“Reverend Father, I have a confession.”
He motioned me towards the cubicle and went in. I sit cross legged on the floor, avoiding the chairs and breathe deeply, trying to calm my nerves. I should have opted for the usual way of confessions at the cathedral, but today was my last day on earth so I figured it would be meaningless to leave such thoughts behind without a face to it. I turn and stare directly at the Father. He’s an aged man, in his mid eighties but still as agile as a new lamb. I specifically requested he be the one to listen to my confession because after all, he did play a huge role in my decision to take my life. He has a smattering of freckles on the left side of his face alone and a black mole on his upper right lip.
Growing up, we used to fantasize about having kids who had such full hair as the reverend did in his youth. We were aware of this fact only because we had gone snooping through the library located in the cathedral’s premises. We had hoped to grow up and get married to women who would birth us beautiful children, children who everyone would refer to as halfcasts but would not be able to take their eyes off them because of their beauty.
Under the mango tree beside the male hostel, is where my left eye is buried. I lost it in a tussle with a certain old father, one who was loved by all for his undying love and fervor towards the work of our personal lord and saviour, Jesus Christ. He’s probably wherever people like him go when they die. It is but a miracle that I am here to spill this particular story, but my left eye was not the only thing lost to the reverend, oh that included a lot of things; my innocence being top on that list.
You know how the story goes because you were there, weren’t you. Not to get into the gory details but, depriving our minds of a clear image of what transpired over the years seems unfair. Not to worry, I won’t go into that, at least not right now.
