SHORT STORY

The Black Bag

It was noon. The muezzin was proclaiming the hours of prayer from the miniaret of the giant mosque that stood at the heart of Kabula city. At this hour, the streets were busy. Hooting sounds and that of people moving up and down the streets contaminated the air.

Kabudula was miserable from cold and hunger. It was now a month that he had been chasing shadows; leaving his home at the crack of dawn, walking a good 20 km on foot to town and returning home with no job. A load of financial straits had clutched him in a tighter and tighter vice and was about to crash him to death. Rent was four months overdue and the landlord had just served him with an eviction notice to leave the house by the end of that week after becoming weary of his unending pleas.

His family was in dire poverty and heading toward a crisis. To them, life was both hard going and a long march of terror. It was a family that subsisted on food from friends, neighbours and relatives. In some cases, Kabudula wheedled money from friends under the pretext of his son or wife being sick.

On this day, he had nothing to take home again just as it had been for the past four days. However, he had strained every nerve to take home something but to no avail. Of course, his wife was understanding. She remained a lady with a stout heart, still loving and that put on a semblance of gaiety as if every thing was fine. Her cachet laid in the fact that she was reticent about the prevailing problems. But still he felt he had to take something. His family was starving.

As he headed home, his legs felt stiff and with the gnawing pains of hunger tormenting him, he knew he would die if he forced himself to walk on.

He flagged down a minibus and got into it. At the next stage, a comely lady with a stunning figure entered into the minibus. She had put on a sumplous skin tight blouse and a tight provocative skirt. Her braided hair had a sheen like gold; her face was tatted in cologne and her yellow earrings adorned her face even further. Despite having an aura of pride and excess vanity about her, she was a delightful sight because every male gave her a lascivious look. She carried a black bag and came to sit next to Kabudula and deposited the bag between her legs and his.

At the next stage, every passenger went out, except him and the lady. She got out at the next stop leaving her bag behind. In that instance, Kabudula was about to tell her about the bag, but then realised that this was an opportunity not to be sneezed at. Plight of his family came back to him with all its cold and aching pain. What if he was to take the bag and sell its contents? His starving family would be rescued. If the lady had forgotten it, well, he would seize it. After all he was getting down at the next stop and he being the only passenger who would ask about the bag? The gods had smiled at him finally.

“Oh my God!” the conductor screamed interrupting his train of thoughts, “That lady has forgotten her bag.”

Kabudula looked up at him in feigned surprise: “What? You mean this?” he asked hastily forcing a smile, “It’s mine.”

However, the conductor was not amused. He took a swift look at his skimpily made and heavily patched trousers, his chapped and rough lips and then corrugated his forehead.

“That’s is a whooping lie I’ve ever heard you old baboon. You can’t fool me. I saw that lady bring it in,” the conductor retorted with a snarl and then in a twinkling of an eye, snapped a finger at the lady and told her of the bag.

Kabudula’s heart somersaulted. Plight of his family had goaded him to go against his Christian principles. A sinking feeling crept into his stomach. He was in a tizzy and his inside was quacking in fear. He had yielded to the temptation of easy profit and it had backfired. He was now sweating at every pore and his hope hinged on the outcome.

However, the lady shot a cursory glance at the conductor and shrugged her shoulders indicating the bag didn’t belong to her. Immediately, the conductor was conscious stricken. He hastily spluttered out hollow apologies, swallowed hard and wiped sweat from his brow.

“You thought I couldn’t own this, don’t you?” Kabudula fumed with feigned vehemence and a glaring look and again the conductor bleated out an apology. He felt a great relief. He had gambled with fate and it had paid dearly. Lady luck had smiled at him.

As he got out of the old rickety minibus, he emitted doxologies. The bag immediately attracted attention. People seemed to wonder how a pitiful sight like him could carry such a splendid bag. A fever of curiosity, anxiousness and expectancy seized him. He longed to reach home quickly and see the treasure in the bag.

He walked home at a terrific pace and arrived deadbeat. His family was agog with the bag. Their eyes kindled with excitement. For the first time, his family was happy.

Kabudula unzipped the bag beaming with perfect aplomb to view the contents, but suddenly his knees felt weak. He was overcome with compunction. He could not believe what he saw. His wife was stunned too. It was a ghastly sight. A dead body that could not have been born more than six hours before: a naked-white, curly-haired image of death. He gasped and felt sick. He had to support himself by cringing to his wife.