Doctor Skin, MS.

A glorified idiot is what she was, he should have told her just as much. It’s high time someone did anyway!
Look at what she had done, subjected him to being just a mere spectator to his impending fate which she was currently rolling around in her palms like a piece of dice. She would throw the dice eventually and probably watch unperturbed as he rolled over in his fate.

He sat behind a protective cage meticulously observing how her facial muscles moved revealing a very beautiful flawless skin. This made his blood rush to his cheeks in anticipation like it always did before any of his operations. He was barely paying any attention to what she was saying, her lips were moving so gracefully he couldn’t help but be mesmerised by their exquisite beauty.

She kept talking. Her facial expression was very serious, sombre, contorted to a point one could tell she was angry at something.

Or perhaps in this case someone. She was visibly angry at someone!

Then he remembered, she was angry at him. Now he had to force himself to pay more attention to what she was saying, It could perhaps be something deliciously life changing.

“For crimes of this nature the court has revoked your licence to practice Medicine……”

What? He wondered. As if he even gave a rat’s ass about that. The fools thought he needed a licence to do his thing. This woman was crazy. Why could she not understand the commendable service he was doing for the human race.

“…that notwithstanding, the court hereby sentences you to life in the Psychiatric facility at Kamiti Maximum prison.” She pushed her specs up the bridge of her nose, briefly looking at the defendant. “You, Mr Osoro will not see eye to eye with any human being for a very long time!”

“We know justice will not be served to the victims of your heinous crimes,” she turned to the said victims, giving a sympathetically appreciative nod, “but the fact that you will be locked up in a high security facility is a good enough gesture the court has done its best to rid the world of psychopaths like you.”

With that she slammed the gavel so hard he thought she was going to break her desk. Goodness, why such kind of unchecked display of anger? What if she damaged her skin in the process?

He looked around the court room and his gaze met one of the victims. Her eyes were puffy, she had probably cried for days on end. He knew who her daughter was, or rather had been, they looked so much alike. Wamboi was the spitting image of her mother, skin so fair it had felt amazingly velvety against his masculine hands.

He smiled at the grieving woman and murmured a thank you. She turned away, busting into tears as she buried her face in her husband’s shoulder. The husband fixated his fiery eyes on him, jaws clamped so tightly that his teeth were probably biting into each other.

Wamboi’s father had rough skin, he could tell from afar. That was the reason he never chose male skin, it was absolutely good for nothing!


A sneaking fear engulfed Wamboi. It was not so much what he said that sent a chill down her spine but the way he said it, the look on his face when he made the utterance and the killer smile which seemed to indicate that this was the end of the road.

She lost her appetite and appreciation of what had seemed to be a romantic Valentine dinner between two lovers. Love sketched out of what had started out as innocently inconsequential coincidence between a student and her Medicine professor. One mind full of queries and another full of answers.

It was the perfect match.

They had been dating secretly for over six months and this was their first Valentine together. It was terribly hard to keep a secret in the informed world of Nairobi University but considering they were both introverts it worked to their advantage.

Two days before Valentine’s he had sent her a love poem on Whatsapp from her favorite poet, Christina Rossetti then asked her to travel with him to Mombasa for the weekend.

For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine;’
With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done,
For one is both and both are one in love:
Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine;’
Both have the strength and both the length thereof,
Both of us, of the love which makes us one.

She agreed, and they flew to Mombasa the following day, two people completely in love. Her first valentine date in her life would perhaps hold within it the promise of better days to come, she hoped. Who knows, she could even give herself to him and lose herself in the throes of passion in his strong arms!

After dinner as they were sipping on some exotic wine, Jonathan had mentioned, like he always did, that if he had skin as beautiful and flawless as hers he would be the happiest man in the world. She had blushed as he ran his index finger on her face, slowly tracing the contours of her well shaped cheekbones and jaws.

For that moment he seemed completely lost to another world. He just stared at her face like it was a piece of diamond detached from Cleopatra’s own jewelry collection. Then he said it;

“You have a million dollar skin; Prada would make a killing making hand bags out of it!”
Wamboi almost choked on her wine.
“What?” she exclaimed.
“I mean,” rubbing her skin lightly, “Prada would make a millions selling bags made out of your skin.” The look in his eyes was deeply unnerving. It instilled in her innocent heart a nauseating fear of unequalled cosmic proportions. Her belly, she felt, could no longer contain the food she had consumed.

She looked around and the few couples who were having dinner at the same establishment were not even in close proximity to their table. The waiter had left after getting a handsome tip from Jonathan, asking him not to disturb them for the rest of the evening. Jonathan had conveniently chosen a private place away from curious eyes and ears. He had told her that he wanted such a private place so he could just gaze into her beauty and forget everything else.

He moved closer to her. By now she was shaking all over.

“Drink up!” he ordered her as he raised the glass of wine to her lips then seemed to change his mind mid way.

“Pl…pl.. please, Jonathan,” she begged, her lips quavering, “ you are scaring me!”

He cocked his head sideways and looked at her more keenly. A smile curved itself on his emotionless face; she could not tell whether he was joking or serious. His face bore a strangely distant look; any elements of the man he had grown to love were no longer there.

“Come closer!”

She did, her body shaking all over. In this moment of extraordinary poignancy she felt an overwhelming desire to pee. She stilled herself. Jonathan sniffed on her skin and kissed her deeply while her eyes remained wide open in startling horror.

“Now drink up,” he said as he wiped off remnants of her red lipstick from his lips with the back of his hand. Out of sheer fear, she drank up desperately hoping it was poison that would in that moment expunge her from the horrific state.

“Now,” he whispered into her right ear, “This will make you a little dizzy and I, being the gentleman I am will carry your cute body out of here and take my time harvesting your velvety skin.” With this he ran a finger from her nose to her neck, down her breasts, stopping there momentarily to make a circle around her nipples.
“And then,” he added, “I will make myself a cute wallet from your facial skin!”


Wamboi was in a semi conscious state. She could barely move her body. She had lost track of time and wasn’t even sure where she was exactly. Moving her head slightly she made out a tiny, dimly lit room with medical paraphernalia. As a medical student she surely knew all about such items.

Her hands were bound against the metallic bars of the slim bed she was lying on. From a distant she could see the back of a person dressed in a white coat, she couldn’t tell whether male or female. Her throat felt extraordinarily dry and much as she tried to let out a scream none was forthcoming.

Then she felt a sharp pain in her face. She could taste blood, not sure though whether it was hers or not. The figure which was bent over at a corner of the room was now approaching her and she tried hard to focus her gaze in spite of the tremendous pain she was feeling.

“Hey little, beautiful bird!” it was Jonathan, “Wakey wakey!”

She tried to talk but nothing came out. The pain was now spreading into her head and she felt like a dozen drums beating in there.

“Oh, am sorry, the anesthesia must be wearing off. Care for a drink my darling?” he asked soothingly.

Tears filled her eyes and she could no longer see him clearly. His voice however continued teasing her, taunting her, vexing her. The man was enjoying whatever he was doing while the tears stung her skinless face in the most vicious way.

He wiped away the tears softly with a piece of cloth as if she was a baby. If she had a voice she would have screamed her lungs out, but much as she tried not even a whisper came out.

“Look what I have hear darling girl,” he held up something that looked like a piece of cloth. On closer inspection Wamboi realized it was human facial skin. Her mouth went wide with horror!

Her body was found floating near Fort Jesus a few days later with a deep, gaping hole where her heart was supposed to be. Her facial and upper torso skin had been peeled off her like a boiled tomato and the only thing left to identify her was a mark on her left leg which was a result of a car accident she has suffered a couple of years back.

In his crooked mind Jonathan decided to harvest not only her skin but her heart as well. He told the court that Wamboi was so good hearted that he felt it was his duty to keep her heart safe so no one could ever hurt her.

Asked how many other girls he had skinned alive he said several, their bodies were buried someplace, but Wamboi was the best of them all. The wallet he had made from her skin smelt so nice, he said. He would, as he explained to the court, auction it later at an extremely high price coz she was such a wonderful girl. The investigators had collected the aforementioned wallet and other crudely knitted human skin items at his dingy operation shack in Mombasa.



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