ENIGMA

The buzzer buzzed. I took my seat while staring at the young reporter lady seated at the other end of the glass divider that divided us. I pick up the phone to listen to her even though I cannot speak back into the phone. I can hear all that she’s saying to me. She wants to hear my story and why I did what I am accused of. I have no story, I can vaguely remember that night. I can vaguely remember the night the police barged into our house and found me standing with a gun pointed at my dead husband. 

The prison ward hands me a pen and few sheets of papers. I ask her in written words what she wants to know. She replies me and I can hear her but my lips do not seem to part. ‘Tell me everything’, she says. ‘There’s nothing to tell’, I reply her. ‘I want to know what exactly happened, I want to tell your story, I want to know what you know’, she tells me.

I write to her what I know… It was a cold ‘dark night’; the darkness of that night was peculiar for it was a night devoid of stars. I remember we had just had dinner, then we watched a little of television for it was a school night for the kids and a work night for Simeon and I, after which we tucked our two little girls in bed. The next thing I could remember was, there was a blackout and I woke to find a gun in my hands whose bullets had pierced through Simeon’s heart, just as the police barged into our home and I was arrested on the spot.

The gory sight, left me speechless ever since.