The Happiness Thief

By P.M. Hansombo

The Happiness Thief is told by the main character Kasuba, as she tells her life story we meet the characters who have shaped her life through her eyes.

A story of love, of pain, of family, of friendship and betrayal when the 13 year old Kasuba strikes an unlikely friendship with the beautiful Dianne. A friendship that is likely to last them a lifetime. Yet a terrible incident happens which separates the two of them, only to be reunited twelve years later in an unusual way. Soon they find out happily ever after only exists in fairy tales as the consequences of the incident comes back to test their friendship.

Kasuba learns the bitter lesson of how a containable situation can cause heartbreak when pride, anger and pain are used to deal with it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468586435

P.M. Hansombo

Pamela Mutinta Hansombo was born in Lusaka, Zambia. She now lives in Coventry, UK, with her five year old daughter Caitlin. The happiness thief is her first novel. She is currently working on her next novel, ‘The Reluctant Angel’ due for release at the end of this year.

Book preview

THE

HAPPINESS

THIEF

P.M. Hansombo

US%26UKLogoB%26Wnew.ai

AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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© 2012 by P.M. Hansombo. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/05/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-8644-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-8643-5 (e)

This is a work of fiction, names of actual places have been used fictitiously, any resemblance to persons living or dead, is purely coincidental

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

THE NIGHT BEFORE

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

PART TWO

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

PART THREE

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

PART FOUR

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

PART FIVE

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

Happiness is where we find it,

But rarely where we seek it.

JEAN ANTOINE PETIT-SENN

With love and gratitude to everyone who has shared this journey with me.

My name is Kasuba Chama Mwenso. Kasuba as in the Sun and this is my story.

Slowly, I take off the mask I now wear

Like a second skin,

And place it on the bedside table.

I am careful not to tear it,

For I know, first thing in the morning,

When my make-up is done,

I will have to put it back on,

And get on with the day.

Kasuba C Mwenso.

THE NIGHT BEFORE

I can hear the wind blowing outside through the open window of what used to be our bedroom. The expensive cream Egyptian cotton curtains flap against the window and the wall creating an unpleasant whooshing sound. The gusts of wind are so loud I fear the trees will crash into each other and break the newly built wall. Without warning, the rains break out from the heavens, electric blue flashes of light blaze through the pitch black night, and then like the sound of an angry lion, the loud roar of thunder echoes through the room.

Quickly, I move away from the mirror, where I have been sitting for the last few minutes, staring at my reflection. My big brown eyes are vacant of emotion as they stare back at me, eyes that have poured out more tears than a man-made dam could ever hold, before I get the chance to indulge in more self-pity, the loud sound of the thunder booms out of the skies, and I suddenly become so afraid of the mirror. When I was a little girl, my mother told me to never look or stand near a mirror when it was raining because the mirror was lightning’s most loyal ally. So I move quickly to the adjourning bathroom, pushing the stool I’ve been sitting on so hard the sound of metal crashing against the wooden floor echoes in my ears long after I have picked it up.

Returning from the bathroom, I have with me a large orange towel tucked under my armpit which makes walking back quiet awkward; it would have been easier just to carry it in my hands. I use the towel to carefully cover the whole mirror, satisfied this task has been successfully done, I step away from it all. As I look at that bright orange towel, I wonder how an educated woman like me, can still be so superstitious. When I see the electric blue zig zag shape of lightning brighten the dark night, I ponder no more.

Finding refuge on the big mahogany bed with the hard mattress that I always find uncomfortable, I curl up in a ball and listen to sound of the African rain. Rain so unpredictable, it could pass so quickly like an Impala in the wild running away from a hungry Lion, or like an unwelcome visitor, last the whole night. Tonight, the rain is like an Impala. I lie on the oversized bed for a few more minutes just to make sure it’s gone, and slowly I make my way back to the mirror. As my eyes sweep the room, I see, waiting on the floor just underneath the open window, a pool of water, the rains have left a gift for me, I should have closed that window, I sadly think.

The orange bathroom towel has never felt so used before, I think to myself, having done a great job as a shield against the mirror, the flashes of lightning and myself, I now use it to cover the pool of water on the floor and go back to what I was doing before the wind, the rain, the loud roar of thunder and the lightning disturbed me. I slowly move the cotton wool dipped in make-up remover over my face, pulling gently at the corners of my eyelids. The colour of earth greets my eyes as I move the cotton wool from one eye, turning it over so I can use it on the other one, I wonder then if I should go easy on the foundation. Coming to the end of my ritual, as I move my fringe from my face, I notice the grey hairs and sigh heavily. It really is too early for grey hair, even for me.

The woman staring at me in that mirror has come a long way. I smile, revealing my beautiful but crooked teeth. I take a slow journey through memory lane, some memories great, others painful, some exhilarating, while others so heart breaking. I think about the day after tomorrow and fear grips my heart like the grasp of a fish eagle on its prey, unrelenting. Yet I know there is no going back now. And then I hear a knock on the wooden door. It is more of a soft tap than a knock that I hesitate slightly before I shout out,

Come in, it’s open!

Sam stands in the door way, his tall frame leaning against the door; his white shirt unbuttoned revealing a toned body. He looks so attractive standing in the dimly lit hallway; I force myself to look away from him so I can compose myself. As we look at each other through the mirror, almost as if we are sizing each other up, wading through the emotions of the past months, or is it years? I do not turn to face him; and with all the strength I can muster, I keep quiet. I will not engage in a useless fight with him, especially as in a few hours’ time, this will all be in the past.

You look beautiful, he says, clearing his throat.

Eyes that once held so much love for this man now vacantly stare at him. The silence engulfs us like thick smoke; slowing chocking our lives out, this is broken by a cough from Sam that we both know is forced. Through the mirror, I confront him with a smile, and he turns his face away, as if looking for someone behind him. When I cannot take any more of his presence and its effect on me, my voice explodes from me bearing all the signs of fatigue, impatience, and some other emotion I can’t quite put my finger on.

You need to get some sleep. It’s going to be a long day!

The tone I use does not allow for any other conversation. The words are frozen inside us as we continue our war of stares, and then the wooden door slowly closes and I hear his bare feet retreat down to the room he now uses. Without warning, I suddenly remember the story about the eagle and the crow.

The story begins with the constant torment of the mighty Eagle by the not so mighty Crow. The Eagle however allows the Crow to torment it, even though he easily could have ripped the Crow’s heart out in the blink of an eye. The Eagle tired of the Crow finally chooses to fly high above the Crow. Seeing this, the Crow decides to follow suit until it finds that it cannot breathe at the altitude the Eagle has reached and so it is forced to retreat.

I feel like the Eagle. My battles have been many and they have been painful. Slowly the realization sinks in, this is the end now, and it really is time to rise above it all. Maybe, after everything that has been said and done, the lesson I have learnt from my painful marriage is that some battles in life can never be won.

MARCH, 2009

No one could have chosen a more perfect day for the inauguration of the 10 th republican president if they could. It was a beautiful day, the African summer that never really went away. The universe seemed to agree with the people’s choice as the birds chirped away harmoniously in the nearby trees. The skies were blue without a single dark cloud despite it nearly being the end of the rainy season. The rains and I seemed to have a temperamental relationship. It would rain on my happiest days, and then again, it would rain on the saddest of all my days. How I wished the rain would not be such a double-edged sword, how I wished it would act as a sign for me, so I would somehow know what lay ahead of me at the first sign of the grey skies.

In his grey tailor made suit, I watched Sam walk towards the podium. The jacket showing off his well defined shoulders, an avid swimmer’s shoulders; it was hard to believe this man was only five years away from turning fifty. I watched him move gracefully, his shoulders back, his head held high, he turned around for his now famous salute to the people, the roar of cheers thundered through the crowd. The people had chosen their leader. He was truly a man for every Zambian. He held his hands together, as if in prayer, bowed slightly and walked on to where the chief justice was waiting to swear in the new president.

It had all happened so quickly, I thought as I pulled my dress down so I could sit properly on the chairs laid out for the VIPs. To complement the president’s outfit, I had gone for a classy feel, a dark grey fitted dress that stopped just below the knees and accentuated my curves. I did not want to attract any unnecessary attention. Unlike my beautiful companion Chipo sitting on my right; she was dressed to draw attention to herself in a beautiful but bold scarlet dress. She fought with it as she tried to sit down, pulling it down with both her hands, the dress defying her as it rode high on her olive thighs. Bless her I quietly thought.

When the decision had been made for Sam to run for presidency, no one would have seen what was soon to happen, no one would have bet on this day to come so quickly. The party and his campaign team had planned for a three year period of campaigning, three years of travelling, of sleepless nights, of lobbying to different pressure groups. Instead, the sitting president had tragically died in road accident a week after Sam had left me, a week after he had decided his father’s vision for him was something he was tired of, something that would never be for him.

One week of a nation in mourning united all of us. That was an area anyone could count the Zambian people on, unity in a time of grief. The Zambian spirit had an amazing way of pulling through during bereavement. Gospel songs and sermons filled both the radio waves and television. It was common to drive along the road and find people openly mourning for the man who had once been their hero. Not a bad word about him was said by anyone, well, at least not in public.

Phillip Daka had been the people’s choice, a charismatic man with a vision. He had filled the Zambian people with a hunger for the future unlike anything they had known since 1964’s independence. He impressed even the critics with his skills as an orator. As the years slowly and painfully came and went, the common people’s lives taking only the wrong side of change, the promises made during elections so quickly forgotten, like the promises of lovers during the heat of passion, Philip Daka had let them down. The people were once again disappointed. They found out the hard way that the impressive words were just that, mere words, and everyone knew words did not fill the empty stomachs of the common people.

The common people however were blessed with patience that comes with having very few options in life, grateful for each day as it came and went. Patience comes easily to those who believe tomorrow will be a better day, so the people knew Phillip Daka’s tenure as president would one day come to an end, they would not be deceived by his dictionary language. They waited, knowing they had the power to peacefully find another person, next time they would be wise about it, they whispered among themselves. They would not fall for words they did not even understand, big words that needed dictionaries and still left them hungry. Hunger was a horrible predicament, in extreme circumstances, it made people do unthinkable things.

Sam Mwenso had the upper hand when it came to the other presidential candidates. His father Paul had set a great precedent for him, he been a man of action during his years in office as vice president. The people felt their patience finally had paid off, and they looked to him now. He was young, wealthy, well educated; he spoke well, but did not say too much which was appealing. He promised action. He promised change, the kind of change would fill every open mouth and empty stomach of the Zambian people. The common people loved nothing more than an action hero.

I was so glad the elections were over; glad it had all gone according to Paul’s plan. During those long days and nights leading up to the elections, sleep evaded me. The knowledge that I would soon put all the madness that had invaded my life for so long, brought peace in my often tormented mind, but then I worried for a different cause. I was worried for a man who had let me down, worried of what would become of him and the great expectations the people had should Paul be taken away without much notice. The great Paul Mwenso had been living on a prayer day after day for longer than the doctors had predicted, even he knew this miracle was running on borrowed time, and soon he would have to succumb to it.

The excitement by the people was so infectious, sad as Phillip Daka’s death had been, it had liberated them; given the common people a new hunger for the future, a new lease on what to expect. The people had voted for Sam not realising the action man vision had been Paul’s all along. Little did the people know, they had been deceived again. That week of mourning brought my husband back home. I drove back from Emily’s French class only to find Sam’s car parked in the drive way, seven days after he had left, seven days after he had declared our marriage over. The rest is history as the cliché goes and now, here we were.

I looked at them with pride, three generations of the Mwenso’s stood there, Father, Son and Grandson. Their heads held high as the words, ‘free men we stand, under the flag of our land’, came out of their mouths nearly at the same time. It was beautiful to watch them, a trio to admire. The tears came hard and fast, quickly I searched my handbag for my dark oversized glasses and looked away as I put them on, wiping the tears away. I was at the mercy of my emotions, no matter how hard I tried to control them; they always felt a step ahead of me. Paul had aged a little more from the last time I had seen him, yet for a man who had been to hell and back with his body riddled with cancer, he looked very good. As I stared at him, the chiseled features of his face had thankfully been passed on to Luke. I understood in that moment why women, even half his age took more than just a quick glance at him. I had tried so many times to describe those features to no avail until Bana Chama, put it perfectly when she said, ‘God chiseled his face, looked at his creation and said, you are almost the perfect reflection of your creator’.

Luke, the youngest of the three, the gift that never stopped giving in the Mwenso family was a tall dark handsome seventeen year old boy with an athletic body, who looked older and sometimes even behaved older than he really was. He had been the unexpected gift for the Mwenso family, a gift for them from beyond the grave. I learnt from Paul later on, that every time he had a bad day at the hospital, he thought of Luke, of how God had sent his family a gift to remember Timothy by when they had least expected it; his belief in the fullness of God’s grace had been renewed.

It took me by surprise to realise; my little boy was not little anymore when I found his laptop on, his Facebook page open begging for me to snoop on it. I found her then, a petite mixed race girl with curly brown hair and small black eyes and a mouth too large for her small face. That still didn’t take away from her beauty; she was breath taking for a girl so young. I had enough time to find out her name, Olike Perry, before I heard the sound of sandal clad feet coming my way. I hoped Luke would be a better boyfriend and husband than his father had been.

My eyes finally rested on the man who had just become the most important man in the country. In as much as I tried hard not to look at his face, I found myself drawn to his mouth, the way his upper lip curved slightly in what could be mistaken for a broken smile. His face was perfect and as I thought of all his features, I suddenly looked away, tears forming at the base of my eyes. I needed to go before I made more of a clown of myself than I already was doing.

I couldn’t help but cry some more, but then I remembered the cameras in my view and turned to quickly wipe the tears away. It occurred to me that people would actually think of my tears as happy ones, how they would ever know the truth behind those tears, I had hid the pain for so long, we all had. As all the anguish filled me yet again, and I began to wonder why I even cared.

Unlike the new president, who didn’t know the first thing about keeping promises, I had kept good on all my promises, and as I looked at Paul, through everything that had happened to our family, he had remained the one person who restored my now very fragile faith in humanity. I knew the sacrifices had all been worth it. The thought of this day actually coming true, had kept his spirits up, and I truly believed it had kept him alive. May be, he could now go, painful as the thought was; he had fought a brave war.

The last few years had been a bitter sweet journey for me, even the few highs never compensated for the lows, which were really low. And unlike Paul, my time to go had actually come, this very moment. As I looked down at my watch, I realised I was running late.

Finally, the president’s speech began and I heard loud shouts of ‘shsh shsh’ echo through the crowd. I had heard that speech more times than I cared to admit, and yet now, I found myself closing my eyes and saying each word with him. In midsentence, a huge uproar of cheers erupted from the crowd, in my head, I did a retake, like rewinding a movie, I wanted to go to the part