The moisture condensed from the atmosphere and fell visibly in separate drops. Mirirai trudged clumsily in the darkness like the antics of a leviathan. She winced at the throbbing pain of her bruised and torn clam. Every step she took was agonizingly unbearable; a result of postpartum afflictions of thigh cramps and distressed spinal cord. She clutched her new born infant to her chest in a desperate attempt to keep him warm and protect him from the rain. Further down a littered glimmer of lights at the missionary camp became brighter as she drew near. Her laboured breathing produced raspy sounds as she fought the heavy euphoria that threatened to shut her body down. Clenching her teeth she trudged on, knowing her adjudication to ensure the safety of her infant. The serene drizzle rejuvenated her as droplets of water ran down her back. She pulled the baby blanket tighter and covered the his face with an inner fleece wrapper.
He will be comfortable under the care of the nuns. That’s all she could do for him, she had nothing to offer never mind the fact she could not even afford adequate facilities to deliver her baby. Alone in the pit latrine toilet, under the light of a flickering candle she silently pushed the baby out. The tiny match box pit toilet was too small for her to lie down. She squatted in the semi darkness, using the grimy stained wall for support while her hands received the baby. Mirirai was sure enough that her pelvic bones dislocated as she felt him slide out and caught him just in the nick of time. It was a feeble faint cry, which was good enough for Mirirai. He was alive. She gazed at the fruit of incestuous lust and cried. She wept because he was gorgeous, because she loved him and could not bring her self to throw him in the pit of fecal matter.
She realised she was willing to die for him, an overwhelming maternal bond was the grace that saved him. She would rather die than sink in self loath. The gnashing and gnawing of a tortured soul. It was all too vivid. The beautiful toe curling, claw scratching copulation, that poked the very eye of God. Incest. The taste of the sacred fruit was sweeter than the ignorance of consequences. Half blood, half siblings, different descendents brought together by one womb. Their scorching loins was a fatal attraction that would bear a son. A lonely little boy who had no-one except the cruel nuns from the convent. They named him Angelo.