Phantom Justice

By Victoria Kamau Heri

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I suppose I am not the only one to wish that, in its inevitability, death would come peacefully in bed. For example, perhaps at the light of dawn, just when the sun was peeping out of the clouds to light up our day. Or in whatever other manner that was not disconcerting, painful, gruesome, and the like. The way I died was less than pleasant, to put it mildly, but I will come back to that in a minute. I would rather focus on my last day on earth. It was a normal day by all means, and no one would have anticipated such darkness would descend upon Siwano, our little village.

I was my parent’s only child, and this fact in itself made this day more tragic. Anytime I had brought up having a sibling, my mother’s face would fall, and she would either purse her lips together or the edges of her lips would turn downward in momentary sadness. Each time I asked, she would give me her standard response, “In God’s own timing,” so I knew my lack of a sibling wasn’t exactly a happy family planning choice. After bringing it up now and then, I had finally stopped.   

My parents were teachers; a humble pair they were; hardworking and dedicated to their work too. Mama (as I fondly called her) was commonly known as Teacher Gladys and had the kindest, golden honey-coloured eyes I had ever seen but with a voice so firm and calming that she could tame even the wildest cats. Mama was an English teacher at the local primary school, St. Monica Preparatory, who worshiped the queen’s English as if it were her own mother tongue. And she taught with as much passion as she could master, attempting each day to transform the villagers in us into replicas of little English-born brats.

On the other hand, Dad, or Mr Tesha as he always referred to, was a high school teacher at Musengere High School, just down the road from where we lived. Dad was a short, stout man who appeared as if he had been chopped out of a wide log of wood. So sturdy he was but also quite handsome if you ignored the frown that rested on his face, always like a perennial tenant.  Mama was my English teacher at St. Monica’s. I found how I related to her to be very interesting as I struggled between separating the persona of Mama from the one of Teacher Gladys that I saw in school. I wondered if all the teachers' children struggled like I did. For the life of me, I could not decide which was better between her two personas. Teacher Gladys was a sweet lady everyone liked and went out of her way to help her students. She was a firm teacher but a very loving one. Many of the students liked her, and those who did not, well, it was their choice, but really, there was no sensible reason not to like Teacher Gladys. Mama, on the other hand, was a strict disciplinarian who watched me with a hawk’s eye and kept me on the straight and narrow. I suppose she was just being a good mum.

I was a year five student, and the 3rd term was almost coming to an end. I was excited at the prospect of school closing like every other student. Mama had promised I could visit my closest friend Shube at their home for a week, a whole week! She had never let me stay that long, so I was ecstatic. We were two weeks away from the closing of school, and I could hardly wait for the days to rush by.

It was a Thursday—a normal, regular, boring Thursday, as I found most Thursdays to be. Frankly, I would have loved to die on a Wednesday; I am not sure why in particular, but it just seemed like a better day to call my last, but death presented us with no choices. I find Thursdays so nondescript, without much character. The sun was shining bright, perhaps even a bit brighter than usual, not much like the drabness I associated Thursdays with. A beautiful day, if you would, with the blue in the sky stretching for what seemed like forever. Who would think that death would visit on such a day, but then why not? I went about my day as I would normally, arriving at school at 7.00 am with my little yellow jerrican of water almost identical to every other child’s. Most of these jerry cans were from a local brand of cooking oil known as “Webi,” which was a staple for every household. It was a cheap brand with fair quality, which is why it was so popular. When I closed my eyes for the last time ever, they were transfixed on the Webi Jerrican that was found next to my body. It was the last thing I saw. I had focused my eyes intently on it because had I allowed myself to see what was really happening to me, rather, who was before me and what they were about to do to me, I would have run mad.

School was neither boring nor interesting that day. Nothing peculiar happened; no interesting or out-of-place incidents. I had seen my mother for the last time that day during the English class at 10.45 am. The lesson was about the eight parts of speech. I could not remember them all, and somehow, in my last moments, they seemed so important. As if remembering them would take the pain away or render the moment any less ugly than it actually was or worse still, as if remembering them all would make Mama’s memory of me any better. I felt that I had let her down.

My mind wasn’t on the lessons, and for the life of me, I still cannot tell you what these parts of speech were, except Nouns, Adjectives, Verbs, and Adverbs, but they seemed very important to Mama from the way she was explaining the lesson. Her brow was furrowed, and she gesticulated passionately with each sentence as if doing so would make her lesson stick in our minds. Mama was passionate about teaching, and she sure did it well. Only that some of our little minds would wander away in class, daydreaming about this and that.

Have I mentioned how much I loved my school? St. Monica’s school had been built on farmland in the middle of nowhere. The 20-acre land was donated by the larger Diocese of the Catholic church. Next to the school stood a small chapel named after St. Monica, the patron saint of mothers, an honour she had gained for being a wonderful mother to her son, St. Augustine. I was unsure what she had done to earn this honour, but I imagined that whatever it was, it must have been really good. I wondered if she had watched over what transpired that day and if she had, why she had done nothing to stop it. Was it too much of a bother for her to act, or had she been having as bad a day as I was? Did she just peer curiously and then walk away? She had to be around somewhere because who gets a school and a church named after them and never visits?

It had been built by missionaries in the late 70s. Aside from the little church at the farthest corner, there were no immediate neighbours. Just vast lands covered in tall green grass or patches of dry grass, depending on the season. The tin roof over the five blocks of classrooms was a dull, worn-out red that almost matched the slightly darker ochre red of the exterior walls. Over the years, nothing much had been done to upgrade its looks except a lackluster coat of paint in a light blue shade covering all the classroom walls.

School ended daily at 3:15 pm, and it was customary for many of the children to stay behind and play; as it headed to 4 pm, many of us would start heading home for the remainder of the day, which involved the usual mundane chores, homework and then dinner with the family. How I wished this particular evening had turned out this way. Had I done things differently, I would have been home in bed by 8.00 pm as usual. If only I had listened to Mama and her cautionary words. I found it irritating that she had to keep shouting these reminders; I wasn’t a small child anymore. Surely I could take good care of myself?  

"Sibindi...always walk with other girls to and from school. Do not walk alone.”

Yes Mama

“Why do you stay behind in school just to play? You should come home immediately. Do you hear me?”

Yes Mama

"Don't use those shortcuts you like. Don’t you find it dangerous? I do not want you using those funny routes again.”

Yes, Mama.

I always had an excuse, reason, or other in mind, even though I never openly voiced my thoughts. Even though Mama was gentle and sweet, she was still your typical traditional mother who would whip out her slippers for a spanking before you could finish saying whatever nonsense you were about to say.

"I have nobody to play with at home, Mama."

"Mama....but those girls in school don't like me. My only friend is Shube, and she lives way over on the other side from home.”

"But I am a fast runner, and nobody can catch me."

My excuses were endless, and some were so frivolous that Mama would laugh heartily but let me go on my way nonetheless. 

As the end of the day got closer, Shube and I could not help but steal cheeky glances at each other in class as we looked forward to our evening together. When the last bell of the day rang at 3:00 p.m., I quickly packed up my books, as did all the children. I was always amazed by how we would spend the afternoon lethargic, slow, and sometimes uncooperative until it was time to go home. Then, a burst of energy would sizzle across the room, almost matching the ding-dong of the bell.

Shube and I left the class together and headed towards the gate and onwards in the direction of her home. A few children milled around the school compound in little groups, some talking, others dashing to the football field, and a few standing outside the classes. In about half an hour, the school compound would be deserted. Shube lived in the opposite direction of my home. I suppose one of the reasons I loved to visit their house so much was that it was one of the most beautiful houses in the village. Shube’s father was the doctor at the local Siwano Municipal Hospital, the only one in the area for a good number of miles. Whilst perhaps modest by city standards, their house might as well have been a palace compared to most homes in the area. 

It was a three-bedroom storied house with running water and indoor toilets. Most homes in the village could only boast of a pit latrine. In addition, the house was entirely painted a startling white, both in the interior and exterior areas. Shube’s mother was a housewife. With all the money her husband, Dr. Shengazi, made, she didn't need to work, although I suppose it took a lot of work to keep her house as pristine as it was. One would think it was repainted every few weeks. There was never a spot of dirt, grime, or anything out of place. She ran a tight ship, and Shube always complained about how hard living under such conditions was. At one point, she had even described it as akin to living at an army barracks, always having to be tidy and ensuring everything was in place with military precision.

Shube was an only child like me, but her mother was expecting a second child, and their house would soon be filled with the cries of a newborn. I was a little jealous, I had to admit, but I was happy for her as well, as we had both endured and shared the loneliness of being an only child. The walk from school to Shube’s house took us about 15 minutes but would have taken longer had there not been a shortcut across the school’s vast, unutilized land. Aside from the football field, the rest of the land remained unused and was covered by thick, long grass. Once in a while, and extreme cases, students caught misbehaving would be told to clear some of the thicket, but it was never enough to cover the entire grassland. For that to be cleared, all the students, teachers, and non-teaching staff would also have to be involved for several days. So, it was largely left as is. However, a clear-cut footpath had been formed under the little feet of students trudging through the field each day to and from school. Aside from the scare of snakes—real or imaginary—that came up now and then, no danger had ever befallen any student. 

We entered Shube’s house to find Mrs. Shengazi humming a song from the kitchen. Their living room was furnished with teal velvet sofas, a colour I had never seen on a sofa before. I was used to your typical browns, dark green, and maroon colours that were common in the village, many with a print so ugly it made you want to cry or cringe, but it was the fashion of the day. I suppose a doctor’s salary allowed one to stand out a bit, or perhaps it was simply Mrs. Shengazi’s taste that was unique. The coffee table with four matching stools was also white, another unique aspect, away from your dull brown or black coffee tables populating every other household. Combined with the tasteful paintings on the wall, the room looked as majestic as could be. We were drawn to the kitchen by the sweet aroma of baking that left us salivating. 

“Hi, mummy,” Shube shouted. I’m here with Sibindi.”

“Hello, girls. How was school today?”

“Fine,” we responded in unison.

Our eyes were curiously scanning the kitchen to uncover the source of the aroma.

“You can each pick a slice of cake from the oven, but first wash your hands.”

“Thank you, Shube’s mum. Your cakes are always delicious.”

You can now see why visiting Shube has always been such a delight for me. Hands washed, cake in hand, we dashed upstairs to Shube’s room. Like all the other rooms in the house, it was painted white and had white furniture, too, but thankfully, Shube’s mother had thrown in a few splashes of pink in her bedding, curtains, and a bookshelf near the window. Shube was also blessed to have all sorts of dolls to play with, which was a little privileged by village standards. My favourite was the only black doll in a pile. It had kinky, big hair and was a dress made out of kente fabric. Her dark skin glistened and had a familiar glow. Somehow, she always felt like home, unlike the rest of the white Barbie-like dolls. At 11 years old, Shube and I were yet to outgrow playing with dolls or even playing altogether.

Along with skipping rope and hide and seek, playing house remained our favourite game. We would alternate between playing the roles of the mum and dad. Sometimes, Shube would wear her dad’s white coat and pretend to be a doctor while I played the patient. We would fully immerse ourselves in these sessions, and often, Shube’s mum would have to remind us to finish our homework before we got too engrossed in play.

 As soon we were done with our snack and tackling homework, we dashed out to the backyard for a series of games, running around and being the little girls we were. An hour later, we decided to go back to her room. It was not the norm for me to stay longer than one hour or so, but for some reason, on this day, I lost track of time, and it was around 5:40 p.m. when I left Shube’s house to head back home. Mama would be so mad at me! 

Shube saw me off as usual for part of the way, helping me carry my Webi jerrican as I carried my school bag before she headed back just before we got to the school shortcut we had used earlier. As I approached, I contemplated using it. It was deserted at this time of the evening, but it would save me some time. As I stood by, trying to make a decision, along came Mr Matubia. He was a grade 7 and 8 teacher, a heavy-set man with a stomach so big. He looked ready to give birth at any time. I chuckled a little under my breath at this thought before holding my laughter back. I needed to be respectful lest he told Mama about it. Aside from seeing him in the school compound, I had never interacted with him.

“Young girl,” he said, “What are you doing out here this late? Why are you not home yet?” 

His voice was harsh and loud, immediately making me even more nervous.

“I am …I am on my way home, sir,” I stammered.

Peering at me more closely, “Aren’t you Teacher Gladys’ daughter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why are you so late?”

“I was visiting my friend…at Dr. Shengazi’s house,” gesturing towards Shube’s house.

“It's rather late. Why did you delay so much?”

“I lost track of time, sir.”

“Come,” he pointed towards the shortcut. I will make sure you get home safe. It is faster if we walk this way.”

I was relieved. Going the long way would take almost 20 minutes longer. I could already see Mama’s cross face, standing by the gate or the kitchen door, peering at the road and wondering where I was. I was in for a thorough beating.

We started our walk through the field with Mr. Matubia asking me general questions about my schooling as I walked slightly ahead of him on the path.  

“Which class are you in?” 

“What is your favourite subject?” 

“Do you like school?” 

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

I answered each of his questions a bit absent-mindedly. My focus was on what Mama would do to me. I tried to come up with excuses, but I knew no story would get me out of the spanking I was going to receive at home. Worse still, would Mama revoke her permission for me to visit Shube over the holidays?  “Most probably,” I thought. I realized that Mr. Matubia was now quiet, and as I turned around to look at him briefly, I felt something strike my head with a huge thud. I was knocked out cold.

When I came to, four things immediately occurred to me. The first was that my head hurt so badly I could hardly breathe. The second was more alarming; there was something heavy on my torso, and the third was the fact that I was lying flat on my back as I could see the darkening sky and the shy early twinkling of the stars above. Then, there was an excruciating pain between my legs that I could not even fathom. In that place where no one had ever touched, no pain should come from. What was happening to me? It finally dawned on me that the heavy thing on my chest was Mr. Matubia, who was doing what only grownups should do to me. I hardly had any knowledge of sex except for what my mother had briefly mentioned. 

“Those things are for grownups. You should never allow any boy to touch you in any way; do you hear me, Sibindi?”

I nodded very quickly, and that was all. Nevertheless, I knew what Mr. Matubia was doing was wrong, very wrong. And it hurt like hell. I tried to move my little body, but his weight was too much. The ready-to-give-birth belly that I had chuckled at had become my trap. All I could hear were his deep, animal-like grunts as he kept sharply moving in and out of me. With each thrust, I feared I would die. His hand covered my mouth and stifled my cries of pain and any attempts to call for help.

“Who would hear me if I screamed anyway?” I wondered. 

The likelihood of anyone passing by was slim. There were no nearby homesteads—only the church and school, which were deserted. The more I struggled, the more pain flooded over my body. The more I tried to scream, the tighter his hand went over my mouth and nose. I was struggling to breathe, and tears freely and involuntarily rolled down my face. Suddenly, he let go of my mouth, and with momentary relief, I let out the loudest scream I could muster and breathed fresh air. But his hands soon moved to my throat, and he began to choke me mercilessly.  I struggled for my dear life, hoping that he would let go, but he did not. It was a losing battle. I could feel myself drifting away, and in those final moments, Mama’s face came into focus. I tried to remember how I had last seen her during the English class earlier in the day. What had been our last words to each other? Whatever it was, had I said it with meaning or emotion or just carelessly? What was she wearing? Did she have her favourite blue shoes on? What colour was her cardigan that day? (She always wore one) Did she smile at me during class? Had I smiled back? For some strange reason, I could now remember all the eight parts of speech she had taught us that day. I began to list them out and numbered each one. Somehow, it seemed to make the pain disappear and the situation less bleak. And it made me feel close to Mama, if only for a moment.

“Nouns, Pronouns. Adverbs, Verbs, Adjectives, Prepositions, Conjunction,  Interjection,” I recited. Even though I could now remember the last four, I had no idea what they were. Oh, why had I not listened to Mama more keenly? She would be so disappointed in me.

“Interjection…….interject…..interj….inte…..int….” 

I slowly stopped thrashing my feet, and my body lay still. Then there came a deep, navy, grotesque darkness. My eyes rested on the empty Webi jerrican on the ground, next to my bag, where Mr. Matubia had tossed them carelessly on the ground next to me.

I found myself floating above my body in an eerie experience that was difficult to describe. I was present, yet not in the same way I had been in my body. I could see the scene clearly. My lifeless body, Mr. Matubia, still lying on top of me. He was now shaking me, trying to wake me up from this permanent sleep he had put me into. He was sobbing like a child and speaking to himself like a lunatic. Well, that he was, for only a madman would hurt a child in this way. After several minutes, he rolled off my body as it dawned on him that I was gone. It was all so confusing. Was that it? I had never thought about what it would feel like to die, but I had certainly expected a bit more fanfare and hullabaloo.  Surely, a soul could not just pass on to the next world so simply, could it? I continued observing him from my elevated position. Then, I was filled with rage. Was this vile human going to get away with killing me? Just walk away as if nothing had happened? Would he be “allowed” to arrive home, kiss his wife, and bid goodnight to his children as if nothing had happened?  Would he go to work in the morning wearing the trusted, coveted, and respected crown of a teacher when he had just raped and murdered me the night before? Was my existence so inconsequential that the universe would not avenge my death? I cringed at the thought of him interacting with, guiding, and being in charge of any child. Worse still, perhaps he would even visit to console my parents or pass his condolences to my mother in the staffroom when she returned to work. Such a despicable human being! 

He tidied himself as he left while neglecting to tidy my body, which infuriated me even more that he could not accord me some dignity even in death.  I cringed at the thought that I would be found half-naked and exposed to all sundry. I pitied whoever would be the first to come across my body. The indignity of the scene was crushing, and I prayed that my parents would not see my body this way. Oh, how I prayed!

Mr. Matubia’s figure faded into the night, carrying with him his cruel, murderous ugliness back to his everyday life as if nothing had happened—a weak, tyrannical monster who could only prey on children. My parents must have been worried sick by now and perhaps beginning to get an inkling that something could be off. I wondered if I could see them, just to check on how they were taking my absence and maybe even guide them to where my body was, but I was hesitant. Why was I still here? How long did it take to transition to the other side, whichever side I was meant to go to? I would imagine I was destined for heaven. Surely, my little misdeeds as a child were forgiven. And how I had died had to count for something.

“What do I do now? ”I wondered. I looked at St. Monica’s chapel and saw a warm, yellow light flickering. It felt like the right place to go; perhaps I would find peace and answers there in the presence of the Almighty.  In almost an instant, I was in the church compound. It felt as if all I had to do was think of being somewhere, and I would be there instantaneously if I really wanted to be there. I floated to the chapel door and realized that I could walk normally if I wanted to. This made me smile and brought a sense of normalcy to the situation. Perhaps I was only a little dead?

Inside the chapel, I could hear a faint voice humming in a hypnotic, soothing tone. There was a dim light towards the front, so I glided slowly towards it. As I drew closer, I could see a woman bent over one of the pews in a prayerful stunt. She was dressed in a light blue smock that seemed to glisten with a silver hue. I wondered if she was aware of my presence, but this was soon confirmed when I got closer to her.

“Don’t be afraid, child. Come and sit by my side.” All the while still facing the front as she spoke.

“I must not be dead,” I thought if she could sense and communicate with me! Perhaps it was all just a bad dream.

When she finally turned around, I observed that she had a kind face. I did as I was asked and sat down. The humming continued, and I got lost in its repetitive rhythm momentarily. It was so soothing.  

“Something bad happened to you,” she said.

I was startled. “How did you know? Did you see him?” Was she perhaps watching from the chapel?

“I felt it happen,” she responded.

“How would you feel such a thing happen?” My question was ignored. 

“You do not have much time.”

“Time to do what?” I asked.

“To seek justice. That’s why you are still here.”

“Here?”

“Yes…Here. In the in-between.”

“In-between of what?” Her monolithic responses were beginning to irritate me. What was she talking about?

“Between life and death. Sibindi, you are here because you must find a way to bring your killer to justice.”

Her words hit me like a cold bucket of water. So, I was dead after all? Not just a little dead, but fully dead? However, I was pleased by the idea of seeking justice. It felt empowering that I could actually do something about it and prevent that monster from ever hurting another child. At the same time, I could not help but wonder why I had been granted this privilege. Was it granted to all murder victims? And if not, why me? These questions ran through my mind, but I did not voice them to her; I suspected I didn’t need to anyway.  Perhaps I would ask a simpler question. 

“How come you can see me and talk to me if I am dead?”

“Because I am in spirit form, too. Listen to me carefully, child; you do not have much time. I am here to help you in any way. I could not bear to see you go through this alone.”

“If you saw what happened, why did you not stop him?”

“Because that is now how things work. But I have helped you already. I asked that you be given a chance to seek justice, and my request was granted.”

“Granted, by whom? Who are you?”

She turned to look at me, and I saw into her deep brown and kind eyes. It felt as if I could lose myself in them. They were full of love and mercy, but at the same time, they bore a deep sadness. She seemed strangely familiar. Like someone who belonged in the community, yet I was sure I had never met her before. I could not shake away that sense of familiarity and instead decided to lean into it. It gave me comfort to imagine she was not a strange apparition, even if that is what she technically was. 

“St. Monica is my name, dear one.”

It was a bit much to take in. I was a ghost, speaking to another ghost, a person who had only briefly crossed my mind but never in a way that I could have imagined meeting her.

“I wish I could protect all children in the world, but it is not so…it is not so,” she whispered sadly.

Just then, she lifted her head as if she was listening to something in the beyond.

“They are looking for you, but it is not until tomorrow that they will find your body.”

I was jolted back to the reason I was here. I wondered how my parents were coping with the situation. I had never been this late to get home. Had they perhaps gone to Shube’s house? To the police post? Had they alerted all the neighbours to help them search for their little girl? As I thought of them, I regretted not having been a more obedient daughter, more so on this particular evening. I should not have disobeyed Mama.

I was hesitant to move; the environment in the chapel was comforting and safe. St. Monica’s presence added to it all. So we sat for a long time, with me leaning against her while she continued humming away into the night. There was no comfort of sleep, but the concept of time was different, faster, and even fluid. I pondered on how to ensure justice was served. Why was it up to me? The best method I could think of at first was to stab Mr. Matubia endlessly and watch him die before my eyes. But St. Monica made it clear that I had no power to do anything physical in the real world. I could use others but not directly channel that form of energy.

Over the next few days, I observed several activities as I floated around from one place to another and back to the chapel. I watched from a distance when my body was finally found the following morning. My parents raised the alarm around 8:00 p.m. after visiting Shube’s house and confirming that I had indeed left to return home. Poor Shube was so stricken with shock and could hardly speak much except answer a few questions from my dad. They had tried to trace my footsteps home, passing through the long way, past the main Siwano shopping centre, not knowing that this was not the route I had used. While someone suggested they should look through the shortcut, the suggestion was quickly dismissed. It seemed to be the least likely route I would use, especially at that time of the evening. I suppose at this point, a majority of the search party expected that I would turn up unharmed, that I was just being a truant child. It was uncommon for criminal incidents to occur within the vicinity. Eventually, after a couple of hours, their search had been unfruitful that night. The search was called off and scheduled to resume at daylight with the hope that I would have turned up from truancy, safe and sound. My parents had finally reluctantly retired back home, exhausted and too distraught to get a wink of sleep.

Somehow, it was the bright yellow Webi jerrican that had eventually drawn attention to where I was the following morning. The child who found my body had seen the peeking bright yellow of the can from the footpath and had veered off to pick it up. We treasured these cans, and I could only imagine the poor child's excitement at the find, not knowing the ugliness he was about to uncover. Every day, each child had to bring water to school to clean classrooms, so every child donned a container as if they were part of our school uniform, all in various sizes and shapes. Any child who lost their container was always admonished and would likely be punished if they dared to show up in school without the container or water. The containers were not marked, and one had to make sure they always kept it close to them. A few of us would try to scratch our names on our containers in an attempt to retain them for a longer period. But at one point or another, one would lose theirs.

I could picture the shock of the small boy at seeing my half-naked body. He had let out a curdling scream, and the rest, one can only say, is history. I observed the process that ensued from afar, not wanting to come face-to-face with the scene again. It was a sad, sombre, and scary day for all the students. Learning was suspended, and all the children were sent home to the safe bosoms of their parents, each parent feeling sympathetic towards my parents but also secretly grateful that it had not been their child. I spent most of my time around the chapel even though I was curious about the ongoing events. There was a funeral committee planning for my interment. The school was heavily involved in the planning, and even though learning had resumed, a sense of fear engulfed everyone. Such a thing had never happened in our community, and the story had even made it to the national newspapers on page 3.

“Primary School Student Found Dead,” the headlines screamed. “11-year-old girl molested and killed,” and so on.

I could not face my parents, particularly Mama, nor could I face Shube. Their grief was heavy, dark, and cumbersome. I longed to carry it for them, but things had to be the way they were. It was comforting to spend time around St. Monica, and I could see why she had been bestowed this honour in relation to motherhood. She was patient with me and gently reminded me each evening that I did not have much time. It was beginning to irritate me because I was perhaps still in a bit of denial that this terrible thing had happened to me, but I knew she meant well. A part of me was seething with anger and vengefulness, but I was yet to be fully cognisant of these feelings. I was wallowing in sadness instead, especially when I thought of Mama.

“How much time do I have?” I asked. Was there any need to hurry this all up? 

“Well, after your burial, your ability to influence or alter the physical world will begin to wane until all you can do is passively watch.”

“But how much time specifically, I need to know St. Monica,” I pleaded 

“Children seem to have a slightly longer time. Something to do with your untainted souls. But I would say not more than two weeks after the burial,” she said. 

Two weeks. I could work with that. I certainly would. 

I was to be buried on a Saturday morning. It was a beautiful day, with the sun shining so brightly as if in celebration of my death, which was ironic as I was certainly not resting, nor was I in peace. I had yet to figure out this justice mission, and St. Monica was not helpful in that regard. She had made it clear that it was not her place to give me the answers I was seeking; I had to find them myself. 

Which flowers would they have? I wondered if my mother had remembered my love for daisies. I hated the mediocrity of roses, as beautiful as they were. I was tempted to attend my funeral, but I was worried about the pain and grief I would absorb from the ceremony. A part of me also felt it would be weird listening to my short life story, wondering what my teachers would say about me and whether Shube would be given a chance to speak. I also wondered what my parents would say about me. Would my disobedience and lateness that day feature? Lastly, I was worried about Mr. Matubia attending the funeral, that vile animal!

I had a little time to decide as it was still early morning. Eventually, I decided to go and hover at a distance. I wondered what dress my mum would pick for me to be buried in and if I would be buried in shoes. What was the point of shoes on a corpse anyway? It was not as if anyone ever saw them.

I was to be buried within our small farm at a corner where my mum had planted the orchard, under a large Mango tree. I liked the location and the idea of lying in the shade, away from the harshness of the sometimes severe sun. I approached the homestead slowly, choosing to hover so I could have a clearer view. Movement in the in-between was so effortless and almost instantaneous. You could be where you needed to be when you needed to be there. There was none of the usual hindrances of mortals. No exhaustion, no need for food, no need to use the toilet. No chores (I didn’t miss those), no sleep, or school. One could simply be.

The funeral began with the choir from St. Monica’s Chapel singing some sort of dirge. I wonder what they would think if they knew that I had met St. Monica herself. Or that her presence graced the church. That knowledge made me feel special. I could make out my parents, other family members, and Shube seated in between her parents. I was transfixed by Mama and the look on her face. It was one of sheer grief, heartache, and a plethora of sorrow, a sorrow that may never leave her face for the remaining years of her life. Daddy’s face was stoic, but one could see he was simply putting up a brave face as the man of the house. My poor childless parents! What a tragedy.

Much as I tried to stay on, being present at the funeral became too much for me, and I found myself back at the Chapel. Watching my parents break down in such a manner was indescribable. The rest of the day remained sunny and bright, which felt like a mockery of my death. I would have preferred it to be gloomy and gray. 

A few days passed before I finally mustered the courage to visit my mother. I felt that I somehow owed it to her. I could see my fresh grave from a distance with its withering flowers on the fresh mound. Mama was seated outside on the back door steps leading from the kitchen, staring listlessly into nothing. Looking at her, I was overcome by a deep desire to embrace and comfort her, to let her know I was alright despite everything. I sat beside her,  and I, too, stared listlessly ahead. Could she sense my presence? I inched closer to her, tempted to sit on her lap like I had as a little girl. Suddenly, she began to sob, the kind of sobbing that only grief could beckon from the depths of one’s soul. It was too much for me to handle, and after a little while, I decided to go see Shube instead. Maybe it would be easier with her. 

She was lying on her bed, facing the wall, reading a book. It was a school day, so I suppose her parents had allowed her time off to cope with my demise. Reading was her favourite pastime, and academically, I was a dwarf in comparison, as she was always leading the class. It was one of the qualities I admired about her—her intelligence, exposure, and world knowledge. I looked around the room, unsure whether I should sit on the bed or the desk chair in the corner of her room. I finally settled on the bed, and as I sat down, Shube turned around as if sensing my presence, only for her to let out the loudest scream I had ever heard. She was looking directly at me, almost as if she could see me, but wait, could she? 

She was terrified. I reached out to touch her in what I thought would be a comforting gesture, but she quickly jumped away to the wall, screaming even louder. 

“Please calm down, Shube. Please calm down.” I was confused as well. How could she see me? It had not occurred to me that this was even possible. 

I heard footsteps rushing up the stairs. Mrs. Shengazi burst into the room, rushing to her daughter’s side. 

“What is it, dear, are you ok?” she asked 

Shube silently pointed her finger towards me. 

Mrs. Shengazi looked towards me, and for a moment, I held my breath, thinking she would see me as well. 

“What Shube? There is nothing there. 

I sighed in relief. Poor Shube must have thought she was running mad. I put my finger to my lips, gesturing at her to be silent. She shook her head. 

“Mum, it's Sibindi, it's Sibindi! She is right there,” she pointed towards me again.  

So much for loyalty! I wasn’t sure I should speak, but if I could, I would have given her a piece of my mind. 

“My dear, there is nothing there.” Mrs. Shengazi’s tone was sympathetic and soothing. She pulled Shube towards her in a tight embrace. 

“I know you miss your friend dear and am so sorry, so very sorry for losing her, but she is not here. It's just your imagination playing tricks on you. Here, come and lie down with me for a moment. I know you will feel better.” 

She led Shube out of the room, but even as they walked away, Shube’s eyes never left mine, and I could see the fear in her eyes. I sat on the bed, wondering how I could help Shube be less afraid of me. It was wonderful that she could see me, and perhaps we could play with each other again. But I also wondered why she could see me—a question for St. Monica to answer. It felt comforting to be in Shube’s room. It was the last place I had spent my day, and I recalled our pleasant evening together before it turned terribly sour later.  I decided to return the following day. “Let me give Shube a little time to deal. Perhaps I would have better luck speaking to her tomorrow,” I thought. 

Back at the Chapel, St. Monica continued to issue the usual reminder, which I now simply nodded to. Yes, time was running out, the window was closing, and all that hullabaloo. Well, with her offering no help with the matter, she was expecting too much of me. I had decided to remain unbothered by her insistence and the issue of the passage of time. Thus, I allowed a few days to pass by while I did nothing but wander around the chapel and its surroundings. I spent time in the field especially, and once, even managed to go over to the very spot where it had happened, but I was unable to return after that as the memories were too difficult. A part of me felt exhausted, and I simply wanted to cross over to the other side. After all, nothing I could do would reverse the events surrounding my death. And wouldn’t death come to us all anyway, no matter how? 

After a couple of days, I sauntered off to briefly revisit my mother before going to see Shube.  I thought of seeing my dad but somehow felt that he would be more angry at me than sad. I wasn’t ready to deal with that for now, and somehow, I wanted to wallow in the sadness of the situation rather than the anger, vengefulness, or hate, though that was perhaps the fire that would push me to complete the justice mission. I found Mama lying on the couch, staring upwards into the ceiling as if she could see through it. A cloak of grief surrounded her like a heavy jacket that had to be worn, albeit reluctantly. Tears rolled down every so often at the corner of her eyes like little rivulets chasing after one another down each cheek. I sat at her feet and reached out to rub them, almost expecting her to acknowledge my touch, but of course, she didn't. Next to her lay her old, worn, black King James Bible, which was open to the book of Proverbs. I couldn't see the exact chapter, but I wondered if she had simply been looking for answers. Why? Why her? Why me? Why that way? So callously and painfully?

As I looked at her, I was overwhelmed by the desire to be in her arms again for a warm hug like she would give me every so often. How I wish I had never taken them for granted. I drew closer and lay my head on her stomach, listening to her breathing heavily in and out. We lay this way for what seemed like hours but wasn't. Eventually, I had to nudge myself to leave and see how to deal with Shube. 

Mama was still staring at the ceiling when I left. The grief still weighed heavily, the atmosphere darkly grave. I wondered why no one was home with her, but I was not surprised. She had always been a classic introvert, and I imagined that dealing with grief was most likely something she wanted to do alone, as ill-advised as it was.

At Shube’s house, I went into her room again, but she was not home. In my self-absorption, I had forgotten she would be at school. Life had to go on, after all. So, I decided to hang around her room until she was home. I needed someone to talk to and hoped it would be easy, even possible, to speak to her and figure out why she was the only one who could see me. 

I braced myself for her arrival and the screaming that would surely ensue, but this time, I was determined not to relent and to find a way to calm her down. Shube arrived home shortly after school was out, contrary to the days we would delay each other for at least an hour or so as we played or conjured up some mischief. I hid behind her door again, which would have been unnecessary with anyone else; hiding, that is, but I did not want to scare her too much once again. She walked into her room, placed her heavy, gray khaki school bag on the bed, and sank into the soft mattress as she took her shoes off and swung her feet back and forth while staring at the floor.  She stood up, starting to pull off her school cardigan, and walked toward me to close the door. I braced myself for the scream that would surely come. 

As Shube closed the door, she noticed me and instead stepped back but remained strangely calm. I spoke quickly.

“Shube…please don't shout…it is only harmless old me.”

She took a little while to respond, staring sharply at me. Finally, she took a deep breath and spoke.

“You are dead, gone forever. What are you doing here, and why can I see and hear you?”

She walked back to bed, murmuring to herself. “Perhaps I am running mad.”

“No, Shube. You aren’t. Please give me time to explain, and it will all make sense.”

Over the next half hour, I explained everything to her, starting with what had happened that evening on the way home. She was shocked when I revealed the culprit. “That Mr. Matubia!!! I could murder him with my own two hands.” Tears rolled down her eyes as I shared more. Reliving that moment was difficult but necessary, and in a way, it renewed my motivation to seek justice. I then told her about St. Monica and the reason why I hadn’t transitioned. In between my narration, Shube injected her usual sense of humour, asking me ridiculous questions about my current status, even waving her hands through me, “Did you feel that? Can you still fart? Do you have to brush your teeth? No more school assignments, huh, lucky girl!”  And so on. It felt good to spend time with my friend again.

“So, how do you plan on going about it all?” she asked. I had no idea, and I hadn’t dwelt much on it. As usual, Shube came to the rescue.

“Can I go to the Police? Or should I tell my parents?” No one would believe her, especially since we had no evidence to link him to the murder, so that option was quickly discarded.

“How about confronting him?”

“But Shube, you are just a child like me. What if he does something terrible to you, too?” That was an even worse idea.

We debated various other ideas, including having me haunt his house and family, getting him to confess to the police, or perhaps writing anonymous notes that would lead the police to track him. None of these seemed to make sense or provide a desired solution. As usual, time seemed to outrun us, and soon, Mrs. Shengazi could be heard calling upon Shube to hurry downstairs and help make dinner. It was time for me to leave.

“Promise me you will come back,” Shube pleaded.

“I must…I must.” Spending time with her had been the only good thing since that fateful night. It was difficult to tear away from each other, but I was comforted by two facts—that I could now spend time with Shube, and someone else knew who the murderer was. My quest for justice seemed feasible.

Arriving back at the Chapel in the dark of the night, I was surprised to find St. Monica waiting for me at the door, which was unusual.

“Sibindi, it is time,” She whispered in her usual calm manner.

“Time for?” Panic hit me hard. I wasn’t ready. I had not gotten my revenge or justice. I was nowhere close to even hatching a plan.

“I warned you repeatedly, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“What was the point of doing this to me? Granting me an opportunity to seek justice without guidance and so little time.”

“Come, my child.” She gestured towards the inside of the chapel. I reluctantly followed her inside.

“Perhaps you needed to learn something else—that Justice is an ideal many seek but is rarely actualized. Humans hardly ever pay for the wrong they do. It is the natural but painful order of things.  And even worse, sometimes, the innocent pay for the wrongdoing of others.”

“So I get no justice?” I was angry and pained. “Is there no way of righting the wrong?”  It felt like a cruel joke with no humour in it.

“You will be avenged but not in the manner you desired or imagined.” She responded gently, her voice like a midsummer night breeze. “Up to the fourth generation, the children shall pay for the sins of the father.”

It was not the answer I expected, nor did I think it was a fair trade of justice. In fact, it simply sounded like a cliché church folks used. But I suppose St. Monica was church folk anyway.

On the other end of the chapel, a door opened into what seemed like nothingness. I had no choice in the matter of leaving; it simply began to happen. Slowly, as if pieces and streaks of me were floating away and disappearing into the doorway. St. Monica looked at me with loving and kind eyes. Her last words rang in my mind: “Do not forget the lessons, or you will keep relearning them in your next life.”

Early the next morning, the little village of Siwano was stirred to life by the usual sounds of the cocks crowing, goats bleating, and birds chirping. Everyone went about their business. Nothing was amiss, and life continued as usual as if I had never existed or my life had ended so abruptly. 

Thousands of miles away, in a posh city hospital, a baby was born to the Macfee family as the fourth child, the third boy in the family. The doctor delivering the baby was heard to remark, “What a remarkable and healthy pair of lungs he has.” I looked up at him as he held me and wished he understood why I was crying so loudly and insistently and how upset I was to be back in the cruel world again. 


Writer’s Biography
Victoria Kamau Heri is a creative writer, storyteller, and personal development enthusiast. She is also known by her pen name, “Herispeak. “Heri” is her chosen name, which is Swahili for “Good tidings or blessings.” She is a multi-skilled Grants Management and Compliance professional with over 20 years of experience in the non-profit sector. She is also a Bachelor of Laws (LLB) student at the University of London and a Rotarian. 

Victoria is the author of “Rising from Siwano,” a collection of short stories, and publisher of CELEBRATE YOU, an annual goal-setting planner. She has also written Diary of a Middle-Aged Bride, Sunny Days, and Tales from Shinyanga, a short series featured on her blog. In addition, she has co-authored an anthology with 8 of Kenya’s top authors titled “A Slice of Darkness for Breakfast,” released in 2022.

Victoria has also curated an anthology titled “Women of the Light,” a collection of stories told by alumni from her high school alma mater. Funds from the book contributed to the alumni association’s bursary fund for students in need. More recently, in 2023, Victoria published a Bible story titled “The Story of Balaam,” which was approved by the Kenya Institute of Curriculum Development (KICD) in Kenya for Grade 4 Learners and published by Moran Publishers (KE) Ltd. 

Victoria also offers ghostwriting services for autobiographies/memoirs. She aims to help others tell their stories authentically and in their own words, leaving a legacy, recording their experiences for posterity, and impacting others. Her motto is to have “no stories untold and no voices silenced! “

Victoria is a doting mum to her 15-year-old neuro-diverse son and also continuously seeks to raise more awareness on Autism and ADHD.