The Flowing Pen - An Anthology

Crime of Passion - Part 1

Author's  Note

Thank you for reading this story. This is based on a true story. Please vote and leave a comment.
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Long before the prison truck reached the courthouse, I could hear them: the high pitched and passion-animated voices of demonstrators calling for the immediate lynching of Ben Damba.

"HANG BEN DAMBA! HANG THE WIFE BASHER!"

The sound grew louder as the truck got closer, and when it slowed down to turn into the fenced off backyard, the din was accompanied by rhythmic and harsh pounding on the truck's sides. The truck moved on and the pounding stopped as the gates closed behind us, but the yells and curses followed us inside, not diminished by the razor wire topped fence keeping the protestors out.

I sat still on the hard metal bench bolted to the truck's  floor, my manacled hands between my knees, my fingers toying with the sturdy chain that connected my handcuffs to my leg irons and to the floor. The khaki jumpsuit hung on me like a scarecrow's costume. I was so thin every time the truck bounced over Mutare's uneven roads, I could feel my bones rattling. Four months in remand prison do that to you. And the a diet of two slices of mouldy bread and a plate of watery porridge does not exactly build your body.

"Getting popular by the day, are we?" The booming voice belonged to Officer Manyama, the prison guard who rode in the back of the truck with me. He was tall and muscular,  his biceps taxing the sleeves of his olive green uniform shirt.

I simply stared at the floor, not feeling like getting into conversation with the friendly officer. After all, what was there to talk about? According to the uninformed people outside the courthouse, I was already convicted and they were sentencing me to death. I had not seen a cellphone in months, but I could imagine what was happening on social media. A number of Facebook pages had probably been created by inflamed feminists; Whatsapp groups were probably sharing downloaded images of me; and some ambitious bloggers were likely talking about me, citing me as the local equivalent to OJ Simpson, never mind that I had not murdered my wife.

"Ok, Mr Damba," Officer Manyama said as the truck came to a stop and a three-tap knock came from outside, "time to disembark."

He unlocked and unhooked the vertical chain from the floor, helping me up by the elbow and leading me to the back door of the accessorised Canter. He tapped three times and the door was opened from outside.

"Let's go, sunshine," a squat woman officer with a face like the Hulk's said.

Awkwardly, I stepped down the short metal ladder to the ground.

I had no time to enjoy the mid morning sun and the sweet flowery scent of Mutare before the she-Hulk grabbed my hands roughly and turned me to face the door to the building.

After the tedious procedure for entering the courthouse was completed, Manyama and she-Hulk escorted me to the temporary holding cells, where my high powered attorney,  Ms Hobkirk of Hobkirk and Partners, waited for me as usual. You are probably wondering how much I am worth to afford her and I can tell you: last time I checked, which was months ago, my account contained eight dollars fifty-five cents.

Ms Hobkirk first introduced herself to me two days after my arrest. She just showed up at Sakubva Police Station and told me she was going to represent me. When I asked who was going to pay for her services, she had winked and said, "Don't you worry about it Mr D, this one is on the house."

Now she greeted me with a grin and a cheerful, "There you are, Mr D. Good morning!"

"Morning to you too." I said with enough glum in my voice to let her know her cheery attitude was not rubbing off on me.