Munachi

|Chapter 1|

Presently.

It's a very narrow cell. Just about six feet by six feet, with iron bars in the only small window set up in the wall. In a corner, is a chamberpot and a bucket of water as a toilet facility. Huddle in the narrow bed, heavily wrap in blankets, is the lonely figure of me.

A rush of wind blows through the iron grilled door, and my teeth chatters from the cold, and the fear of what lies ahead.

"Hey!" screams the warden, as he unlocks the iron door. "Get out!"

I'm being interrogated again. This time there are two interrogators. I believe they're playing the good cop and bad cop with me. The one I assume is the bad cop, bangs his fist onto the wooden table in front of me. I flinch, weeping uncontrollably.

"Why?! Why did you kill him?!" he screams at me.

"I didn't. I didn't murder him," I say, shaking my head vigorously.

Flashback.

I remember screaming . . .

"Leave me alone, don't touch me!"

"Who the hell do you think you are, telling me what to do?" He pushes me and I fall to the floor.

"Please," I plead, crawling away from him. But he slowly follows behind me, reaches down, grabs hold of my legs and drags me across the floor.

I resist, kicking him in his stomach. But his tight grip on my legs are impossible to escape from. "Get away from me!" I shout, kicking still.

I remember him punching me . . .

"Help!" I yell, crying out desperately. "Somebody help!"

I remember wobbling to my feet, grabbing the knife next to him where he lays, lifting my arms into the mid-air, and plunging the knife into his chest . . .

Presently.

"Answer me!"

I flinch again. And at that moment, I feel some hotness, gradually burning against my thighs. It feels so sweet and steamy. A welcoming warmth. Then suddenly, it dawn on me, my bladder has open of its own volition and I'm wetting myself. I can't seem to stop the flow, until nature take its full course.

Bed wetting is something I never remember doing all my life. Ma, and that was my mother, liked me for that. I stopped bed wetting before I attain the age of two. I despise bed wetting habit when I was little. I saw it as a kind of illness which needed to be treated. And now, I feel really terrible.

Mr. Interrogator can't believe what he just witnessed. So, I'm sent back to my cell with a fresh prison uniform.
Now, I sit on the cold floor at the corner of my cell. My thoughts goes back to all the calamities I've been through for the past few years. I begin to sob, covering my face with both of my hands. Seconds on, after my emotions are spent, I console myself. I wipe my tears with the sleeve of my uniform.

No. I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't be weeping. It's no time for self-pity. I just have to gird my loins and fight back. I stand, walk over to my bed, kneel down and utter some few prayers.