By Anthony Nabiliki
On her feet, she wore a staid pair of ‘four storey buildings’. Red pointed ones with arched soles and a loud annoying click-cluck that announced her every step. All eyes in that boardroom were pasted on her, it was almost scary. Disdainful ones, lustful ones, loving ones, those beaming with revenge, my own pair that was stuck on her 2.5cm long skirt, and of course those of lawyer Michel Van Gödel, the only white lawyer in the country who still held enviable relevance in the bar. She gave no single attention to those eyes or the varying thoughts behind them. She just pulled a chair and sunk in it with the grace of the Queen Mother. Friends called her Mona, foes knew her as the black widow.
The tension in the room was a dangling cloud; so dense that a real bukusu rainmaker would have had an easy day in office. Fifteen people, plus the good-old white lawyer were gathered here. It was exactly a week after the cremation of Dr Juma, the billionaire, 70-year-old philanthropist. His will was just about to be read.
About nine months before this day, Mona sat next to the late doctor during the Samaritarian annual awards gala dinner. He was the man of the moment. His charity work at the hospice was being feted. All the speakers during the event had heaps of saintly words to say about Juma.
“Our nation is blessed to have such a noble man as one of her heroes, and leading lights in the medical sector,” said the Prime Minister in his closing remarks.
“Dr Juma, you are not only a brilliant mind, but indeed the embodiment of integrity and good heartedness,” the Tanzanian speaker of the EAC assembly said.
They went on and on, you would think the doctor was one of those guys in heaven with white glistening gowns, halos and wings; and that later on in the evening he would join his gang in humming melodious tunes and plucking on white harps. ‘Angel Juma’ was getting his rightfully earned accolade, Samaritarian Society Man of the Year Award. So when time came for the old man to receive his award, everybody rose to their feet in ovation and hearty clapping. On stage by his side was Mona. I found it beautiful and disturbing at the same time. Like a touching scene from beauty and the beast.
“I would like to thank you all for this honor. I must say… I’m humbled beyond words,” his acceptance speech commenced while the little dove statuette sat pretty on the podium.
He wasn’t much of a public speaker. A stark contrast to the larger than life personality he had single handedly built for himself. So in four minutes flat he had thanked everyone from God, his peers, his late mom, late wife, to the beautiful companion who stood next to him. Nobody seemed to care that the lady the old man referred to as life companion was 40 years his junior. They looked at it like he deserved her.
“He deserved every joyous moment life had the mercies to throw at him,” that seemed to be the common notion. What most people didn’t know, what everybody didn’t know…, was that their most revered doctor was the devil himself; Lucifer in a black bow-tie and a William Fioravanti suit. Immediately he was done with his speech, he fell on that stage with a dull thud. The following months had him sprawled on a hospital bed in vegetative state, with so many pipes on him you’d think the Kennedy Space Center was built on his face.
Juma had the libido of all the 300 angry Spartan soldiers put together. And to match, he was a heartless fuck. He had mildew and fungi in stink comfort where his heart used to be. Mona was the trophy wife. Her job was to always spread a smile across her face to make him look good. And always spread her legs whenever he wanted to make his Viagra ridden self feel good.
When Mrs Juma was found lying lifeless in their 5 bed-roomed palatial home in Runda, everybody would feel pity for the old man. Two heads-of-state would be among the elite who came flooding to condole with the family. As a matter of fact, the whole country would sympathize with Juma, praying that the Lord give him strength during this trying period. There was no need for an autopsy; the general conclusion was that her frail heart had gotten the best of her.
See that was total BS. She was sleeping peacefully when he came in, drunk like a boiled owl, and smothered her to death. With his wife lying dead on the bed, all Juma could do, was curve an ugly grin on his face and admire how fluffy the pillow was. He didn’t care. The wife had become a burden, and he personally dealt with his problems. Besides, she was gonna tell on him. That was about a decade back.
That wasn’t all. Word had it that when Dr Juma’s daughter overdosed on Heroine and Gin, she was carrying his baby. Juma told the whole world that she had succumbed to pneumonia and even went ahead to start a Pneumonia Foundation in her honor. But those who knew her knew the poor girl was so depressed that her heart must have shrunk at some point. Her name was Sera. When Sera turned twelve, her father would crawl into her room and touch her. He touched her a lot. He squeezed her tiny pointed boobs while promising her the world and asking her to be quiet. He would slowly slide his hands up her skirt and play with her. One day he asked her to put his thing in her mouth. She was scared at first, but as years went by, she started loving it. So much so that she looked forward to her father’s soft knock on her door every night. She then grew and realized how sickening it was, it then disgusted her… but Dr Juma wouldn’t stop.
So he raped her. Not once, not twice but repeatedly. When Sera told her mum what was going on, her mum slapped her across the face and prayed fervently trying to exorcise that demon tempting her to make her father look bad. Mrs Juma knew the truth though, but the doctor’s reputation was too huge to mess with. So she just hoped the situation would remedy itself naturally.
When Sera went off to college, it was somewhat of a huge reprieve for her. She got to stay away from her father. In that college, sitting on the outskirts of Kampala is where she met Mona. Mona and Sera became very close. She told Mona all the evil things her dad had done to her. Mona would hold her all night and Sera would cry on her chest as they smoked weed together. They developed a romantic relationship so deep and genuine Shakespeare would kill for a piece of it. They didn’t give a shit when people called them dikes. What mattered to them was that they had each other.
When Sera’s mum died, she became devastated. She turned to chocolates, the Bible and Mona for comfort. She still went further. She discovered nose candy… that’s Cocaine for those of you who don’t Google much. Her sweetheart Mona had relocated to Nairobi and had started working at the A&G Travel Group. Everywhere she went, Mona was easily the sexiest thing on heels. Mona also had those lips… you know, the ones that Jason Kintz talks about in his book that had no title. The strawberry lips? She had long legs that white people go crazy about, but still had a real Ugandan ass where those legs hit stop. She had a unique mocca skin tone that made her look like a refined blend of Janet Jackson and Jlo. Her dad was an original Seychellois, so she had a sinfully beautiful exotic look. She also grew a vengeful heart when her best friend and lover messed herself to death. She knew who was responsible, and wanted them to suffer.
“Hallo Daktari…?” how are you today? Mona had said to Dr Juma when she first spoke to him; that was during Sera’s requiem mass.
“Hallo young lady, have we met before?” he adjusted his spectacles as his sexual instincts started to get purple.
“I am fine sir, I was Sera’s best friend while at Uni in Uganda; we were actually roommates for 3 years.”
“Is that so, it is my pleasure meeting you… aah?”
“Mona, my name is Mona,” she said stretching out her arm for the good doctor to shake.
“Mona, it is a pleasure meeting you. My little angel Sera didn’t have very many friends. It is so thoughtful of you to have come,” and instead of shaking Mona’s hand like a good old man would do, he kissed the back of her hand and winked at her.
Mona knew what she was looking for, so she wasted no time and dug in, “I have always admired you sir, and I not only respect you but regard you as an idol … you are a real man,” she said. “Here is my card, please contact me for anything, anything you need.” It didn’t take long before Dr Juma thought he had scored a ten with Mona. It also wasn’t long before he had made her his wife and was totally under her spell.
Those two got married for exactly two years, four months, six days and four hours before that day at the Samaritarian Awards. The day when Mona slipped some shit that was just as lethal as polonium-210 into the old man’s double shot of Jack Daniels. When he fainted at the gala awards dinner, that was it. He slipped into a weird comma where he was cognizant of everything going on around him, but had no strength to as much as blink. So Mona took that chance to remind him everyday of what he had done to Sera, and everyday that old man shed tears in his vegetative state.
So on this day inside Mr Michel Van Gödel’s boardroom, Mona sat calmly with grief and satisfaction having taken residence in her eyes. Others in the room were Juma’s four sisters, his three brothers, his aunt and her husband, two women that were laying claim on some stake because they were his ‘wives’, two children born out of wedlock, some KRA guy, Juma’s long serving housegirl and of course yours truly. I was here because Mona and I had our own secret that would best remain underwraps… so she called me her brother
“I am not going to waste any time on this, because personally I would like to get over and done with this account once and for all ” says Michel. “The whole estate of Dr Juma has been accounted for in his will. There is no possibility of intestacy here,” he asserts as he stands up to show everybody present that the seal is still intact then proceeds to open it.
“90% of Dr Juma Mutilono Kano’s estate goes to Mrs Mona Mutilono and the remaining 10% goes to Ms Eva Kilewa,” that was Dr Juma’s long serving servant.
And just the same way she walked in, Mona rises and click clucks annoyingly out of the room. An hour later, Mona and I are relaxed at the Thorn Tree Restaurant.
“To my sweetheart Sera,” she says as she raises up her glass. “Keep smiling hun.”
Editing Room Media 