The Last Sin || by Mulimba P. Violet

FS Review

"HEY!" THE TRAFFIC OFFICER called to me shoving his head through the window. "Drive straight to the police station and plead guilty."

I puffed a sigh, shoulders dropping. Damn! He wouldn't even listen to my pleas. I pointed at the casket tied atop the car, but he wouldn't bat an eye. 

Instead, he tugged at his glasses, staring at my licence. "This thing is expired."

"Sorry, Officer, it only expires today, and I'm rushing to bury my mother before I can fix it."

"Mr Citizen, who do you want to crash and kill on this road? Look at your scrap?" He poked a hand in and thumped at the dashboard. "No speedometer. No—" He crinkled his nose. "Now, turn your vehicle and drive straight to the police station." 

He repeated his words ignoring my stretched arm. I had frisked his arm with a bundle of notes times without number. But now he was acting as if I'd become a stranger.

I glanced at my friend, Evans. Was he thinking the same thing as I was? Huh. Court case? What if they check the casket and find those...? How long would I spend in jail? Standing before a jury was my greatest fear. Advocates and their delayed procedures were my worst predators. How would I—

"I'll sit in front," said the officer, forcing Evans out, to the back. He held a radio to his arm and sank into the seat. His reflector jacket smothered my sanity every time I glanced back at Evans to be sure of his decision. Should I just jump out through the window? Oh no! All would be ruined. And he probably had a pistol. Who knew! 

"Tutamfinya!" Evans growled from the passenger's seat. The officer turned to him, but he gestured a plea to him telling him to turn on the music.

Once he turned to do that, Evans seized him, an arm swung across his throat holding him against the headrest, another clutching his fumbling hands. 

What was I waiting for! I cut a blow against his jaw, forcing him to groan and struggle. Another jab, wrapped with intent. And another. Again. And again. Till his face turned a battered mess. Till his muscles went limp, giving up all struggles. My eyes lit up. So what if he was a dead man! I snatched off his radio and crushed it under my foot.

Without honking, I swerved left, away from the only tarmacked road. Cruising through the villages, the fields. Any route would work. And I almost crashed into a cripple in a wheelchair. Preaching about hellfire. An amplifier tied to his bike.

I trusted my fuel tank so I drove miles and miles across the rough roads, across villages, to my den deep beyond the borders. I was in Uganda now.

"We're now safe," Evans announced. I glanced at our victim. His head was hunched, blood dripping down his nose onto his shoes. "He's paid through his nose," Evans added.

We alighted and shut the doors. I glanced at my wristwatch. We had only an hour to restock my goods. Darn'it! "Useless officer, how much tax do we still need to pay to satisfy your big tummy?" As though he could hear me. But I was mad already. "Tomorrow you'll be food for crocodiles!"

We retrieved the casket off the car top and carried it into my den. A residential building on the exterior. Opening the lid, I ripped off the white piece of cloth. The stock was all intact. Thirty thousand rolls of bhang and enough cocaine to finish the state. First thing tomorrow. The airport.

I was still sorting when Evans threw in a question. "What will we do with that body?"

"Throw it in a river, probably at night." Like why would he ask the obvious?

"And his tools? 

Wait— "Did you disconnect that thing from his battery?"


God! My friend's questions were terrible enough to send me back behind bars. I had bashed that one's nose, crushed his radio. And forgotten to do what? I rushed to my Jeep.

Only to see the dead man pointing a pistol at me. He was bleeding afresh and his other hand held a phone to his ear. I pulled back, Evans rushing out to meet me. What the hell! I turned to him. "How the hell did you fuck up?"

As if he didn't understand, he raised a brow. "Fuck what?"

"I thought you killed…" But he did understand. For his lips soon curled up a smirk, then he broke in a fit of chuckles. "Take care of yourself, man!" At once he bolted into a cassava plantation. 

Brows twitching, I looked up to see a troop marching in with service weapons aiming for me. The initials on their jackets read, DCI. Maybe a team like the FBI. But now I knew it was up. And I would be going back there!

Image Source: ©AdobeStock


MULIMBA P. VIOLET is a versatile creative writer. She is a lover of spoken word poetry, fiction, people and nature.

Post a Comment

Post a Comment (0)
Fiery Scribe Review