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When I close my eyes, I never see visions of Mbwana Kapombe haunting me. In a way, it is strange, as what he did to me should have scarred me more than witnessing Patrick Bagosora murder my family. I guess my mind came to peace as I killed him when I left the Kapombe mansion.
I had lived at the Kapombe mansion for over a month when Mansa one day approached me and spoke. “Dress up in your nicest clothes, Samantha. Master Kapombe has finally returned.”
I smiled, got dressed in a blue satin dress, and followed Mansa to the dining room of the mansion.
As I got to the dining room, I saw Mbwana Kapombe in person for the first time. He was a mere shadow of the portraits I had seen in the mansion. In front of me, I saw a sickly skinny man with ghoulish features accompanied by two bodyguards. I knew from one look at him that Mr Kapombe was at death’s door.
Mbwana smiled and walked towards me. “Oh, it really is you. The prophecy will come true. Thank God for Davide’s loyalty and perseverance.” Mbwana uttered weakly with tears in his eyes.
I looked at Mbwana with a dumbfounded expression on my face and asked. “What is the prophecy, and how do you know I am the one?”
Mbwana took out a photograph and showed it to me. I remembered when the photograph was taken. It had been a few years earlier. On the photograph, there was me, my father, and a man in a suit. Could that man be Mbwana? I looked at Mbwana and compared the two. The dissimilarities between the successful businessman on the photograph and the sickly man in front of me were many, but it was the same person.
“Is this photo of you with my father and I?” I asked.
“Yes. How would Davide otherwise find you?” Mbwana asked rhetorically.
“He told me his name was Phillippe.” I replied.
“He used an alias. It is dangerous travelling into a war zone.” Mbwana replied.
“So, why did he bring me here?” I asked.
Mbwana took a deep breath, looked around the room, and replied:
“Because of a prophecy. When I visited your village two years ago, I was in the prime of my life. I came across a witch that put a curse on me. Look at me now, I am dying. The divine mother in this village told me that finding a pure soul from the same village was the only way to lift the curse.”
When I heard Mbwana’s story, I recalled the fate of one of the villagers, Filonne. She had a similar disease to Mbwana and after she had died, public health officials came to my village and warned about a new disease called HIV.
“Was the witch’s name Filonne?” I asked.
Mbwana looked at me in surprise and replied in indignation. “Yes, Filonne was her name. Cursed be that name for what she did to me.”
I held my tongue. I didn’t want to reveal that Filonne had died a year earlier from the same disease Mbwana had. Some truths are better left unsaid, particularly when you meet a person for the first time.
“Please, Mr Kapombe. Let’s say grace and have some chicken soup. I am sure the prophecy will come true now that you and Samantha are living under the same roof.” Mansa said and served us the chicken soup at the dining table.
When I drank the soup, I reflected that the soup tasted a bit odd. I kept eating though, as I didn’t want to appear rude and picky in front of my host and benefactor. As I finished the soup, I felt dizzy, collapsed to the floor, and passed out.
***
AS I WOKE UP, I FOUND myself buck naked, facing down into the bed with my arms and legs spread apart and tied to the bed frame. I heard Mbwana panting. He showed his erect penis in front of my eyes and spoke. “That fucking bitch, Filonne. She let me fuck her so she could pass on her curse to me. Now I am dying and the only way to save myself is to fuck your virgin pussy.”
I felt terrified and helpless. I wasn’t just about to be raped; a man with a terrifying disease was about to rape me. I sobbed and tried to reason with Mbwana. “Mr Kapombe. Please. It doesn’t work that way. Filonne died from her disease last year. You won’t save yourself by raping me. You’ll doom us both.”
Mbwana slapped me and shouted. “Shut up. That’s what my stupid doctor said. But he can’t cure me, can he? I must save myself.”
Having said this, Mbwana walked behind me and forced his manhood upon me while he pushed my face down the mattress to muffle my cries. I experienced excruciating pain as he entered me, and time slowed down. Although the rape sequence only lasted a few minutes, it felt like a hell loop having the disease-stricken man force himself upon me.
As Mbwana finished his dirty deed, he left me strung up in the bed. I assume this was to increase my pain from lying in the awkward position while my vagina was bleeding from the blunt trauma. I lay like this for hours, sobbing and wishing for death until Mansa entered my room and untied me. She left without a word and locked the door behind her.
***
I WAS IN THE BATH SCRUBBING myself frantically to get rid of the stench and sickness from my body. It was all in vain. No matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t rid myself of the disgust I felt thinking about Mbwana’s terrible touch and HIV-infected spunk. I noticed how the bathwater turned red from the blood coming out of my vagina. In my shocked state, I had scrubbed myself so hard, so my genitals were bleeding.
“OOOOOYYYAAAA!”
I let out an anguished scream that alerted Mansa, and she entered my bathroom. She stared at me and the blood-soaked bathwater in terror and exclaimed. “Samantha, what are you doing?”
“He raped me, and I can’t get this disgusting feeling out of my head.” I sobbed uncontrollably.
Mansa shook her head and replied. “Mbwana is back in the hospital. He didn’t scrub your body until it was bleeding, you did.”
“But I must get him out of my head.” I wailed.
“Then fight him in your head, little darling. You are a strong girl, Samantha. I can see it in your eyes. Don’t do this to yourself.” Mansa urged.
I nodded and sobbed in silence. Mansa was right. I hadn’t survived the Rwandan genocide to be driven to insanity and suicide by a sick twisted man. I would survive, and I would make sure that I told everyone my story. Why else had I survived the attack on my village that killed the rest of my family?
Mansa got down on her knees and hugged me while I was in the bathtub. I reciprocated her hug. While a part of me hated her for working for Mbwana, I also needed a friend to give me comfort. I could not face all the horrors of the world alone as humans are meant to face obstacles together. After the hug, Mansa looked after my wounds and she spent the rest of the day braiding my hair. This was the closest I had felt to someone since the day Patrick Bagosora murdered my family and I lost my dear mother.
***
I GUESS I SHOULD HAVE left the Kapombe Mansion when Mr Kapombe was in the hospital. If I had left, I wouldn’t have sustained life-altering injuries. So why did I stay? I guess it was because I had connected with Mansa and because we were convinced that Mbwana Kapombe would never come back from the hospital. If that prediction were correct, it wouldn’t make sense to abandon the safety of the mansion to live in a crowded and filthy refugee camp.
During Mbwana’s absence, hope started returning to my life. The Rwandan Patriotic Front had ousted the Interahamwe militia from Rwanda and the civil war and mass-killings had finally ended. I prayed to Jesus Christ every night that some of my kin had survived, and I would be able to return to my village and rebuild what little we had left, after what the reckless hatred had destroyed.
One day, a bowl of foul-tasting chicken soup quashed all my hopes...