(Previously on Confessions: Some things you don’t wash off. Three nights back, under torchlight and drum-thunder, Amadi flayed a boy alive for sport and prophecy. Kot wept. Darce vanished into the kneeling crowd. They put axes in my hands and told me where to aim. I aimed. I missed.)

‘Can’t we die just a little?’ Was the question incessantly going through my mind as I watched traffic snarl up the street below, from 20 stories up. It was a hot, dusty afternoon, and the citywide power outage wasn’t helping.

“Sorry for keeping you. It’s a nightmare down there,” Amadi said, mopping his face with an already-soaked handkerchief as he shouldered the door shut.

“It’s alright, the view has been a befitting company,” I replied.

“I hope Cat has been hospitable in my absence,” crooking a finger at the glass. Cat rose at once.

From twenty floors up, the city lay spread out like a map someone had crumpled in rage—Table Mountain blunt against the sky, the Cape a dark brushstroke at the edge.

“Get me iced tea, with honey,” he asked her.

“I’ll take another glass of water, thank you,” I replied when she enquired what I’d be having.

“It’s a shame Kot won’t be joining us,” Amadi began once the drinks were brought, and I took a seat on the brown office sofa.

His face suddenly grew solemn and impressive, giving him a positively malignant look.

“You’re a quiet one, Obi. But the devil only knows what you’ve thought about, what you know!” He said severely.

I took a sip of the cold water, put the glass back on the paper mat, and held his gaze steadily. I knew his type. He’d worry you like a dog with a bone. I wouldn’t let anything escape me unawares; every confession the more precious.

“Has he told you?” He asked, sipping his tea.

“I do not follow,” I replied.

“Of course you do not,” he seemed relieved, sitting back in his chair.

Yet I knew. I am a liar and a scoundrel, I confess. So, I had to play the part. It’s not a story about right and wrong. And so, I sat there, sipping water.

“Forgive me, my dear Obi. I’ll be candid with you. Rashad is not here to catch me when I fall, and so I might as well take the tumble,” he went on, the buffoon.

“I still do not follow,” I said, sitting up on the sofa.

“Why didn’t you throw the axe?” he quietly asked.

“I did throw the axe,” I replied as quietly, memories of that night in the Kilifi wilderness coming to mind.

I could almost smell the sea in the air and hear the deathly scream of the poor Mossi, flanked by flaming torches on his cross as Amadi flayed him.

Until crack, came the sound!

“Aha, you did throw the axe. Yet I can see it in your eyes that it was at the wrong target,” he said, looking at me. His face was calm, yet his eyes were the color of a stormy sea.

“Rashad thinks I should be wary of you around sharp objects. Should I? No, I think we are going to make a pretty good team!” His eyes narrowed, tasting my reaction as the word “team” hung in the air.

“A team of what?” I asked. I could feel the fire churning in the pits of my stomach. Soon I’d be seething, I knew it.

“My patrons love gore and debauchery. And I love the clink of gold coins in my velvet pouch,” he said. “And you, you are you, Obi.”

“What did that even mean?” I mourned at heart, dreading the direction of the conversation. He didn’t know that I was wondering how strong the glass behind him was.

His face, already dark, went thunderous as he looked past my shoulder. I didn’t know that was possible!

“My woman is here; the conversation will have to wait,” he said curtly.

Just then, Darce in all her grace strode into the room.