Therapist files

I did not understand why Jeffrey Mthunzi had been refereed to me for psychological evaluation: The man obviously had all of his faculties in one place. Of course it was the law that said in all cases involving the murder of a person or persons as a result of a love dispute, the accused had to go for psychological evaluation. But there was also room for the judge’s discretion to be used.

We were overworked as it is and did not have time for an obvious manslaughter case. I should have protested loudly, because my encounter with Jeffrey caused an upheaval in my life. Jeffrey was a commuter omnibus driver in the city of Bulawayo, Zimbabwe. The commuter omnibus is commonly known as umthsova in Bulawayo and the drivers and conductors are known as uncouth individuals. Maybe that’s why I felt my time was being wasted. But I should have known better than to generalise: Don’t people say females in the medical profession are prostitutes of the worst kind? But then, looking at the frequency at which my assistant removes her panties, I have to grudgingly admit that maybe they have a point.

            According to the summary of the court transcripts the prosecutor had provided me, Jeffrey had come home and found his wife’s legs wrapped around another man’s body. He had calmly gone to the car and gotten a wheel spanner. On being asked why he had gone to get the wheel spanner he said he was afraid his wife and her boyfriend would turn against him and they indeed had turned against him. He had swung at the man and the man had ducked under his blow. He had struck his wife on the left temple and she died three hours later at Central Hospital. He had been arrested for murder and he had pleaded guilty and as per the law, a plea of not guilty had been entered and the prosecutor had pushed for manslaughter. Open and shut. I grudgingly agreed to see him.

“I never intended to kill my wife.” That was the first thing he said to me when he sat down opposite me in my threadbare government office. He was dressed simply in blue jeans, T-shirt and an expensive looking pair of snickers.

“I know. They want me to determine if you are psychologically fit enough to stand accused of the crime you allegedly committed.”

“I am not mad. And I did not intend to kill my wife.”

“I know that, what happened?” I asked patiently. He was a decent looking guy and he did not seem like he deserved to go to prison. But the law did not work on emotions, but facts.

“It was an accident. I only swung that wheel spanner to stop her boyfriend from attacking me.” He spoke calmly and it seemed he had accepted his fate. Perhaps it was the guy’s calmness that had freaked out the court.

“ You were obviously very angry?”

“Just a bit.”

“You found your wife in bed with another man and you were angry, just a bit?” I was beginning to revise my opinion that the man was psychologically fine. He was perhaps too calm for someone who had witnessed his wife naked with another man. He was too calm for a guy who had killed his wife.

“I had always known that she was cheating on me. I was prepared for the day I would eventually catch her.”

“How did you know she was cheating on you?”

“She was way too sophisticated for me. She was a nurse and I was just a kombi driver. The circumstances that had brought us together had passed. Obviously she was looking for a way out.”

“What circumstances brought you together?” He took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. I did not usually let people smoke in my office, but I let him smoke. He was a likeable guy.

“We met in 2008. I was a kombi driver plying the city-central hospital route and she was a nurse. She was a very hungry nurse and extremely beautiful nurse. She was twenty five then and I was thirty. I was the guy who could buy her lunch and give her free rides to her workplace. I was the guy who could pay her rent and buy her groceries when she could not collect her money from the bank until it was valueless. We got married after six months. Six months after our marriage, the Zimbabwe dollar was replaced by the US dollar and the South African Rand...” He looked into space and pulled heavily on his cigarette. I let him be for a full five minutes. He drifted back.

“...I was still making more money than she did, but the glaring class difference could not be ignored. When the basic instinct to just survive ebbed away with the stabilisation of our economy it became all too obvious that nothing was holding our marriage together. I could have ended it, but the thrill of having a trophy wife was too overpowering...” a long drag from his cigarette indicated the end of his thought processes.

“You were not having regular sex I suppose?”

“We were not having sex at all. How I stayed celibate for that long is baffling. When we first met the sex was unbelievable. I could not believe I was sharing my bed with such a fine looking woman.”

“You sound educated.”

“I have some A-Levels.”

“How then, did you think a nurse was beyond you in terms of class?”

“A kombi driver is a kombi driver, it doesn’t matter how educated he is.”

“You could have advanced yourself.”

He didn't respond to that and looked around for where he could put his cigarette butt. I offered him an empty take-away box.

“Tell me about the day you caught your wife cheating on you”, I said by and by. He looked at me and laughed.

“Are you married?”

“No. I am not married, but we are talking about you. Not me.”

“You know, she wanted me catch her: She knew I came home at seven on a daily basis. I should have just walked away.”

“I don’t think that could have been possible. Both of you wanted out, so it was important that you see her and confront her.”

“I parked the car by the gate. I usually took it to the car park after I had eaten some supper. It’s a bit strange that even though she had stopped having sex with me; effectively ending our marriage, she still cooked and washed for me and still treated me with a measure of respect. I got into the house and from the kitchen door, I could hear them. I walked to the bedroom, watched a bit and walked out. I got the wheel spanner from the kombi and came back. They were done. She did not react in any way, but the guy jumped off the bed and rushed towards me. I swung the wheel spanner. I don’t know how she got in the way...”

I saw him for a week and recommended that he goes through rehabilitative counselling rather than be sent to jail. It wasn't an entirely objective assessment because four days into our sessions, I had slept at his place in Pumula North suburb. Months of frustration and pent-up energy on his part left me walking with a slight limp. It was the most satisfying day of my life and I was nervously aware that I had put my job on the line.