The Mecca Of Marriages

Everything seemed to have stopped mid-action. Time frozen in its course. Your smug face looking back at you from the big mirror in the dressing room. Your best man’s hand over your shoulder brushing of  non-existent dust from you Muniton suit-his hand mid-air, not moving at all; neither were all the six  gentlemen seated who were to escort you to your wedding. Yes. Your wedding to Zahra. You never saw this day coming; every day prior to this hurtling forward as though time itself were impatient to have the both of you sealed within the confines of Holy Matrimony-and go on with its course.

Time was not moving. At least not for you. You were distant. It was as if you were watching this from afar. As Dzanny fixed the ruby cufflinks on your shirt; as he spritzed you with some expensive cologne-Tom Ford Fleur Der Portofino- you figured.

Why was everyone happy?

Why was everyone smiling?

Questions flew through your mind; faster than Rosberg before he beat Hamilton. You felt nothing at all.

Nothing at all. You tried to at least feel an emotion. Was that even possible?

Your emotions locked up in some dark Vatican dungeon, inaccessible-and further from your reach than ever before.

“It’s time Jeremy,” a voice echoed through the room-sending thousands of mini-echoes that reverberated across the walls-fading-fading-fading into nothingness.

You walked. Walked out of the door. Walked down the stairs and unto the street below. Walked into the heavily furnished Landrover Discover 4; all this bearing a heavy similarity to that damned short story in Damu Nyeusi you had read years back in High School.

Ndoa Ya Samani.

Dzanny was talking to you; feeding you with details of the program of the day; what to do and which palms to grease. Your mind was somewhere else.

Somewhere else much peaceful. Kasese. Your studio apartment. Your secretary.

“Jeremy, are you listening to me?” Dzanny implored. You slowly nodded; betraying your inability to stay in the present.

Your inability to fathom that you’d be married within the hour.

Your inability to take in that you’re already a father.

Your inability to understand why Zahra never got rid of it.


You felt guilty. To dismiss life as though you had created it.

The money you had given her. The money she was supposed to use at the abortion clinic. Money that was not used.

Because she was eight months due.


Your phone rings.
The number looks familiar
You pick up to hear your own voice asking you for help.




Hiii people, so this is the shortest chapter I’ve written so far. I hope you took note of the change in the
posting schedule. I’ll be posting a chapter every fortnight Thursday which means a chapter every two weeks.



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