A Sorority of Angels (22 page)

Kintubi climbed the winding staircase to the second floor with disbelief and ponderous steps. Janan had to be wrong. What she told him was impossible, ludicrous. There had to be a logical innocent reason why Busambi came from Shaba’s bedroom. When Janan mentioned seeing Busambi leaving the room, Kintubi sickened, appalled Shaba could be intimate with him.

The prospect forced Kintubi to sit when he asked Janan where Busambi slept. Janan had no idea. Janan checked the girls out at the pool. None spent the night with Busambi.

“Then where did he sleep?” asked a panicked Kintubi. Janan shrugged. Kintubi had to know needing to ask Shaba, positive Shaba would never act to spite him for rejecting their marriage, or be vindictive. Was he coldhearted and cruel to request a divorce? Was she spiteful? Did she change in that regard in America? She wanted to shoot him, pointing the gun to his head when first married. Were latent feelings surfacing, sleeping with Busambi her method for a vendetta?

Questions and paranoia grew heavier as he climbed the stair. Guilt overwhelmed him. Lacking desire to remain married never meant he loved Shaba less. He changed. People have a right to do that, he thought. Wealth had shown him a new world. Shaba was part old world, old traditions, the old formula where family provided comfort and security. New York benefited Shaba broadening her scope. She accepted separation better than he expected.

What was Busambi, that fat bastard, doing in Shaba’s room? Did he make a pass? How did Shaba react? Was Busambi now his enemy? Did he fall from favor? He erased the nonsensical thinking. Why concerned about himself? If Busambi touched Shaba, harmed her in any way, he would slit his throat.

He reached the top step and straightened approaching Shaba’s room with reluctance to discover a painful truth.

Questions remained as he prepared to knock on the door. Was he outraged or jealous? Did he still have the right to question Shaba’s behavior? She had every right to sleep with Busambi if she chose. Yet, he had to know. The thought of Busambi and Shaba making love was cause to vomit. He needed to accept whatever Shaba did if she did anything. His curiosity overpowered him. He must confront her with the question.

Kintubi knocked four times and waited. He knocked again. A somber Shaba opened the door without looking in his eyes and returned to the vanity to finish with her makeup. She dressed in a recently purchased brown pattern dress. Kintubi entered and closed the door looking uncomfortable as she looked at him through the mirror.

“Before you say anything, Kintubi, do you have a key to this room?” He came closer. She poised for anger.

“No, I gave mine to you.”

“Is another in the house?”

“One in the kitchen for the maids. Why? Did you lose yours?”

“Never mind.” Thoughts he gave Busambi the key vanished, pleased Kintubi never set up Busambi. She noticed him fidgeting, creeping closer, and groping for words as he stopped three feet from her. They exchanged glances in the mirror. He looked guilty, thought Shaba. What did he do? “Is there a specific reason for this visit, Kintubi? You don’t look your new carefree self.”

“Janan told me she saw Busambi leave here.”

“He did.” Shaba studied his eyes.

“Er…did you and him…?”

“Did you and him what?”

“You know.”

“He raped me,” was a cold unemotional statement. She acted nonchalant continuing to look into the mirror intent on her makeup.

“He what?” Kintubi said breathless.

“Your disgusting president came in here last night and raped me when I was asleep. He was on me before I knew it.”

Weak kneed, Kintubi’s legs stumbled to the bed and he sat noticing the stained sheet.

“He raped you? Rape?”

“Fact.”

“That pig. That goddamn pig!” His body sagged with acceptance. “I can’t believe it!”

“Believe.”

“Did…did he hurt you?”

She leaned closer to the mirror to apply eye shadow.

“Yes, a benefit for attending your party, a reward from your swinging, omnipotent president.”

“O my God. How…do you feel?” He was uncertain what else to say having difficulty being coherent.

“How would you feel if a hippopotamus sat on you?”

“Damn it!” He punched the bed then pounded his fist repeatedly in his palm.

Shaba never noticed but tears filled Kintubi’s eyes for her pain and experience. Shaba worked on her eyes.

“He raped your wife. What are you going to do about it?” She looked at him waiting for the reaction.

Kintubi approached the vanity. He knew what to do as he climbed the stair, slit Busambi’s throat. That was theory, before the rape. He must face reality.

“What can I do? I don’t know. If it were anyone else…I’m sorry this happened.”

“Sorry? That’s all? Well, it’s late for sorry. Your response is disappointing. I know what I’m going to do.”

“It’s useless to report him to the authorities, like reporting him to him.”

“I’m moving from this whorehouse on Saturday.”

“You shouldn’t be alone in Kinshasa.”

“Better alone than raped again. If it happened once, it will happen again besides the President, from a lascivious cohort of yours. Like an avalanche once it starts.”

Kintubi felt as a eunuch; castrated before his wife for failing to rise to the occasion to avenge her rape. The President was his golden goose, made him rich. What could he do? Killing him would be insane. He loved Shaba but there was a limit, and logic.

“Shaba, what can I say to change your mind?”

“Nothing. Why should I stay here, to make you look good? Kintubi, I must leave.” If she were to fulfill her speculative and unusual mission, she had to separate from Kintubi to have the freedom to see Busambi.

“You’re definite?”

“Definite.”

“I’ll help you move then.”

“That should ease your conscience,” she replied with sarcasm.

“Where are you going?”

“The Intercontinental until the three weeks are up, maybe sooner, maybe longer then I’ll leave for Nassau, and you’re paying the hotel bill. When can you deposit more money in Nassau?” It was a cold business statement.

He pursed his lips. “Next week. Maybe the week after.”

“I’ll wait until then.”

“I’m sorry, Shaba. It’s the last thing I wanted to happen.”

Tears returned. Shaba noticed, and was touched. She extended her hand to him. He accepted it and she pulled him to her. She stood and kissed him on the mouth then his eyes.

“Thank you for caring. You have become human.”

Shaba sat again and continued with her face. “There’s something beautiful about a man crying, softness that remains hidden hardly seen. There’s an old familiar saying in the western world, my dear former husband – Those who live by the sword, die by the sword. Those who live in a whorehouse become whores. You’re a whore, Kintubi. You sold yourself to Busambi along with your pride, self-respect, and arrogance. I’ll turn into you if I stay here. The rape is history. Go have a nice day. I’ll do the same.”

Kintubi wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry, Shaba. What Busambi did hurts me. I never wanted you hurt.”

“I know. Give me another kiss before you leave, no sense in staying here feeling sorry for each other.”

He kissed her lips, walked dejectedly away, and left closing the door.

That evening, Shaba visited Busambi’s residence with a courtesan attitude on her first assignment, visiting a customer’s room but with determination to proceed…to succeed or fail. As he undressed in the bedroom, she was in the bathroom lubricating to minimize feeling him, thinking being here as right and just, his needs his poison pill. She came out dressed. He sat nude on the bed waiting for her, his stomach looking like a collection of stacked bicycle tires, better, a presidential Michelin tire man. She pulled a chair from the table and sat. He patted the bed.

“Come over here,” he said ready to roar.

“Not yet.”

Groaning to rise, he stood before her and encouraged her to kiss his excited body by leaning into her. She nudged him away.

“We have to talk first.” She wanted to assure that he understood her rules.

“What for?”

“Sit.” He obeyed and returned to the bed. “I talked to the girls at the house about you. I wanted to find out how you like to be pleased.”

“What was the consensus?” beamed Busambi.

“That you’re a cautious, soft lover, and prefer passive sex.”

“Less strenuous for me.”

“Your violence turned me on. I may sound sadistic, masochistic but the thought and violence turns me on. I told you that. Why don’t you attack me again? I’ll try to fight you off. I’m already excited thinking about your energy. Can you handle me? I need your assurance.”

“Of course.”

“If you love in a passive way, we shouldn’t be together. If selfish, I lost interest. No man has excited me more, and why I visited tonight.”

A gleam beamed in his eyes, a challenge to dare, and a conquest to achieve, a battle to win. He smiled. “You don’t scare me.”

Empty of emotional excitement, Shaba acted throughout his assault with movements and moans to stimulate him to hard labor. He huffed and puffed, twice. In between, she talked about the hunger and poverty programs. If all else failed, she’d try to succeed in those areas. He offered promises the programs would begin soon. She continued to doubt him. He’d say anything to keep her in bed – a typical man in that regard.

On Sunday, he spent hours in her hotel room – two times, Tuesday night once, Thursday night once. Every evening, his survival distressed her. He traveled to the interior for the weekend. She’d try harder when he returned.

Kintubi learned of her affair with Busambi from Busambi on Sunday traveling the interior together. Busambi thought it best to tell him before he heard from other sources.

On Sunday night, on the phone, she complained to Busambi she needed to see him more. As soon as she finished her conversation with Busambi, Kintubi called.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he screamed outraged. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t I tell you what?”

“I saw you twice since you left my house and never did you mention anything, without a hint you hooked up with Busambi.” Shaba stayed silent. Kintubi didn’t wait for answers. “He told me. You should have told me. I was shocked and embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?”

“Yes, embarrassed. You could have warned me. Why did you do it? How could you get involved with a man who raped you? Have you lost your mind? What moronic stupidity is this? I can’t believe he appeals to you.”

“Is your ego hurt your wife is cheating on you?”

Silence.

“I’m hurt. What you do with your life is your business now, but Busambi? God!”

“He’s taken by me. I want to endear myself to him so he’d give you more money, a business matter. Clinical. Antiseptic,” she lied.

“He’ll give me more regardless.”

“I’m adding a guarantee.”

“You also messed up my parties. No wonder he hasn’t come over.”

“My way is better than your parties are. Pretend I’m out here working for your better interests.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“From now on, I’ll tell you what I do and where I go.”

“We can talk further when we have dinner again. How about tomorrow night?”

“Not this week.”

“Not at all?”

“I’m busy every night.”

“Doing what?”

“I’ll be trying to make more money for you. He called, and wants to see me all this week. I have to keep my calendar open. I’ll stay in touch with you by phone. Remember, Kintubi, in my own unusual way, I still love you.”

“And you know I feel the same. We must confide in one another. Why I was hurt never knowing about Busambi. Do you go to his place or yours?”

“He now comes here.”

“That means people know he visits you.”

“Worried about a scandal?”

“Encounters on that level get out.”

“He’s discreet. He comes in by a side entrance, no problems. His guards wait there and he uses a service elevator. After all, why couldn’t he be visiting someone on business?”

“Once again, I’m only concerned about you.”

“I’ll be all right. I’m learning how to be a survivor, not a dependent.”

“I feel better.”

“Good. Let me know when you get more money.”

“Don’t tell him you know about the money.”

“Never. I’m not stupid.”

Kintubi received two million dollars on Tuesday and arranged for its deposit in the Bahamas. Although outraged Shaba was in an affair with Busambi, the money soothed his hurt accepting the windfall gladly – maybe she hastened the process. He told a delighted Shaba about the new deposit.

To add justification to her mission, Shaba accepted that Busambi delivered the money to Kintubi as reward for his wife.

Busambi visited Shaba every night that week. On Friday, he visited during the day. She coaxed him to work harder at pleasing her, urging as she began to doubt the success of her degradation and sacrifice for her country. She’d consider leaving in another week and consider her effort a failure if he failed to die. Fridays continued as special and lucky days to Shaba. She insisted he make love to her twice.

He tried harder.

That was appropriate, and fitting.

The great event happened on Friday on the second time around.

His heart stopped in the middle of his climax.

Shaba pushed him off her and in a final gesture of contempt, spit in his face. She showered and dressed then wiped the saliva and covered him with a sheet. She called Kintubi.

Janan answered the phone. “Janan, this is Shaba.”

“Hi. How are you doing? I miss you.”

“And I, you. Is Kintubi there?”

“Yes. Hold on. I’ll get him.”

As she waited, she looked at the hulk in her bed, fingered the Achilles Heart, and smiled the victory smile for her sacrificial conquest.

Mission accomplished.

“Shaba?”

“Hello, Kintubi,” she said in a calm voice.

“I’m glad you called. When am I going to see you?”

“Soon. Busambi’s dead.”

“What?” The yell pushed the phone from her ear.

Her calm continued. “Busambi’s dead.”

“How? Where?” His voice stayed panicked.

“Here in my hotel room.”

“Did you tell anyone yet? Does anyone else know?”

“No. You’re the first one I called.”

“O God! When?”

“About ten minutes ago. By natural causes.”

“Incredible! I’ll be right over. How did it happen? Was it his heart?”

“He died on the upstroke.”

Kintubi rushed to the hotel. When Shaba opened the door, he hurried past her.

“Where is he?”

“In the bedroom.”

He missed seeing her grin, pulled the sheet, and discovered Busambi nude.

“What a mess. Quick, help me get him dressed.”

“You’re going to need a derrick to move him.”

“Come on, come on. If they come in and see him this way, they’ll connect you to a scandal. Let’s dress him, put him on the floor in the living room, and say he had a heart attack when we were both here.”

With great effort, they dressed and placed him on the floor. Kintubi was exhausted after dragging him out.

“Kintubi, if you don’t change your ways that’s how you’re going to die.”

“If I have to go that’s the way to go. I’ll call for an ambulance.”

“Not yet. Call Kandolo. Tell him he’s the first you notified and offer your loyalty. Think of yourself. Survive. And call him Mr. President.”

Kintubi kissed her quickly. “Brilliant.” He shook his head and looked at Busambi. “There lies our bank, our golden goose.”

“Don’t be greedy. Eight million is good. Wooo-weeeee!”

He called Kandolo.

Busambi’s death brought Shaba and Kintubi closer, developing a trust in their new relationship, cementing friendship. The next week proved hectic and trying for them, but they survived the questioning and media, and funeral where Shaba tried to weep but couldn’t, considering herself a bad actress.

Kintubi continued as general, Kandolo being thankful for his immediate support.

The day before Shaba planned to leave for the Bahamas, she and Kintubi spent the night for old time’s sake and for future friendship under the mirror. He promised to pursue programs for the elimination of hunger and poverty.