It is 2:30am in Dallas. I am standing in the middle of the living room of our 4 bedroom house. Clenched in my right hand is a 9mm Smith and Wesson pistol that I purchased at a Pawn shop in Garland last week. At the bottom of my feet lies Maria, my wife. Her lifeless brown eyes, staring into the abyss. A gaping hole from where the bullet ripped through, punctuates her throat. Spouts of blood streak out of her neck veins. Yes, I did it. I just shot my wife. Tomorrow the news will spread like wildfire. Davy aliua bibi yake. Jambonewspot will have a predictable headline, “Kenyan man in Dallas murders wife.”
On Facebook will be the usual tributes and memorials of Maria. Of how” a beautiful person was taken from us”. How they loved her, but “God loved her more.” There will be anger from the usual noisemakers. Davy how could you? How could you kill your wife? Why couldn’t you just leave her? A go-fund me account will be set up by the Kisiis in Arlington. You know how kisiis love fund raisers. There will be meetings in Arlington all week. They will eventually send her body home, and I.
I will be either dead or in jail.
A deathly silence envelopes the living room. I can hear my heart beating rapidly. Beads of seat forming on my forehead. It wasn’t meant to be like this. This was not how the story was supposed to end. The slow realization of what I have just done hits me. I look at Maria’s lifeless body lying in a pool of blood on the carpet. Her mother gave us that carpet on our wedding day. Now the vibrant Persian colors are stained with a crimson hue. The kids are in the next room.
Oh gosh! The kids!
Half running, half walking, I rush upstairs to the kids bedroom. I open the door slowly, and with the light streaking from the hallway, I observe their little sleeping bodies still warmly tucked in their beds.
What happened you ask. Why did I just shoot dead the mother of my children?
Our story begins in Buru Buru. It was 1998. We had both just sat our K.C.S.E national examinations. Maria, a bright student at State House girls was confident she had passed. Me, not so sure. As we awaited our results in the weeks that followed, we hang out in church during the day and most evenings.
You see in those days, everyone was saved. Everyone was a bible brandishing, demon casting, born again Christian. Even the family dogs were saved. Our parents did not play. As for me and my house we will serve the Lord, was taken very seriously in these parts. No one was missing the rapture. In all honestly, I wished the rapture would come before the results were out. Rather go to heaven by the hand of God than the hand of my father.
Our love was birthed out of innocence. Our hopes for the future like a bright meteor. Maria was a beautiful site to behold. Half Maasai, half Kisii, her beautiful brown Abagusii skin , enveloped her body like a mink coat. Her buttocks shaped a like an angels tear drop, caused me to apologize to Jesus for my lust. She was my love and I, hers.
So when the KCPE results were finally released, we were both glad that the rapture had not taken place. Our passing grades of A- and B+ meant that we had a chance at crafting a successful path. She chose Kenyatta University, and I chose University of Texas. 4 years later, I would graduate with a degree in Supply Chain Management and obtain an Operations role with Amazon. The metrics driven environment was difficult, but the six figure salary was worth it. I finally had enough money to bring my lovely Maria to America.
In 2004 Maria got her fiancé visa to join me in Texas. Finally, Maria and I would be together again. And so the day finally arrived and with my best friend Charlo, we waited anxiously for Maria’s arrival at Terminal D, in DFW airport. I paced anxiously by the exit, wondering if she was okay at the Customs check. Charlo casually browsing on his iPhone, lifted his face and noticed that I was a nervous wreck. “It’s okay Davy, she’ll be here soon.” I shook my head, taking a deep breath in affirmation. Then after what seemed like an eternity, the doors of the terminal doors flung wide open.
A steady stream of international arrivals with their suit cases filled with hopes and dreams, weary bodies that looked like they needed a good night’s rest, streamed through the walk way. My head weaved and bopped as I tried to catch a glimpse of my Maria. Then there she was. My Maria, her angelic beauty and keen Abagusii features with that unmistakable Maasai smile walking towards me. I couldn’t wait for her to reach me. I ran towards her and she leaped towards my open arms.
We hugged. We cried. We kissed. The final piece of the puzzle was here.
So here I am, thinking about that day, while she lies dead downstairs. What happened, you ask?
My friend, life happened. America happened. Shit happened.
Something terrible happens when couples come to America. Like an unbreakable curse, our destiny lies in heartbreak and broken dreams. Our thirst for success and the inevitable culture shock eventually drives us to madness. We try to fill our loneliness by drowning in alcohol and the continuous parties. The fliers, you cannot escape them. The promoters tagging you in every party. The red and black affair. The grown and sexy affair. They are everywhere. And soon, you and your wife start attending different parties. She goes out with her girls, and you go out with your boys. Inevitably, you grow apart. Lonely and broken, someone eventually strays from the fold of marriage.
And so it was with Maria and I. our long work days, the weekend spent partying instead of spending family time killed our once bright love.
A word of advice from someone who just killed his wife. Don’t drink with wolves. You buy each other beers but secretly banging each other’s wives. That is the norm here in Dallas. Our shame has no boundaries. So after suspecting it for a few months, I finally got confirmation.
A mutual friend sent me a Whatsapp screenshot of Charlo bragging about how he was banging my Maria. A lump formed in my throat. How could my own best friend do this? How could my wife do this to me, after I brought her to America? And so I made that fateful trip to the pawn shop in Garland. I didn’t care what type of gun I bought. I was blinded my pain and anger.
“Where are you?” I texted Maria. No answer. I called. No answer. So I drove to Charlo’s apartment and waited. Then I saw her. There she was exiting Charlo’s apartment. She wasn’t alone. Our children were with her. God knows what they were doing when my own son and daughter were right there in the apartment. The searing pain when I saw Charlo kiss my own wife goodbye cannot be described. So I followed her home. Once she was home, I waited. Wsiting for her to put the kids to sleep.
I pondered. How?Why? How could she?
When I walked through those doors, I knew that our lives were about to change. I was going to take my kids and leave. She could go to Charlo’s house for all I cared, but the kids were going to stay with me. So I confronted her. At first Maria denied it. But when I told her, that I had seen her leave Charlo’s house, she knew the gig was up. With a smile, she said, “Charlo is more of a man than you will ever be. He treats me like a real woman. While you are at the bar drinking, he is checking on me. I’m just not feeling this relationship anymore. We argue too much, even in public.”
She was right. Our relationship had turned toxic. I had lost my temper a few times when I ran into her dancing with another man at the club. I may have slapped her around a few times at the house. “I am taking the kids with me”, I told her. She scoffed at me, “I am in America now, this house will be mine and those kids upstairs , I’ll have full custody. I already saw a lawyer last week.”
That is when I lost it. This was my house. I had bought it right after I graduated. This kids were ours. I raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger. Just like that. The woman I loved, was dead by my own hand.
I can hear sirens outside. The neighbors must have heard the gun shot. I kiss our kids good bye. Maria and I made some beautiful babies. Nothing I can do now. I walk over to my office, pour a glass of whiskey and take one final swig. Goodbye world. I lift the gun and shove it in my mouth. Right between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. I don’t know if you’ve ever tasted the muzzle of a gun. The taste of nitroglycerin from the gun powder is metallic yet paradoxically sweet. I pull I squeeze the trigger, one last time.
You can go update your Facebook status now. The kisiis in Arlington can now arrange another fundraiser. You may now proceed to point your righteous fingers at me. The coward who killed his wife and took his own.
But as your thumbs type on your screens, remember, you all helped me pull the trigger. All of you bastards. When Maria showed up at the baby showers with a black eye, you took her at her word that she fell. When Charlo, was banging my wife behind my back, you laughed and bought him another beer. When we came to your church and saw the misery on our face, you said, we will pray for you. In Jesus we have the answer.
Well, Maria and I are about to meet Jesus. After our funeral nothing will change. The culture will still remain the same. We will still cheat. We will still tolerate domestic violence with an air of dismissal. Nothing will change. You may now also, shoot your wife.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The wording of this disclaimer differs from jurisdiction to jurisdiction, and from country to country, as does its legal effectiveness.