THE CREATURE ON MY CANVAS

By B.N Wendo

It has been over an year now. And there is still that horrid memory lingering in my mind. It never goes away. It never dissipates. I have moved from that town. And discarded the ardor for my craft. Reinvented my life. Booked therapy sessions. But the memory still won’t go away. And it’s haunting.

I was a painter. Always been since I was ten. And everyone when I was a young child commended me for my paintings. Well not everyone. My father was a grim man who perceived all art as nonsense. And my mother, though not upfront about her disapproval of my ambition, sought out to lure my heart away from that trade. But I was indefatigable in my quest. A painter I will be.

But when I grew up, reality slapped hard. Being a painter in a third world African country where everyone’s ambition lies in owning real, tangible investment, is not easy. I did many paintings. Landscapes, portraits, nude paintings, abstract paintings, nature paintings, cubist. Many. Some were contracted ones, other done out of own volition. I loved those I painted myself. But these drew me gallons of disappointment. They never impressed anyone. I did not know why. Even after explaining to a potential client in detail, about the mystical inspiration behind that ‘weird’ painting; they never saw the point and regarded it as a waste of brush.

To be honest, I grew livid. My trade was not fulfilling enough. Sometimes, I got pretty good gigs. Painting walls and portraits of vainglorious rich people was not my taste. I fared well in it. I wanted to fail in it. I wished I could one day botch the painting mistakenly and create an indelible mess. Make the contractor furious. Determined to never call me again. That would be enough justification to quit this line. And so I became careless. I did not pay seriousness to what I was doing. Took no attention to detail. Hoping the entire thing would flop. And after I was done, I would wipe away sweat on the fringes of my brows, and smile with satisfaction. The painting to my eye was clownish. Like a kid’s playbook. But it was always a miracle that once the contractor gazed at the painting, they would wither in excitement and claim they loved it. I searched their faces for a tinge of exaggeration, or even sarcasm, ludicrously wondering how was it possible. Or maybe their tastes in art were incredibly poor that they would be enamored by this joke! But I am no arbiter of individual tastes. And the more I fared on in this contract painting, the more I became despaired. Why does God consign me to succeed in something I hate so much? I wondered for days. And more phone calls, referrals, tips. All unpalatable to my desires. Streamed in. Other less popular painters envied me. Oblivious of my lack of zeal in this endeavor.

I looked at my friends in the same trade who had art galleries in Nairobi, Kisumu, and Nakuru. Those are the kind of painters I admired. They sat down on hazy evenings, drank coffee, and before a blank canvas, splashed all that was mingled in their brains. Anything. Nothing was sacred. Nothing was alienable. The beauty of it all. Popular art critics with an eye for aesthetic judged it not by moral sentiment. No one ever told them,

“I don’t know maan! But this painting looks kinda weird. Can’t you draw something like a petite black African woman in traditional wear, exposing intricate curves and supple skin, don’t forget those gargantuan gazoongas with a peeking nipple that is insanely erect.”

Mugambi was among these envied friends. He was a prominent nudist. But his paintings were cringeworthy. I did not hate him though. And I never told him this overtly. He always assumed a superior aura around me. His tone admonishing, disapproving, denigrating. Yet he needed me in that friendship. As one to approve and nod to his hubris. One to affirm his insecure greatness.

One day, he called me and asked me to bring some of my paintings to his art gallery in Hurlinghum because there was an art fair there. I was overjoyed. He had never thought my paintings were at par with his potential clientele. He was a snobbish rich kid. And his influence among the Nairobi urban literati and expatriate population was staked up by his network of former classmates from Hillcrest. And his father ardently supported his sham career. Including opening up for him three art galleries in Village market, Hurlinghum and Sarit center.

The memories of that fateful evening bring a bitter taste in my mouth. Mugambi did not ask me there because he was genuinely interested in showcasing a friend’s artworks. He wanted to embarrass me in front of his fellow brats. I carried two of my paintings. These I had drawn from the heart. In seclusion. In the magical enchantment of solitude. Surreal. I could not help but shed a tear at the allure of its elements.

At the art gallery, groups of men and women sipping wine in slender glasses flocked around paintings hung on walls. Discussing some that did not need discussing. I smiled at these vain attempts to draw sophisticated meaning from Mugambi’s delusional talent. He was conversing with a white gentleman when he saw me standing at the doorway, unsure of what to do.

“Oh! There is a friend of mine! Come over here!”

I walked over to where he was standing. My painting was latched on the wall behind the white guy. He looked fifty-ish. But whites age faster, I thought. He would be seventy if he was black. I chuckled in my mind. At the thought of being racially prejudiced. Mugambi introduced me to him. But I swallowed hard when he said I was an amateur artist.

“And this is Mr. Peter Alesworth. He was particularly interested in your painting!” He said in a manner denoting irony.

“Oh really!” Mr. Alesworth’s eyes flamed with fascination. He was undoubtedly swooned by the painting of something that looked like a giant fish with three humanoid faces that assumed three emotions. Trepidation, delirium, and ire.

“Mind giving me a brief description on this remarkable piece of art?” He asked me. And I was more than willing to do so. I had been waiting for such a moment my entire life. Nobody ever asked me about the inspirations underlying my works. Painting to them was just that. A purposeless pursuit for avant-garde aesthetic.

“Well…I was dazed by…”

“Come on, Wambua!” Mugambi condescendingly interjected. “You of all people know there is nothing intrinsic or complex about this painting. Just a fish with human faces denoting fear, anger, and excitement.”

“Well. That is just a tip of the iceberg!” I said, almost explosively. Mugambi definitely noticed this and became red himself. But he maintained his composure.

“All delusional,” he told Mr. Alesworth who stood like an emotionless effigy between us. “I have just told Mr. Alesworth here that you have a penchant for describing things that only exist, sadly, in your mind.”

Mr. Alesworth noticed the fiery reprehension in his voice and decided to excuse himself. When he was metres away, Mugambi whispered to me, “I call the shots here. What was that you were trying to do?”

“Nothing worthy of this denigration!” I said loudly. The whole room cued into silence and gazed at our direction. Mugambi was done. He ordered me to pack up my lacklustre artworks and leave immediately. I was too livid to care. And I did so. Glaring at the murmuring clientele with venom. F**k them. And f**k Mugambi too.

I went home that night drunk. Very drunk. Perhaps more drunk than I have ever been. But even more bitter. I cursed Mugambi all the way, staggering to my rented bedsitter. I cursed the day he was born. And prayed fervently that he would never gather the strenght to hold a brush ever again. I wished he would be mangled by that beast that devoured haughty rich kids. Drugs. Let him snort coke. Overdose. And die a rather painful death. Slow. Sensual. Gnawing bone by bone.

I don’t know what came to my mind when I sat in front of a blank canvas. It was dark for I had not flipped on the switch. And my eyeballs danced like gypsies under the moonlight. I found myself, however, dipping my brush into a palette. I did not even know what color it was. Or maybe it was even the water plate. I was sleepy. But there was a being etched in my mind. It was fascinating and terrifying at the same time. I tirelessly painted something I knew not of. How I slumped to sleep that night remains a mystery. But the being was no longer in my mind. My mind became dark. And dark it was till morning.

That morning, I had a splitting headache and I felt sick. The room was dank and the curtains were still drawn close. I walked to the kitchen sink and drank three glasses of water. I then plodded to the curtains and part them open to let light in. When I turned, my skin crawled. The canvas beside my bed. There was a creature there. “Am I the one who has drawn this?”

It was in black. I had not used any other colours. It caught my eyes truly, but I did not understand what had compelled me to paint it.

“What is this?” I asked myself. “It surely looks like a demon?”

But I was among the few faithfuls who thought demons were beautiful. And not chilling as mythical stories portrayed them to be. I searched my mind for a clue. Where in my lifetime had I conjured such a painting? It was indescribable. Alluring but indescribable. It had a pair of antlers on its head that resembled those a deer’s. Spikes on its upper back. And dark hollow eyes with a gleam on them. Face swarmed with darkness. Like death. And the chest. What was peculiar about it. The jutting ribs? It was so confusing.

Someone knocked my door. It was Mugambi. Apparently, he came over to apologize. And ask me back to his gallery. Mr. Alesworth was pestering him. And Mugambi conceded to the fact that I was invaluable after all. But when he gazed on my ‘demon’ painting, he was unable to conceal his elation.

“What thaa …” He began. “Hey dude! Why didn’t you bring this along with you?”

“Well I painted it last night. Drunk and inebriated.”

“Wow!” He surveyed the details. It was too mesmerizing.

“So, you coming?” He asked.

“Maybe!”

“Come on. This could be a chance to break into these spheres”

I nodded. But Mugambi did not care about my success in painting. If anything, he was antagonistic to that prospect.

“Okay. I am off to get some canvas. Come at two. Village Market. You know the place. And make sure you bring along this one. What is it called?”

“Haven’t named it yet!”

“Please do. If anything, this could land a client today!”

“I am not sure I want to sell it though?”

“What!” He chuckled. “Do you just paint to make yourself feel good?”

“No, but I also need more time to evaluate it.”

“Don’t be silly. There is nothing to evaluate here. Just bring the painting. And the other one. The fish one. Alesworth wants it so baad!”

With that, he left my house in a hurry. I was still undecided about bringing the ‘demon’ painting. I did not know what it was. And what inspired it. And that scared me. I searched the internet for a look-alike. Nothing. Not even anime.

I decided it was useless to fret over a painting. And the best way to discard it was to sell it as per Mugambi’s suggestion. At the Village Market, the expatriate clientele was even higher. Mugambi saw me with two draped paintings. He was speaking to Mr. Alesworth and another woman, much younger. Forty-ish. With short hazel hair.

“Aah! You came,” Mugambi began in a false courtesy. “I thought you were still mad at me!”

“It’s good he’s come!” Alesworth said. “Caroline, meet Wee-mbuwaa! Wee-mbuwaa, meet Caroline!”

We exchanged our greetings.

“Moo-geeembi here has told us you have done a demon painting, right?” Alesworth inquired.

“Yes!” I said simply. Mugambi was probably fascinated too much for him to speak of my painting beforehand.

“Show me then!” He said with a smile. “I mean, us”.

I set the fish painting down and began undraping the demon one. Their eyes simmered with anticipation. I brought it out. And showed them. They were impressed. Drawn in by its mystical pull.

“What the hell is this?” Caroline asked in a breathless statement. She was invigorated by its divinity.

“Is it for sale?” She asked.

“Uhmm…” I was about to say something when Mugambi interjected.

“Yes. Apparently he wishes to sell it. But we shall have it remain here for a couple of days. In this gallery. You know, business. Could find a better offer?”

“I haven’t even given mine?” Caroline said ludicrously.

“I know. I know. But all paintings get sold after the fair. ‘Tis the rules.”

Caroline smiled. “Couldn’t you bend a few for a friend”

Mugambi smiled in a subtle indication of “NO!”

She gave up and went to check out other artworks. Alesworth stayed with me. Hoping I would explain the intricacies of my fish painting. Something I did gladly. And I did so delectably.

I had to leave my paintings at the gallery. I was insistent upon taking them home with me. But Mugambi persuaded me they were safer there. Security was tight. And no one would steal the precious artworks that would definitely be my big break.

I was stupid to let him have them. Three days later, I tried to call Mugambi but his phone was not going through. I assumed he was busy. So I visited his galleries. All under lock and key. I called a few friends to inquire of his whereabouts. When his cousin Gertrude informed me he took a flight to Bucharest a day earlier. I was particularly distressed. My precious paintings. Why didn’t he inform me he would be leaving.

I found myself in a pub again. Drowning my sorrow in liquor. Spewing hard at the other drunks. My anger was unsalvageable. I staggered homeward but never got there. I slept in a ditch. And I dreamt about Mugambi. He was metres away from me. Laughing. Pointing a finger at me. For being stupid. Then from the painting he was holding. The demon painting. There before us materialized the demon. In its form. More terrifying. I screamed at its sight. Mugambi was simply numbed with fear. And he fell on his knees.

“Master, tell me what to do to him?”

I was unable to comprehend this request.

“I don’t understand!”

“You gave me life, Master!” He said in thunderous voice echoing in the wilderness we stood upon. “Now give me your will!”

Mugambi was in trembling. I saw fear in his eyes. And that gave me unabashed satisfaction. “Please!” He said. But I felt renewed. The mighty Mugambi. Pleading with me. For mercy. I could feel my blood sizzling. Ecstatic malice. Orgasmic. I said, “Tear him apart. Kill him!”

And without a second fleeting, the malevolent beast clawed Mugambi’s fat face till it bled. His eyeballs were gorged out. His tongue pulled out. His intestines. His lungs. His liver. His kidneys. God! Even his genitals were dissevered from him. And I did not look away. I enjoyed it all. Watching his last gasp of air stream away from his disembodied existence. Damn you! Damn you! May you die a thousand deaths. Swine! And it all faded into darkness.

The next morning. I was roused by the cold in ditch and plodded wearily home. I decided to abandon my vain pursuits. I endeared myself to love what I was doing. Contracted paintings. Maybe that was what God wanted me to do. That afternoon, a Catholic priest called me. He wanted me to paint some walls at the church. We discussed in detail about many things. He was particularly impressed by my knowledge of theology. I told him I was in the seminary two years prior but never went on to be ordained after falling out with my father. He talked at length about the consequences of anger. How it blinded us from truth, reality and evil. It sought to find justification. And when anger does find one, the will to commit evil is granted with ease. I pondered over these things but abstractly.

“One of the princes of hell is Azazel. He rules that cardinal sin called anger. And he’s very malevolent. What am I saying? I am sure you don’t believe in demons.”

“No I don’t,” I lied. He left me to my work and went to his own duties.

That evening, I found myself heading to Village Market. Hoping to find Mugambi and relinquish my paintings. But there was no one there. Only a tall dark handsome fellow in a security guard uniform strutting around the floor.

He saw me peering through the transparent glass door and laughed at me from afar.

“Don’t worry my friend!” He said in a thunderous voice all too familiar. “He will never come back. Well, he will. But never like before!”

“Excuse me!” I said. But he strutted away.

Later on Sunday afternoon, I met Alesworth in Sarit center. He told me at length how Mugambi planned to sell those paintings for a better price abroad. In his name. But found in a hotel one night. Terribly disembowled. Organs detached. And I felt sick. When I was still speaking to Alesworth, I saw a man grin at me metres away from the building on the other side of the road. And his form vanished like chaff in a wind. I knew it was all too real. And what I feared had manifested.

I had set my demons free. And now they roamed around me. Tormenting me. Awaiting my next victim.