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'The Visitor'


Last year a visitor came to our house. He wore a dead grey suit and carried a famished bible in his left hand. His head was so bald that it gleamed under the orange light bulb at the door way, when Anita opened the door; it was the first thing I saw.

Mama called him Prophet and said that he shall be staying with us for that week. That he’ll help us ‘battle’ the spirits that killed Papa.

Yesterday she’d asked Anita, our house girl, to clean up the spare room. I watched her expertly push the two mounds on her chest, shifting, dusting and sweeping. When she was done, she exhausted a canister of air freshener and the pungent scent gripped the air.

At the door, the bald black man stood with pride, his muscular frame occupied the doorway.  I watched him walk into the house, welcomed by Mother, in such a manner characteristic of a hardcore prayer warrior, never for a minute holding a canal smile. He sank into the sofa and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He shut his eyes to let the comfort seethe in. Mother pulled Anita away to the kitchen while I sat there staring at his motionless mass, completely lifeless with his eyes shut. In a split unexpected second, they flashed open and bore hungrily into mine. I shuddered.

Soon Anita returned with a wide plate of rice and bottle of water. Again I watched him as he shifted his gaze from me and set them on his attendant. His eyes travelled all over her and found repose on her mounds.

The first night we prayed, I became frightened of him. Even though I was not one of the agents of Lucifer he so authoritatively commanded to fall dead and be thrown into the lake of fire. I became frightened because each time our eyes met I saw a terrifying shine in his. His voice tore the night’s silence and when he finally grabbed Anita, I felt the world would end for her. I feared her neck would snap and she would go…I guess that was why she started crying and rolling on the floor while Mother and The monster Prophet screamed ‘die’ at her. After a while she lay still.

In the morning, the night was forgotten.  Anita carried on her chores in quietness. The fire breathing monster from last night was now calmly seated on the sofa. He seemed placated and welcoming.
For no good reason, breakfast was not served and Mother had gone out before the sun came up, she usually did that. My stomach roared like a lion’s den. So when he smiled and beckoned to me I came ungrudgingly. He asked if I was hungry then he took me into his room.

I gazed about the room as if it was the first time I had been in it. The curtains seemed to hand more gloomily and the ceiling fan blew a still breeze. From his big black bag he produced a bar of chocolate, I sat in the on the bed and consumed it desperately. He stood and watched. I looked up to him in appreciation. He smiled, then from his oversized trousers he produced another type of chocolate bar I had never seen before and prodded it into my mouth. It tasted salty.

When Mother barged through the door, it was too late. Anita poked from behind her. I lay on my stomach and he was on top of me, the awkward chocolate bar was in my buttocks, my throat was sore from screaming. Before I passed out I heard Mother shout;

‘Prophet, What are you doing with my son?!

I was Five years old at the time.

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