By Mateso Kazembe
Kabudula had turned into a thief due to circumstances. Despite being born in a well to do family, he went with school as far as standard 4. This was not because he had been reckless with school just because he came from a rich family, but he was just dull. His parents had tried every possible means to help him. They sent him to schools with good reputations and hired a string of part-time teachers. Nevertheless, it just did not help.
At the age of 12, his parents died when a car they were travelling in plunged into a stationery truck. Being the only child, he had no elder sibling to take care of him. His relatives took the wealth that once belonged to his parents and the young Kabudula was left to fend for himself at an early age.
Soon, he began sleeping under bridges, since no relative was willing to take care of him. Life became hard. He just could not adjust to the new conditions life had offered him. With time, he got used to his plight. Where he had regarded stealing from someone’s garden as bad soon became a means for survival. Scavenging food from dustbins and rubbish pits no longer embarrassed him.
He became more of an animal like as the years progressed. He could kill as long as he saw it as a means of fulfilling his ends. He developed into a smart thief, who knew what to do without raising alarm. His moves were well planned, timed and calculated. For the first time, Kabudula realised this was the career that had been predestined for him.
On one chilly Saturday afternoon, Kabudula was in town to purchase some items from a shop he frequented. He ordered the required items and dipped his hands into his pockets to take his wallet when he realised that something was amiss. His wallet was missing.
He was shocked. He cursed the one who had stolen it and promised himself to skin him alive if he would lay his hands on him. Yet, when he emerged out of the shop, he saw an unfamiliar face beckoning him to stop.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said adding: “you dropped your wallet close to where I do my business.” The lady said handing him the wallet.
Kabudula received it with shaky arms. The lady’s kindness shocked him. There was a breath-taking amount in the wallet that could have increased her business fourfold if she had kept it. He was touched, appalled and amazed with her action. Never in his life, had he seen such kindness.
When his wallet had gone missing, he was aware what his reaction had been like; how hurt his feelings had been and how he had cursed the pickpocket who had stolen it. Yet, he was a thief himself. This made him realise yet another thing: those he had robbed, felt the same way he did when his wallet had gone missing. He instantly realised he had hurt feelings of many people. He was now conscious of the fact that he had been cursed a million times by the people he had robbed.
For the first time he wished he had no past to remember; that his childhood did not happen. He held his relatives accountable for whatever he had become. If he was to choose whether to have memory or not, he chose not to have one. He cried repeatedly that night. He had no peace of mind.
It was this series of events that saw him at church the following Sunday. He could not remember when he had last attended a church service. On this particular day, the atmosphere of the church was tense. The congregation was far much uncomfortable to have him in their midst. No one wished to sit with him on the same bench. The bench he sat on seemed like a forbidden zone that no any church member could enter.
Kabudula’s presence affected everyone. The song leader’s voice was shaky; clapping of hands from the congregation was not uniform and the singing itself was dull. However, gradually one by one voices of the congregation joined the song. Moreover, by the second verse, the congregation was in the mood. It did not take time before the singing gathered energy.
Then somewhere near the pulpit, a woman lapsed into the terrifying arcane grammars of the unknown tongue that manifested itself like some tortured epilepsy of the soul. A moment later, another woman joined her and then another.
Moments later, almost the whole church was speaking in tongues. The atmosphere in the church was electric. And when the song leader waved his arms informing the congregation to stop, the ululations and applause that followed were both deafening and ecstatic.
Then the pastor took the floor. He was slim, handsome and tidy of manner. He gave Kabudula the appearance of being untouchable and fastidious. He opened the bible and read the word of God. As he began preaching, his voice was also shaky. The presence of Kabudula also unnerved him. But slowly the language seized him. His voice lifted, steadied and grew confident. And when it did he took the congregation by storm.
His tongue became a hermitage of inspiration. He preached with astonishment, respect and heart breaking sadness. He illustrated how Jesus was crucified for their sins and how his heart bled when he saw people still doing evil. He pointed out repeatedly that Jesus was crucified again the more they sinned.
As the pastor preached, Kabudula’s heart was on fire. He felt guilty and restless beyond description. He put his enormous hands and wept sadly. The tears rolled between his fingers and down to the back of his hands and wrists. He came apart as if he had thrown a piston in one of the valves of his heart. He pitied himself for the wicked life he had lived.
The congregation was totally astonished. How somebody they considered to have no emotions could cry left them in a state of confusion. Only human beings could cry when they were emotionally upset. But why this man: they shook their heads in disbelief.
As the pastor in closing began an impassioned plea for those who did not know God to come forward and be prayed for, only Kabudula rose from his seat. He walked down the aisle to the altar with the eyes of the congregation upon him. He created a field of disturbance in his passage. He moved with a supple intensity and his face had worn a dark lacquered expressiveness of a sublime wound to the spirit.
Dead silence reigned in the church. There was not a sound except of his footsteps. The phenomenon was extraordinary. Having a man like Kabudula who lived an indecent life receiving Jesus was beyond their imagination.
However, the pastor assured the congregation that anything was okay. He gave an example of a biblical name like Zachaeus during the Jesus era. He informed it that Kabudula’s failures and mistakes had nothing to do with him but raw obliquity of circumstance.
The tension was eased a little bit. They waited to hear him confess; to watch him being baptised in the name of Jesus and accept him as a member of the church.
They watched Kabudula silently as he was trembling all over now. A great sadness had bivouacked in his heart. He burned with the despair that slips up on the powerless and disinherited. As he began confessing, tears were cascading down his plump cheeks.
“I no longer want memories of my past wicked deeds to be tormenting me,” he began. He explained how circumstances created what he was; how he had mastered his profession; how he could kill without raising alarm and how he robbed banks without the police tracing him.
“The two daughters of the village headman you found dead with their private parts missing beside the river were killed by me,” he added.
As he progressed, the listeners became more confused. They began losing heart. They groaned and murmured in protest as they were struck by the confessions. Stories that were still under investigations became uncovered.
As Kabudula confessed further having raped the pastor’s wife, the revelation struck him like lightening. It paralysed his whole body. Instantly he was maddened and shook with rage. He could take in no more.
The pastor waved his arm in the air signalling him to stop. Anger was written all over his face. As his confessions were brought to an abrupt end, Kabudula realised the mistake he had done. He had taken it for granted that the congregation would take his indecent confessions as men of God. He regretted having erred in his judgement. Immediately, he realised that the congregation would skin alive if he did not take immediate action.
However, he was too late. There were CIDs in the congregation who were investigating the series of crimes that had happened in the area the previous month. One approached him and snapped a handcuff around his wrists, and led him out of the church for further questioning at the Police station.
A week later, when Kabudula appeared in court, he offered no defence for himself. He chose no lawyer to represent him. In addition, he confessed to the Judge that what he had been doing was terribly wrong and he had no excuses for his actions.
At the age of 12, his parents died when a car they were travelling in plunged into a stationery truck. Being the only child, he had no elder sibling to take care of him. His relatives took the wealth that once belonged to his parents and the young Kabudula was left to fend for himself at an early age.
Soon, he began sleeping under bridges, since no relative was willing to take care of him. Life became hard. He just could not adjust to the new conditions life had offered him. With time, he got used to his plight. Where he had regarded stealing from someone’s garden as bad soon became a means for survival. Scavenging food from dustbins and rubbish pits no longer embarrassed him.
He became more of an animal like as the years progressed. He could kill as long as he saw it as a means of fulfilling his ends. He developed into a smart thief, who knew what to do without raising alarm. His moves were well planned, timed and calculated. For the first time, Kabudula realised this was the career that had been predestined for him.
On one chilly Saturday afternoon, Kabudula was in town to purchase some items from a shop he frequented. He ordered the required items and dipped his hands into his pockets to take his wallet when he realised that something was amiss. His wallet was missing.
He was shocked. He cursed the one who had stolen it and promised himself to skin him alive if he would lay his hands on him. Yet, when he emerged out of the shop, he saw an unfamiliar face beckoning him to stop.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said adding: “you dropped your wallet close to where I do my business.” The lady said handing him the wallet.
Kabudula received it with shaky arms. The lady’s kindness shocked him. There was a breath-taking amount in the wallet that could have increased her business fourfold if she had kept it. He was touched, appalled and amazed with her action. Never in his life, had he seen such kindness.
When his wallet had gone missing, he was aware what his reaction had been like; how hurt his feelings had been and how he had cursed the pickpocket who had stolen it. Yet, he was a thief himself. This made him realise yet another thing: those he had robbed, felt the same way he did when his wallet had gone missing. He instantly realised he had hurt feelings of many people. He was now conscious of the fact that he had been cursed a million times by the people he had robbed.
For the first time he wished he had no past to remember; that his childhood did not happen. He held his relatives accountable for whatever he had become. If he was to choose whether to have memory or not, he chose not to have one. He cried repeatedly that night. He had no peace of mind.
It was this series of events that saw him at church the following Sunday. He could not remember when he had last attended a church service. On this particular day, the atmosphere of the church was tense. The congregation was far much uncomfortable to have him in their midst. No one wished to sit with him on the same bench. The bench he sat on seemed like a forbidden zone that no any church member could enter.
Kabudula’s presence affected everyone. The song leader’s voice was shaky; clapping of hands from the congregation was not uniform and the singing itself was dull. However, gradually one by one voices of the congregation joined the song. Moreover, by the second verse, the congregation was in the mood. It did not take time before the singing gathered energy.
Then somewhere near the pulpit, a woman lapsed into the terrifying arcane grammars of the unknown tongue that manifested itself like some tortured epilepsy of the soul. A moment later, another woman joined her and then another.
Moments later, almost the whole church was speaking in tongues. The atmosphere in the church was electric. And when the song leader waved his arms informing the congregation to stop, the ululations and applause that followed were both deafening and ecstatic.
Then the pastor took the floor. He was slim, handsome and tidy of manner. He gave Kabudula the appearance of being untouchable and fastidious. He opened the bible and read the word of God. As he began preaching, his voice was also shaky. The presence of Kabudula also unnerved him. But slowly the language seized him. His voice lifted, steadied and grew confident. And when it did he took the congregation by storm.
His tongue became a hermitage of inspiration. He preached with astonishment, respect and heart breaking sadness. He illustrated how Jesus was crucified for their sins and how his heart bled when he saw people still doing evil. He pointed out repeatedly that Jesus was crucified again the more they sinned.
As the pastor preached, Kabudula’s heart was on fire. He felt guilty and restless beyond description. He put his enormous hands and wept sadly. The tears rolled between his fingers and down to the back of his hands and wrists. He came apart as if he had thrown a piston in one of the valves of his heart. He pitied himself for the wicked life he had lived.
The congregation was totally astonished. How somebody they considered to have no emotions could cry left them in a state of confusion. Only human beings could cry when they were emotionally upset. But why this man: they shook their heads in disbelief.
As the pastor in closing began an impassioned plea for those who did not know God to come forward and be prayed for, only Kabudula rose from his seat. He walked down the aisle to the altar with the eyes of the congregation upon him. He created a field of disturbance in his passage. He moved with a supple intensity and his face had worn a dark lacquered expressiveness of a sublime wound to the spirit.
Dead silence reigned in the church. There was not a sound except of his footsteps. The phenomenon was extraordinary. Having a man like Kabudula who lived an indecent life receiving Jesus was beyond their imagination.
However, the pastor assured the congregation that anything was okay. He gave an example of a biblical name like Zachaeus during the Jesus era. He informed it that Kabudula’s failures and mistakes had nothing to do with him but raw obliquity of circumstance.
The tension was eased a little bit. They waited to hear him confess; to watch him being baptised in the name of Jesus and accept him as a member of the church.
They watched Kabudula silently as he was trembling all over now. A great sadness had bivouacked in his heart. He burned with the despair that slips up on the powerless and disinherited. As he began confessing, tears were cascading down his plump cheeks.
“I no longer want memories of my past wicked deeds to be tormenting me,” he began. He explained how circumstances created what he was; how he had mastered his profession; how he could kill without raising alarm and how he robbed banks without the police tracing him.
“The two daughters of the village headman you found dead with their private parts missing beside the river were killed by me,” he added.
As he progressed, the listeners became more confused. They began losing heart. They groaned and murmured in protest as they were struck by the confessions. Stories that were still under investigations became uncovered.
As Kabudula confessed further having raped the pastor’s wife, the revelation struck him like lightening. It paralysed his whole body. Instantly he was maddened and shook with rage. He could take in no more.
The pastor waved his arm in the air signalling him to stop. Anger was written all over his face. As his confessions were brought to an abrupt end, Kabudula realised the mistake he had done. He had taken it for granted that the congregation would take his indecent confessions as men of God. He regretted having erred in his judgement. Immediately, he realised that the congregation would skin alive if he did not take immediate action.
However, he was too late. There were CIDs in the congregation who were investigating the series of crimes that had happened in the area the previous month. One approached him and snapped a handcuff around his wrists, and led him out of the church for further questioning at the Police station.
A week later, when Kabudula appeared in court, he offered no defence for himself. He chose no lawyer to represent him. In addition, he confessed to the Judge that what he had been doing was terribly wrong and he had no excuses for his actions.
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