Untitled blood stories

nyashachoga Community member
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The story life gave 'I' to write about The huts surrounding my mothers compound glared at me sorely, as I hunched on my mother's lap weeping.

The story life gave 'I' to write about

The huts surrounding my mothers compound glared at me sorely, as I hunched on my mother's lap weeping.

Me, a grown man, I had exhausted every attempt to relieve myself of my bitter woes, that my mothers lap was the only option I had left.

I held on to her embrace, and felt the flow of her tear drops encircle my neck, hoping to God that I would finally be comforted, by her pure tears and genuine love.

Love that I no longer deserved. I sobbed while my eyes bled. They bled transparent blood.

Not red like the blood I saw on the fields, or in the town center, and even in the soldiers' camp, of dead bodies smeared over the dark soil.

The same blood that turned me into a ruthless monster, who loved his gun and appalling camouflage apparel to match. They told me “you are fighting for your nation”. But they were delusional.

Was I still fighting for my nation when I and my comrades shed innocent civilian blood?

When we chased down men with their families and shot them all dead, and what about when we battered those poor ones in drunken stupor, was that fighting for my nation?

When a bullet from my gun ended the life of a sixteen year old boy?

Nonetheless, I am disappointed by my heart; I'm even shocked I have one.

I thought it ruthless to the point of nonexistence, but daily it summons me from my forgetful sleep, and reminds me of my atrocities.

The killings and the blood wars have finally calmed, no eerie cries or noise can be heard in the night times.

Nothing to keep my afflicted mind engrossed, if it weren't for this my mother's lap that my face is sunk in so deep, I would have lost it to madness.

It seems good to hear silence only, void of the sound of firing guns, void of the desperate cries of men and women, void of the quavers of countrymen screeching,

from the torture I inflicted; but the silence is only an illusion, closing my eyes, I hear them still.

Nobody wants anything to do with me, they're all afraid, they've heard the stories.

My comrades are useless, always in drunken stupor, their hearts still deep under ruthlessness, without a trace of guilt, and profoundly far from repentance.

So I had nowhere else to run, but to my mother’s arms. Without lifting my gaze from her eyes, as hers never from mine.

I wept as I confessed every evil, and placing her two palms firmly against my cheeks in loving assurance.

She never uttered a word, but her tears, her face spelled a thousand, and in a moment I was drawn by her warmth to lay my face on her lap, and we wept together.

I lifted my head slowly, and looked around me; I saw the green veldt, and the grazing cattle, a sight which returned the memory of my innocence during my boyhood,

when I herded our few cattle on those very same veldts. I turned my gaze back to mother, 'mama' I sobbed quietly, “your love is strong mama, that you even love such a wicked man as I”.

“My son,” mother whispered.

“Even I am amazed at this love I feel, I've never loved so much before, only God loves this much, and sometimes He shows us how much he loves us through those around us,

even when we least deserve it.”

This day, my sins have not allowed me freedom from their consequence, but God has allowed me freedom from my sins, and even though I've come to my end, I'm at peace,

accepted by a Savior I only got to know today.

I can feel the cool of a metal on my bald scalp, as I am held at gunpoint by trembling hands, it's Vimbo, he is here to avenge his 16 year old brothers death with my life.

My hands are lifted up in utmost surrender, not so much to my soon to be killer, but to the one who has resurrected my soul from death.

Mama has run away, I told her to hide somewhere very far, poor mama, she couldn't let go of me, but she finally abided.

I begged Vimbo to take me to the mountains, I'd would rather be executed there, than in my mother’s compound.

Afraid that the memories of her sons bleeding corpse would follow her to the grave, I could never allow that. I am ready to meet my Maker, whose blood is life, whose blood makes white.

I regret my past, but my future, though it is yonder, seems much greater.

I lay on a pool of blood. It is my blood. Vimbo has shot me. Let me be gone, away to the pearly gates, where his breath is the air and his light is the sun.

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