Here on earth, it is prudent to start a letter with “Dear so and so” but I guess you’re not a fan of endearments. Neither am I. You are not dear to me and I find myself in a place where it is impossible to lie. You will hence forgive me my insolence for substituting the “dear” with the “hello”. I know that I’ll be joining you in due time so I figured it’d be nice if we got fairly acquainted in advance.
My name is Patrick and I am a philanderer. I do not know why I need to introduce myself to you now that I know I will be landing in your yard soon. I have come to realize, you as God, are omnipresent and knew me before I was born.
I had a wife. I was also the father of a little girl named Emily. I can’t say I liked that name because it seemed very unoriginal and un-African but my wife, Nataana, thought it was a brilliant name for the girl. So, I went with it. It is one of the things you let go once you get married. After all, you don’t want to start a petty argument over a child’s name in which she’ll still win.
You have never been married, have you, Lucy…I mean, Lucifer? I do not think so. Are you a virgin? I think you are. I guess there are no women down there meaning none of you is getting some. *wink*wink
Random thought Mr Lucifer; do all sins attract equal punishment? Because there is no way my sins are equal to some rapist f***. I can debate God on that. I mean, if God can’t see that then God is sick in the head.
I used to thump my chest and say that I will NEVER have a big church wedding. A church wedding?! Who? Me?! No! Then we meet THE girl and the next thing we know, we are in that sharp suit standing at the altar, grinning like idiots and screaming “I do” in front of hundreds of people of whom you only know about 5%.
After that we find ourselves with daughters named Emily, we find ourselves going to work in a pink pair of socks with little flowers and bicycles on them because our significant other saw them in the mall and thought, “awwwwwww, they are so cute!” Thank goodness for the world will never see us in those multicoloured boxers our wives got us for our birthday. Unless we die in them, of course in which case the pathologist will have a good laugh at the dead guy on his table in red boxers with the words; Who’s my big man? written across the junkyard.
My point is, you think you are THE man, you are THE shit until THE woman shows up and shows you just how much you a’int shit but since you have been ever single and slow to mingle, you wouldn’t know any of this, would you? Allow me to enlighten you.
Before I knew I was coming to hell, a part of me thought you were a woman. See, we live in an age of gender equality so I figured if heaven was ruled by a male deity, then hell might as well be ruled by a female one, right? Well, I am pretty certain the feminist movement will remedy that in good time. Just wait and see. Soon you will be replaced by a female Satan.
Stay with me man. I digress too much.
You and I both I know why I ended up becoming an adulterer and owning a place in hell. Thing is, I am not complaining. I deserve to be in hell. I was never a whiner and I am sure as hell not starting now. Yeah. I am in hell, and I said: “sure as hell”. I hope when you read that part you will be like, “hahaha funny guy. I like him.”
So, my niece, Jennifer, came to stay with us while she attended a college in Eldoret. Jennifer didn’t like my wife for one reason-that my wife didn’t like her. I guess when someone doesn’t like you, you can decide not to like them also because two wrongs sometimes make a right. Blessed are the sarcastic for they shall gain cheap laughs.
I would have stayed home and been a family guy, a good father to my daughter; taking her to school and picking her up every day, taking her to the mall every weekend and driving my wife to work. But I had to cheat.
I cheated on my wife with the neighbour next door; not a clever move, I know. My mistress wasn’t smart about it either. She would leave her make up and undergarments in the car after engaging in our life of sin. This would happen during one of those fine Saturday evenings when I would be “taking a drive to clear my head”. And my wife would get in the car on Sunday morning to drive to the market only to find a certain undergarment, small as a handkerchief with flowery patterns, hanging on the gearstick.
Her: Really Patrick!
She would scream at me in our room while I lay in bed still fighting the last cobwebs of morning sleep. Then dump the ‘handkerchief’ on my face.
Her: Really Patrick, in the car!
I would groan, fake a confused look and take the ‘handkerchief’ off my face. I’d wait for her to finish the rant.
Me: I don’t know whose that is. You should talk to Abby. She is the one who does these things in the car.
I would lie.
But when confronted, Jennifer would always take my side.
Jennifer: I’m so sorry. I do not even know how that got forgotten in there.
Me: See, it was her.
She would rebuke Jennifer but later I’d give her some cash to go do her hair and treat herself. It continued like that for months until Jennifer moved out and I had nobody to blame for the ‘handkerchief’ turning up in the bizarre places in the car and twice in the bedroom.
It all came crashing down one day when my wife discovered a brassiere under our bed. Presented with the bra and too massive of an avalanche of evidence and threatened with divorce, zero child custody, alimony and all other threats a man like me doesn’t want to hear, I came clean and to my surprise, she didn’t leave me. When I asked her about it, she said she grew up without a father and she didn’t want the same for her child. Who said there are no second chances in life?
It didn’t take long for my unflagging promiscuous conscience to nag me. I started again. The first time we saw each other on the elevator, she was cradling a pink yoga mat. She smiled at me and I smiled back. After that, whenever I saw her, I looked at her with a kind of lazy interest, as though we both knew that something would happen between us and it was only a matter of when. The way she dressed made her seem superficial to me, and yet I was curious about her, about how she would be, naked in bed with me. The sex was good. she was on top of me, gliding and moaning and grasping the hair on my chest. I, on the other hand, feeling faintly and glamorously theatrical as she did so. The next thing I knew, she was extracting herself from my unholy embrace and picking up her clothes to leave. My wife was standing at the door in horror. This time she left for good.
I am a husband whose wife and daughter left and I won’t see them again.
If I had sacrificed my self-importance for my family, if I had sacrificed my ego, the ego that said, “Ah, your daughter and your wife are FINE so hop off little man and satisfy your carnal desires”. If I had sacrificed that ego and stuck around like a good father and a good husband should, this story would have ended differently.
But I didn’t and now here I am. Writing a letter to the Prince of Darkness. Hoping that he who has been described as a thief, liar and murderer will pass my message to someone who kicked him to hell.
But I am just a guy with nothing left to lose.
All I am saying is, I hope someone doesn’t end up making the mistakes that I made. Husbands need to stick around and show (with more actions than words) that they love and respect their wives and those wives will love and respect them back.
And I hate the fact that I am going to hell.
Just another guy going to hell.