How do I begin this story?, from my murder, my ungrateful family that I loathe yet help anyway, or my cheating mistress? God, I hate them all. It may sound sick to you, but if you’ve lived my life, you would try to make sense of my feeling. It feels like a black hole in my heart and it just goes on and on. Volumes and volumes of emptiness, surrounded by teeth gritting, mouth clenching pain, pulling all the light around me and turning it to darkness. It always hurts. These people, they are the black hole in my heart and they have not a clue. These people.
I married a woman I didn’t know, and I told myself that we would get to know each other someday, but it’s been thirty years and I still have no clue who the hell Hauwa is. Her lovers though, I know every single one of them, from where they grew up, to their dreams and ambitions. There have been three of them, always light skinned, always younger, and always dumber. She’s always perfect, never a hair out of place, never not smiling, not a single wrinkle on her face, and her clothes, always crisp ironed. She makes everyone around her smile and people say she’s a delightful conversationalist. I wonder what they would say if they knew she murdered the last lover who blackmailed her. She would stab herself if it was ever revealed, that part of her, I know very well.
My twenty nine year old son Abdul who makes a living off of thinking he’s extorting me, still lives with me, is a drug addict and spends every night making love to my mistress who is supposed to be my nurse, Stella. Stella satisfies me, gives me my medications, rubs my head and tell me to go to bed early for the sake of my health and then goes to meet my son waiting for her in her room, then they make love, over and over again every night. The rest of my family, my brothers, and my aunt are more of the reasons why I’m about to go bankrupt, and I loathe them equally.
I hate myself too. An old sixty five year old man, with money that I do not care for, crippled miserable and depressed. Every day I sit in my library and plan a thousand ways to kill myself, and then I strike them out and repeat. None ever really gives me the feeling I want, but on the 7th of January 2020 I figured it out and I knew because I felt something I hadn’t felt inside in a really long time. People would usually call them butterflies. On the surface, it was a simple, yet classy plan, to kill myself and frame my family for my murder. If you look deeper, you’ll find that they were so many pieces I needed to put together to make it all make sense, but I have spent years of my life planning my death. It will be a grand exit.
Everything grand begins with a feast. It will begin with me inviting my family and soon to be murder suspects for a lavish new year’s Dinner. Over the years I’ve learnt that my family enjoy things like dinners, weddings, and social gatherings, it’s strange because all they do is judge each other and fight. Everyone gets to do what they are good at. My wife would enjoy being charming, my son enjoys the thrill of doing dangerous and risky things in family gatherings, and so does Stella. My brothers would find the opportunity to complain about their businesses failing, and my Aunt would try to guilt trip me into sending her children abroad to study, bailing her junkie son from prison, or paying for her nonexistent weekly therapy sessions. This dinner will be the final one and it will be much much different.
I’ll let them eat and drink, ask them about their lives and occasionally fake a smile, maybe I’ll even smile for real. After which I’ll propose a toast to long life and happiness, before telling them that I’ve decided to donate more than half of my fortune to charity in my will. I’ll give a speech about wanting them to appreciate the value of life by working hard for everything they want; it would be a load of bullshit. I’ll watch those fools fight and shout over lost fortune, all but my wife. She’ll be as calm as ever, Abdul on the other hand will definitely break glasses and perhaps something valuable in the house, then storm off and try to take off in his car, but it won’t start, no car in the house will. My brothers and aunt will engage in a screaming match, until one of them gets tired and lands a punch. Hauwa would then try to talk some sense to me in private and I’ll suggest the library because it’ s the closest to the living room, and if she raises her voice, they’ll hear her. She will raise her voice when I tell her I know about her affairs, and about my affairs with Stella. I hope she does, and if she doesn’t I still have a secret weapon. It’s my journal, cliché, an old wealthy man with a journal.
My journal will reveal all the darkest secrets and will be found in the most convenient places to find. I’ve written about my wife’s affairs, confronting her with it, my affair with Stella, my sons affair with Stella, confronting him with it. It’s a perfect web. I’ll also suspect Stella of mixing up my doses, and I’ve attached to my journal receipts and proof of every dime every member of my family have stolen from my company and I in the past year. The journal is the piece that ties it all.
After the dramatic dinner, I’ll wait until everyone goes to bed, just after midnight on the 13th of January. I’ve always planned for it to be on an odd date. I’ll be wearing my favourite pajamas, not that it matters anyway and I’ll disable all the cameras in the house. It will begin in my library. I’ll send a text message to my friend the commissioner of police, ‘they are going to kill me. Find my journal’ then I’ll make a cut on my arm, dripping little amounts of blood on the milk carpet, then I’d go through the window, leaving my Aunts favourite scarf hanging from the window. I’ll go through the back yard, into the woods, dripping blood on the floor, and making blooded hand prints on some of the trees, dropping my brother’s ring along the way. I’ll go straight to the lake. I know what you’re thinking, but no I’m not dying by drowning, it’s way too stressful a way to die, it will take too long. I’ll tie myself with a rope attaching Hauwa’s loubotin heel to it, and then inject myself with an over dose of heroine, who knew having a son with a drug addiction would be a pro someday . I stole an injection from my Stella, and heroine from Abdul ; and then jump into the water. I’ll be dead in a matter of minutes, dead, and I feel nothing even as I write this. It will feel the same.
The goal is not to frame a single person more than the other; it will all depend on how smart they play the game after my death. My will would be read in a press conference, after a year of court trials. It will be too hard to prove, so I know trial will be ongoing. My beloved family and mistress, they’ll get nothing from my will, but their freedom. I hope they treasure it more than they would have the money, but frankly I’d be dead, I wouldn’t care.
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