I remembered clearly the first time I stood in front of crowd and told a story. My listeners were bored. Some of them yawned. A few of them left before I finished my story.
The talent of storytelling has been passed from my grandfather to my father and I keep asking myself why I failed to get this talent from my fatherWhat crimes had I committed that God had robbed this talent from me.
I was miserable. I was restless. I was a tortured soul. My life has no meaning if I cannot become a storyteller.
My father said: Maybe you are not born to tell stories. But everyone has a talent. You just have to explore your other talents. You just have to find out what you are good at.
I explained angrily: I do not want to explore my other talents. I just want to have one talent. I want to be a storyteller, just like you. If I cannot become a storyteller, my life has no meaning
A week later, I found my mother was waiting for me in my room. She said: I could make your dreams come true. I could make you a great storyteller.
My mother told me a secret that was buried in her heart for years.
I have not told this secret to anyone, not even your father, my mother said.
You are the first one to hear this story.
For many generations, the women in my mothers family were witches and they worshipped the devil called Nabuka.
My mother said: My great grandmother was a witch My grandmother was a witch My mother was a witch I was a witch. But I have never practiced sorcery. I do not want to be a witch. I do not want the devil in my life. I want to be normal.
Now, it is a different story. I cannot see my son in sadness. I can make your dream a reality through black magic. I would worship the devil. But there is a price to pay to make your dream come true. I am willing to pay any price to become a storyteller, I said.
Then, you must get married, my mother said.
I did what my mother told me. I managed to win the heart of a girl named Malena who runs a florist shop in our town. Malena was foolish enough to believe that I was madly in love with her. But I was only using her to make my dreams come true. We had a modest garden wedding.
Now, you must get her pregnant, my mother said.
A month after our marriage, Malena told me the good news that I was waiting for I was going to be father She was going to be a mother My mother was going to be a grandmother My father was going to be a grandfather.
Now, we have to wait for the baby to be born, I said.
The day finally came when Malena went into labour. She gave birth to a healthy baby boy. She lost a lot of blood. I wanted to save her. But my mother stopped me.
You have to let her die, my mother said.
The Devil needs you to make the sacrifice, she said.
After suffering many hours, Malena finally died. But the ritual was far from over.
Now, you have to kill your son, my mother said.
You have to slit his throat and collect his blood in a bowl. The Devil requires you to make this sacrifice.
My hand trembles. To kill the woman you dont love was easy. But to kill your own flesh and blood was a different story.
My mother said: You cannot afford to have second thoughts. You must do it, now. Kill your son.
I put aside my emotions. I stopped trembling. Heartlessly, I did what my mother instructed.
Now, strip and sit in the bathtub, my mother said.
She took the bowl filled with my sons blood. She whispered some spell over the bowl. Then, she poured the blood from the bowl all over me. From head to toe, I was covered with red.
Now, you can wash yourself clean, she said.
After seven days, the Devil will make your dream come true. You will become the greatest storyteller ever to walk on this earth.
After I took my bath, I helped my mother to bury my wife and my newborn son in our backyard. I told everyone that Malena had gone to my aunts place in a different town to give birth.
My aunty is a midwife, I said.
She knows how to take care of Malena and her child, I said.
A few days later I told everyone that Malena and my newborn child did not survive the childbirth.
I had buried my wife and my son at my aunts place, I said.
Nobody suspects anything. Seven days later, I decided to tell my second story to the crowd.
I do not feel any different, I told my mother.
My mother said: Do not worry. Just tell your story and a miracle will take place. It is not only God who can perform miracles. Trust me. Trust your instincts. Trust the Devil. Just tell your story. The Devil will not let you down.
My mother was right. The Devil did not let me down. This time I had everyones attention. No one was bored. No one left before I finished my story. My mothers spell had worked brilliantly. At the end of my story, everyone was on their feet, giving me a standing ovation. My father hugged me and said: I am proud of you.
I could not believe finally I have become a great storyteller, just like my grandfather and my father.
Having big smile on her face, my mother hugged me and whispered in my ears: I told you that the Devil will not let us down.
But I was haunted by what I had done. My conscience will not forgive me. Many nights I had nightmares where I saw Malena, covered in blood, carrying her baby in her arms, begging for mercy. I wake up drenched in sweat.
I said: Malena is haunting me in my sleep.
My mother said: You have to learn to control your emotions. You must understand that nothing in life comes free. If God doesnt want you to commit this sin, then God should have made you to be a great storyteller. It is Gods fault.
Over time, I have learned to kill my conscience. I no longer feel guilty. I no longer had nightmares about Malena.
A year later what I had done catches up with me. My father wanted to retire as a storyteller and concentrate on his new hobby, gardening.
He wanted to hire a contractor to build a greenhouse at our backyard where my mother and I had buried my wife and my son. Of course, I was afraid the contractor and his workers might accidentally discover the bodies.
I could not allow my father to build the greenhouse he wanted. I told my father the truth of what I have done. My father was shocked. It was then my father had to tell me the truth.
My mother did not come from a family of witches. Nobody in her family practiced black magic. There was no devil called Nebuka.
Your mother was a great storyteller, too, my father said.
The only difference is she cannot tell the difference between what fiction is and what is real. She gets immersed in her stories. She becomes one of the characters in her stories. What she told you was total lie. She could be playing one of the characters in her story. Her father was a preacher and her mother was just a housewife.
I did not tell you earlier about your mother because I do not want you to be ashamed to have a mother who is not mentally sound.
I could not believe I had killed an innocent woman and my own flesh and blood for nothing. I was furious. I want to strangle my mother. But my dad had stopped me.
Your mother is not to be blamed solely, my father said.
She is not well. You were ambitious. You were willing to do anything to make your dream come true. If you have to strangle any one, then strangle me. I have kept this secret from you. I am the guilty one. Strangle me. I am the one who had made you a killer. Not your mother.
I broke down. I cried like a baby. My father was hugging me. My father was consoling me. I should not have believed every word that my mother told me. I should have known there are some mothers you cannot trust.
