Curse of the Nightfall
Chapter 4: The madman’s story.

Town fiesta is near. The people are in festive mood trying to prepare for the traditional ethnic festivity wherein there will be a parade, sports competition, dancing and beauty contest. The town hall’s vicinity is being prepared for the rows of boutiques and vendor tents selling for homemade products, tribal ornaments and paraphernalia. It will be a week of celebration. Dangling lines of colourful decorations are being arranged by volunteers on dump trucks. It will be a rich and healthy way to associate. Classes will be suspended. Among these youth who are loitering around town, appreciating the ambience of harmonious camaraderie of the citizens are Stephen and me, sitting on a bench eating ice cream.

‘I hope it won’t rain.’ Stephen breaks the silence.

‘Yeah’, I simply nimble.

‘Steph…’, I try to emancipate a thought. ‘If your mother is still alive, do you think she will approve on us being together?’

‘Sure.’, he quips lazily as the afternoon sun is like a sedative, it makes you slow and sleepy. ‘Knowing mama, of course like any mother having an 18-year old son is too young still for romance but I believe she’ll understand.’

‘I hope they’ll replace her killer’, I empathize.

The noise of the surrounding is primarily from vehicles, mostly tricycles catering for passengers and the people around are ordinary citizens on diversity of endeavours, business-minded people and crimes here are limited to minor offenses so its unusual for major crimes like murder to have prevails here yet these few months we already have four dead by internal combustion, so mysterious nobody has the thought to even suspect correctly. Aliens? Ghosts? Superstitious characters or even, witchcraft? Yes, these are the typical speculations by rumourmongers and barber shop stories but in the police force, they are empty-handed, no hint no clue—except the burnt brain and eyes.

Thoughts arise like, how could someone burn the brain without some sort of passage through the skull? The skull is intact so did they burn it through the eyes but how could that be possible through a torch? It cannot. Electrocution is likewise discredited. The more the police thinks deeper the more it becomes cryptic, and abysmal. Thinking, analysing—is useless.

The thing is the town fiesta is already here, a time of happiness and just let the flow of fate intervenes as to whether anything bad may happen could be charged to experience.

A text message reads: ‘Hello Steph, I will be coming home on your town fiesta and coming home for good. Hope to see you soon.’

Number is registered to Roland Zambo. I snoop on it in quite a timid gesture, ‘Who is that?’

Roland is a childhood friend of Stephen like an older brother to him, but at age 26 that is 2-3 years ago his family migrated to the city and since then has never appeared in person. Stephen remembers him as quite a bully and laughs when he remembers how they once been in police custody bec of stealing a few rent-to-read comics in the town’s marketplace.

‘really? You did that.’, sort of incredulous.

‘yes, and Mama was there to scold me in that sort of humiliation I never wished to have.’, he laughs it out in joviality.

‘Boys must be boys, but now as I’ve known you, you are the gentlemanly type of a boy.’, I nail it.

‘is that the reason why you like me?’, he is fishing like a cute way to converse.

‘Well, mister, you know love is the kind you never expect nor predict like sometimes when you’re in love you cannot be choosy. Your heart simply beats on a random person whether he have morals or not, whether he is ugly or not. It simply is unpredictable.’.

‘Yeah, scholarly said like a genius.’, he smirks in humour.

‘So can you tell me more about Roland?’, I deflect.

‘He was the only son. His father killed himself in a drug-induced suicide. His mother was left alone to care for him, and he was thoroughbred in adversity as they were poor, his mother had a vendor stand and Roland in wanting to have a better life tried on few errand jobs, gasoline boy etc…Then in a shift of event, a rich aunt in the city arranged for them to migrate. Now he has a better life’,

‘Okay, that’s a nice shift of event for him.’

‘Might as well call him.’, he suggests then proceed to dial. It fails.