WHEN a friend advised JAMES SHIMWITWA, who had a troubled marriage, to visit a marriage counsellor for a solution, he did not know he’d been led to a sly operator with his own hidden motives, luring him into giving up his adorable wife for his own immoral advantage! Here’s what happened.

GROWING up in a Christian family has made me a crime-fearing person. But when I look back, the strongest temptation to commit crime came to me 15 years ago.

The seed of this temptation was sown in the soil of my heart amid a marital hardship. The seed germinated into an impulse to grab a kitchen knife and set out to murder a man who interfered in my marriage.

Fifteen years ago I was a poorly paid electrical maintenance technician. My employer was owner of a successful shoe manufacturing company with branches in Zambia, Zimbabwe, Namibia and Burkina Faso. He also owned three executive lodges in Lusaka and was married to a white woman of Italian ancestry.

From time to time, this employer held family parties at his home. Occasionally, he would invite one or two of his employees. I was among those that were invited one Saturday.

Before that day, the adage -“the beautiful ones are not yet born”- seemed true to me. But it was at this party that I started questioning the validity of this axiom. I met a young woman aged between 20 and 24. Every man at the party kept eyeing her.

Her hips curved well in yellow soft jean trousers, her firm breasts stood on her chest like two large cupcakes waiting to be consumed. Her complexion was a result of European and African blood combined. And her chocolate and shiny kissable lips lay over finely arranged teeth. Her incessant grin and her bright eyes completed her exceptional beauty. No man could resist feasting his eyes on her.

Although I kept looking at this girl with keen interest, I knew I didn’t stand any chance because she clearly belonged to a high class.Call it inferiority complex. But as the party progressed, she came stumbling her way up to my table. She had guzzled many glasses of red autumn harvest.

“Hi, I…I notice that you’re lonely like me, I am…” she stammered. “I am Deborah, please come and dance with me.” She stretched out her soft hand which I took in disbelief as a surge of electricity rushed through my body. As I pitched forward, a half- full glass of wine slipped off her hand and crushed against the concrete floor. I did my best to make an impression before the drunken girl. At the end of the party she asked me:

“Darling will you spend the rest of the night with me?” That was an unexpected invitation. Without answering, I grabbed her hand and hastily jostled and towed her through the crowd; it was a chance no potent man would let go. I managed to sneak her to my home where we spent a night on my bed. It was the most delightful night I ever lived and wished I could have more of such nights. Deborah, on the other hand, regretted the whole episode with me. She lamented that she had acted under the influence of alcohol.

I never saw Deborah again after that memorable night. Three months after the party my employer summoned me to his office.

“James, I want you to tell me the truth: last time I invited you to a party at my home did you go out with my daughter, Deborah?”

My mouth abruptly ran out of saliva. The angel I picked from the party had been my boss’s daughter! But just how had he discovered, was something wrong?

“You have spoiled the future of my daughter. She slept with you and she is pregnant. I intended to send her to Italy for studies next month, but now I can’t”. He paused for a long moment, his eyes drilling into my guilty face.

“Anyway, you are a young man and Deborah is a young woman, too. Such is the myopia and recklessness of you youths today. I won’t cry over spilt milk,” he finally said. “You have to take responsibility for that pregnancy. And if you two decide to marry, I will have no objection. You will have my support, but take care of her. Her mother named her Deborah because in Italian, like in Hebrew, Deborah means bee. You neglect her, she will sting you like a bee,” he warned.

I was very excited when I left the office. I now stood a chance of marrying the most beautiful woman on earth from a wealthy family.

But there was great opposition from Patricia’s white mother, “Marrying off a daughter to an impoverished boy is like planting maize in infertile soil expecting a bumper harvest. The marriage won’t prosper” she predicted

I was allowed to live with Deborah until she delivered. We continued to live together even after she delivered. My biggest desire was to formalize our “marriage”. Having Deborah in my life till my death was my greatest desire. Unfortunately, whilst I was fighting to make our “marriage” legitimate, her father who supported us and regarded Deborah and me as husband and wife suddenly died of heart failure.

After four years of staying with Deborah, with a baby boy between us, financial problems started tearing our marriage apart. We began quarrelling daily. Like a medical prescription, we would quarrel once in the morning and once before going to bed. When I consulted her mother she answered with a stinging reply,

“I told you from the beginning that you aren’t the type that can keep my daughter.”

My friend Charles Khunga suggested that we consult a marriage counselor who could help straighten our marriage. Accepting this suggestion was the first step I took into planting this seed that nearly led me to killing.

Captain Jonas Kamimbya, commonly known as CJK, was a renowned marriage counselor and business consultant based in Ndola. He was a handsome middle- aged man who always wore elegant and expensive clothes. He was one of those successful people who won the hearts of many women and I personally admired his personality. I was sure he’d mend our marriage.

When we entered Kamimbya’s office, we stood before a large red carpeted room. Cool lavender scented air blew on our faces from two large Toshiba Aircons. Deborah remarked,

“Wow, this is a wonderful office. It brings to me memories of my late father’s office.”

“Thank you.” Kamimbya guided us to two expensive couches. I noticed that my wife and Kamimbya exchanged long dissolute gazes. I would have worried if it hadn’t been a marriage counselor, but theoretically, Kamimbya was a harmless man whose job it was to resuscitate crumbling marriages like mine.

After giving us general marital counsel he proposed different appointments on which to see him separately. He would meet me first then my wife later. As we were leaving his office I caught his eyes looking at my wife’s hips lustfully. Whilst in the car park, instinct made me to turn and look at the window of the counselor’s office. Kamimbya was peeping through the window. When he saw that I had seen him, he hastily drew the curtains closed.

On the day that I met him, CJK explained to me as honestly as could his analysis of my marriage. “Your so called marriage has little chance of surviving for two basic reasons. Firstly, your wife has tasted affluence before; she’ll have difficulties living in poverty.

You have no money to look after such a valued woman. Secondly she was forced to stay with you because of the illegitimate child between you and her; there is no legal marriage between you two. I, therefore, suggest that for the sake of your happiness, forget about her. Find someone else who suits your lifestyle and your pocket”. Kamimbya concluded.

“But her late father recognised me as his son-in-law and blessed our marriage,” I disputed

“Marriage orbits around love. I honestly think that she scarcely loves you. Her father who coerced her to cohabit with you is long gone. Worse still, her mother doesn’t support your Marriage. I am sorry you have to face reality”.

The marriage counselor’s words lingered in my heart with pain. Deborah was my wife! I loved her; I wanted to be with her all my life.

On the day that my wife was scheduled to visit the marriage counselor, she spent a long time before a mirror painting her mouth red with lipstick, trimming her eyebrows and re-tracing them with black pencil. She configured her face to look extra beautiful. She then dressed in a see-through mini skirt and a blouse exposing her cupcake breasts. She looked so vulnerable for the wolves out there to pounce on her. This disconcerted me, but I knew questioning her motive would trigger acrimony.

By 19:00 hours my wife had not returned. I was exasperated. She only returned around 23:00 hours. She carried two parcels; one containing pork chops, the other a bottle of red Autumn Harvest. I was disheartened, but I avoided confrontation.

I then knew that our relationship was surrounded by darkness. Perhaps her mother’s prediction that the marriage would not excel had been right. I considered the advice from CJK. He had been right. He was experienced in the business and his judgment was authentic. I had to face the hard reality.

When I returned home from work next afternoon, I found our child James Jr. abandoned and crying in the kitchen. Flies hovered around his face.

“Deborah!” I screamed as I ran to look for Jr’s mother.

She was nowhere in the house. I kicked the main bedroom door open; a mirror lay on the bed with recently used lipstick, a comb and a bottle of lotion lay around it. Deborah’s favorite perfume hung in the air of the room. Looking under the bed, her favorite shoes weren’t there.

A small rectangular gadget on a coffee table attracted my attention. It was a mobile phone. It had five missed calls registered on the screen. Checking through received messages, I opened an explosive message that detonated into my face:

“You are so romantic, Deborah. I enjoyed every minute of it yesterday. Let’s do it again today, it’ll be splendid. CJK “

My temperature shot to boiling point. CJK! Captain Jonas Kamimbya. The marriage counselor had been luring me to give up Deborah for his own immoral advantage!

The seed of crime sown in my heart had germinated, matured and now ready to be transplanted.

“I will kill the marriage counselor.” I swore.

I stormed the kitchen, and, without paying attention to my crying son, I reached the cupboard and seized the sharpest knife we owned. Just as I was about to place the murder weapon under my belt, the door swung open. I hadn’t heard anyone knocking because my mind was fixed on the blood of CJK.

Charles Khunga entered. His eyes moved from the knife in my hand to my tight face. He held his breath.

“Please don’t kill yourself. Be strong, these things happen.”

I looked at him stunned, “What things?”

He looked surprised too. “I mean the death of your wife; I thought that is what this fuss is all about.”

I was sure I had misunderstood him. “What do you mean, Khunga?”

“So you haven’t heard. Your wife was in a Toyota Prado that hit into a stationery truck on Makoli drive. The driver was identified as Captain Jonas Kamimbya. Both were crushed to death. I am sure she went to see him over that problem you shared with me.”

For the first time since I was a kid, tears streamed down my cheeks.

It took many years for the tears to dry. Although she stung at my heart like a bee, memories of our first meeting will live forever.

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