Virgil Monologue

With his head laid low, tucked in his strained knees, Virgil’s mind drowned in negativity. Memories of him and the woman who was meant to be his wife plunged him into deep remorse. Her chocolate brown eyes, although basic, seemed like the world to him. They were in his world. Whenever he looked at them, he imagined them on his almost-born daughter, Lethabo. They had settled on the name two weeks after Rachel told him she was pregnant. “What if we named her after your umakhulu, Nkosi?” Rachel asked as she laid her head on Virgil’s lap. Her audible radiant voice echoed through the air as they sat on the fields, watching the South African sun go down. It had been a long day for the couple, with one struggling with carrying herself, and another
Her face had been intricately designed with chalk and so were her eyes, with thick mud. On her head were some wet turkey feathers that were stuck to her brown hat. She cocked her head left and right as she talked, making her seem more like a bewitched dove. “What you see, I have no care. I want to make some business roots with you, if you want, that is.” In Virgil’s hand was the same sack that carried the body. He held it tight in his right hand, just as he held his machete in his firm, left hand. She eyed the bag curiously and flashed her blackened teeth at him, “Sit, umhle mhlekazi.” Virgil’s lips curved into a smile as he sat on the witch’s amancasi. “So, what is it that you bring to me?” she croaked. Virgil opened the tightly closed sac that had been covered by more bags to ease the strength of the malodor. The smell tickled her nose, making her face coil in disgust. “I want to know what services you can provide for me with this.” She stretched her thin neck over the bag and looked inside. The body was chopped into fine pieces, as if he went to a butcher. “This is enough for killing someone else, placing a curse on a family, or bad luck for 50 years towards anyone.” After a moment of deep thinking, Virgil replied, “Keep the body, do whatever you want with it as long as it doesn’t affect me. I want money in return for it.” The transaction was completed. A 71-kilogram body was sold for
Hushed, as if its thoughts were tightly packed into a box in the corner. He moved steadily, on pace and he faced people directly whenever they would share a glance with him. Some tried to call him to their vendors, while others gave him faces that were painted with pity. Most of the time while he was walking to his next destination, he didn’t even realize that people had called him. His mind was in a dark place; revenge and regain. He walked into a vendor that had been on the outskirts of the little village town that he was in. On a blue plastic chair, was a man with a bulbous pot belly sitting on it. He was sipping on a metal cup that had soup on it, while he sifted through some beans on a grass-woven tray. The “Ah! Nkosi!” he exclaimed with an accent so thick that it almost sounded like it was choking him, “It has been a long time since I have seen your young face out on my steps! How can I help you?” Nkosi looked at the man sullenly and answered, “I want to buy 37 liters of gasoline from you. And a 1-meter rope. Also, add a matchstick and a loaf of bread with two bottles of coke.” Zakhele, the mid-forty man who owned the store, looked at Virgil perplexed. He set his blue metal cup on the floor, followed by the tray of beans. “Nkosi, why do you need these things, eh? Usually, you come here to get breakfast. Normal food, but now-” “Give him the things he asked for. And add another bottle of coke.” Dumo said. Virgil looked at him and his heart