook: Bryo de Pen.