(Previously on Confessions: Three nights ago in the Kilifi wilderness, under torchlight and drum-thunder, Amadi flayed a boy alive for sport and prophecy. Kot wept. Darce vanished into the crowd. They pressed axes into my hands and told me where to throw. I threw. I missed on purpose. Days later, twenty floors above a sweltering city, Amadi probed why the blade went wide, spoke of patrons who crave gore, and promised we would make a fine team, until Darce walked in and cut him short.)
I have been away for a minute, putting my rumblings on pause. Well, I’ve been lying low, hoping that maybe the journey behind me won’t get to crack my nose when I finally fall on my face.
It’s pretty cool, exhilarating even, weaving this story for you, my dear readers. Even though I may fail to give some intricate details of the escapades, I hope the little I allude to is enough to paint a picture of these woes.
I’m not trying to help my case for the moment when the cuffs finally get slapped on. No, I’m not. I don’t even care whether you feel sorry for my condemned soul or have resentment in your heart for the many unmentionable debaucheries.
My only hope is to rid myself of the ghosts from my past; maybe talking about it is the hope. Or maybe, I'll be spread and gutted like a stag to pay for the screams in the dark.
But before then, I’ll sip a cold Guinness and hope you walk this journey of confessions with me, listening, or rather, read me musing my heart out the moment Darce walked into the room, in all her grace.
“There you are,” Amadi started, getting up from his seat to embrace her. Surprising, it was, considering the last time I saw them together, they were fighting, Amadi sulking like a kicked dog.
“So, you started without me,” Darce, in her usual purr, murmured as she took a seat on a sofa across from me.
“Obi and I were just admiring the view,” Amadi simpered, rubbing powdered hands together and shuffling to take the space beside her.
Darce was wearing a cream suit, a lavender silk shirt, and lavender Louboutins. Her locks were braided and parted from the middle, giving her face a severe look. Amadi had a similar look when we began conversing earlier, I observed.
I knew this had to be a high-stakes meeting, but the absence of Kot unsettled me, though he had been “pulled away by a family matter,” as he put it.
“Hello Obi.”
“Hello, Darce,” I replied calmly.
“Do you know why we asked for this meeting?”
“Kindly solve the riddle,” I replied.
“By now, you must have an idea of the kind of people you’ve got yourselves involved with,” Amadi said.
“Somewhat,” I replied.
“Then you won't be too taken aback by our proposal,” Amadi said, rubbing his hands and looking at Darce excitedly, spittle glistening at the corners of his mouth.
“Some of us want the pleasure of pain, without the bloodletting,” Darce said as a matter of fact, keen not to catch his gaze. “Before Amadi delves into his gore, which I’m sure he can’t wait to get into, note that we are opening a new portfolio we’d like your input on,” she said.
“A dungeon, she wants you to help us design a dungeon, of course,” he could hold himself no longer. “A Victorian one, can you believe that, Obi. My gentle doe desires a house of pain,” the buffoon went on, oblivious to the fuming Darce beside him. Or if he did, he completely ignored her.
