God is Watching

My father does not know this yet, but it was I who burnt his house to ashes.

It was a beautiful thing, that fire. So much rage, with almost as much destructive power as my father had. I found it fitting that his only substantial worldly possession falls in the same gracious manner as his actions.

I will tell him one day. Maybe on his deathbed so he has a bitter reflection at the ending of his life. Maybe on a joyous day so I strip it from him beautifully. Maybe tomorrow, while he is still mourning the house he was hell bent on not making a home for those who first lived on the land. The fruit of wickedness is rage and destruction, and there is no better symbol for them than a massive fire.

Lately, I see him walking as though the act is a struggle. I do not pity him. Where we come from, the elders say ‘God is watching everything you do. He knows what you think and what you act.’ I say, sometimes, God needs a little nudge towards comeuppance.

The day I planned it, it was chilly. The most ideal time to make it happen would be night, I thought. And I was right.

That evening, I made my bed with my favorite bedding and took my handcrafted ceramics to the boy's quarters in the backyard. When he asked why I was moving them, I simply said ‘I want to make some changes to my room.’

I wore a red night gown and tied my braided hair extensions in a bun before covering it in a bonnet. I bought the gown three years ago but was only just wearing it for the first time. I looked at myself in the mirror long after I was done fixing my hair. Ideally, I would be questioning whether I was really going to do this; whether I should, whether it would do anything, change anything, whether the effort was even worth it. But instead, I was daydreaming about the reaction of the neighbors — how they would begin screaming and running, praying the fire didn’t extend to their compounds, attempting to help with buckets of water like I’ve seen them do when the shop keeper’s bottles of gases exploded into a raging fire some many years ago, calling a fire service line that may not be answered, or even if it is, would arrive when the house was already in ashes. I was daydreaming about how I’d be standing there amongst them, looking confused, hands on my head and dust on my feet — for I would wear no shoes. Ah, these were the images being formed in my mind while I watched the reflection of my body.

On the very next evening. I walked around my room and sat on the edge of my bed. This bed that has never been changed. It was the bed I laid from the moment I was old enough to lay on my own. I set my hands on my sides and stared at the opened wardrobe in front of me. I thought, or gathered, at that moment, how I’ve always had a tendency for wickedness, for evil. I could not recall how old I was then, but when I was very young, the neighbors next door would come play in our house in the evening. I did not always like their presence but they made up for my loneliness. There are these two in particular, a sister and her younger brother. I wondered where they were now. Wondered whether they were still in The Gambia or moved back to Senegal, whether she has grown into a fine woman and what kind of job she would be doing, whether they were even still alive.

But that day, I told them we were going to play a game. The little boy and I would go sit behind the mango tree and I’d consult him as a doctor, and when we were finished, his big sister and I would do the same. And so we went behind the big mango tree that stood at the left side of the house just beside the lemon tree. I sat him opposite me and told him to open his mouth. I took the pot I had set there before the game began. I used my hand to feed him the black substance — the residue of my mother’s discarded TV remote batteries. I recalled that might have been poisonous, and deep down, I could sense that even at that young age, I knew what I was doing was not a deed worthy of retelling.

When it was his sister’s turn — for she was more aware — she ran and reported my actions to her mother. But who was going to run and report the fire this time? Who would even know that it was an intentional burn? I was stupid back then, I was young. This time was different. This time, I had nursed enough rage and grace to execute my ache into ashes.

It was past 11PM. Everyone had gone to their bedroom. My father must have been lying with his wife. My half siblings each kept to their bedrooms and their lights were off. whether they were sleeping, I did not know. I walked up the stairs and turned off the lights that dimly illuminated the staircase and corridor. I then saw lights coming from the bedroom of Aida, the youngest. I walked past her bedroom, headed to the living room and turned on all the appliances. I brought the cables to the front and poured some petrol over them. I used the basting brush and applied the same petrol on the couch, curtains, wooden center table, and even on the doormat. I poured a significant amount in the guest bathroom and on the table in the dining area. Five liters of petrol in a five liters gallon of cooking oil was near its half.

I looked at the family photo that hung on the wall; it was a very nice photo — that much I could bring myself to attest to. I wondered if I’d still be doing this if I had been in it, but my absence from the photo is the very paradox of what led me here.

Downstairs, I closed my bedroom. I poured no petrol there because despite my hate for the house (home), it was my solace. I felt I owed it the respect of not making it burn more than it should. I was going to have a fresh start, and I must keep my respects to where I came from.

In the kitchen, I imagined the face of my mother. I imagined she would be disappointed. Such good souls carry no ill will — not even against those who hurt them. And for the first time in years, I was glad she does not speak in my dreams. I turned the gas burners on without fire. Dripped petrol on the ground and some more in the living room and dining room right behind it. Such beautiful home, I thought, In another life, I would want my house nearly or exactly like this. But in this life, it is I who will burn it to ashes.

I returned to the kitchen one more time. I could smell the gas potently now. I was ready. I traced my fingers across the newly built marble countertop while I walked out. Before I closed the door, I lit a match.