Sunday, 12:00 p.m.;
I have just woken up. For the first time in my life history (that I write daily) I have slept way too much, blame it on the hangover that’s been hanging around like an obsessed clingy lover. And before you raise those eyebrows, I was not into some tomfoolery and activities profane. No, I was alone, not even with my three best friends in the whole wide world, or Major Sang, my ridiculously handsome military man.
When I said I was beginning to get spooked last week I meant it. Turns out that my dealings with Fr. Frank are now posing a threat to national security. I have had Criminal Investigation Department goons of the Kenya Police tailing me, and the National Security Intelligence Service idiots have been onto me like a ton of a thousand bricks.
Fr. Frank broke my fragile heart into pieces when he lied to me. God, I loved him, but he had been lying to me all along. I had not known that he was a priest for the love of God, so anyone ready to drag me to the lectures room better keep it to themselves.
We never really know anyone, that’s what I have come to realize. Dating my legendary TDH for almost over six months, beginning to fall in love only for the laugh of my life to turn out to be a priest hit the lowest of my heart. How could he have lied to me, and called me babe, when he knew that he was in the class of the untouchables, and God forbid, I would be the one labelled the Prostitute of Babylon by the people.
Well, I gave him the boot (tossed nothing out of my house ‘cause he had not moved in, yet) and moved the hell on with my life. But things had started happening days into the breakup. Scary skeletons, horrific may be the word; broke the ground that was Fr. Frank’s long buried past’s grave: he was killer, on trial for killing one Bishop Locati of Isiolo diocese.
Add that to the list of my contempt and disgust towards this man of the cloth, and my stupidity for being taken in for a ride – I had all along dated a priest who was a murderer. Yeah, secrets are not what’s not said but the hidden truths we don’t have time to look for.
Turned out that Fr. Frank is an assassin for the church, trained and protected by the church to carry out its dirty work, thanks to Gwen, one of my best friends, an investigative reporter with the KTN. She and her colleagues have ruled the investigative reporting in this country for as long as God knows, and whenever she dives into the slough of her investigations she surfaces with dead and long buried stuff that scares even the pope. Talk of rushing in where even the angels fear to tread. Do we really no anyone, or anything? I guess no, and these dudes and dudette proves this maxim right.
Due to my dealings with that monster priest six months ago some people think I know way too much, like his criminal life was our pillow talk, so romantic, enhe?
Gwendolyn, my investigative reporter friend of KTN’s Jicho Pevu called me last Wednesday and told me that I was under surveillance. She too was. Apparently she had received threats to stop poking her nose where it shouldn’t. For me, my ladies’ man boss, the hottest foreign hunk in Nairobi and the Editor-in-Chief Yedioth Ahronoth, Kenya, called me to his office and gave me a herculean warning, for the umpteenth time. Who would tell him I’m a girl who never gives up?
The low of the week had come when, desperately, Gwen had called me telling me to look outside my window. That’s when I had known that I was really in real deep shit, courtesy of Fr. Frank. All what I’m required to do is stop my (and Gwen’s) poking our noses into the murder charges of Fr. Frank.
He definitely killed that bishop, and we desperately want to bring him to justice, make him pay for his crimes, tell the world the truth. Later I would learn that the murder is just but a small part of a big operation, as Gwen told me after garnering enough from her snitches. That’s why I was being followed. She even gave me tips on how to spot the idlers and avoid them.
Bearing in mind that here in Kenya, as my friends have told me, both private citizens and organizations’ premises are raided by the police’s secret hit squads without warning, I have been afraid for my life. I could be collateral damage in this whole thing.
The fear attacked me on Friday night bringing along agoraphobia, all the more reason I did not go out for the BaC’s day. The girls were angry, and their hearts hit a sinking low, but it was my butt on the line. So, I unhooked the house phone, diverted all calls and took booze to bed instead of the man I am lending my heart in the hope that he won’t trash it when the lease period is over.
I’m still trying to figure out what to do come tomorrow. The worst thing in life is to live to see what those close to you grow to be. It all started with my father, and my gut tells me he is the epicentre of everything, and it sure would end with him.