‘Sex and Other Physiological Needs’. I looked at the book that my supposed Tinder date was reading. I was surprised when she suggested to meet up inside the library, but I here I was. Judging from the book she was reading; this could be a promising date!

“Emma?” I asked, and she put down the book and smiled at me.

“Hi. You must be Geoffrey?” Emma replied.

“Yes. Interesting choice of book!” I said and winked.

“Indeed, this book has many hidden facts that will make your jowls drop,” Emma said seductively.

“Jowls? What do you mean?” I said, and I bit my tongue over letting my ignorance change the direction of this promising conversation.

“Jaw. As in making your jaw drop. Figuratively speaking of course,” Emma stated.

“Yes, of course. Seems like libraries are good for learning things. I have been here for less than a minute, and I have learnt a new word already.” I said and smiled.

“Imagine what a couple of hours with me would do to you. You’d become a new man!” Emma said excitedly.

I reflected on Emma’s statement. I definitely needed to become a new man, and she seemed like a suitable teacher. I smiled and spoke “How about having a coffee at the coffee shop upstairs? As much as I love books, reading together doesn’t make for a good first date.”

“Oh, you clearly haven’t dated me. Reading together can make an evening remarkably interesting. But I am happy to have a coffee as well.” Emma said and smiled.

We went upstairs, and I walked up to the counter to order two cappuccinos. As I was about to pay, I was struck by a terrifying realisation: I didn’t carry any cash, and I didn’t know which of my 24 credit cards I had credit on. I had thought about cutting the bloody cards to avoid indefinite debt slavery, but I needed the cards to show off my status. The card payments bounced several times, and I panicked trying to find the right card. Damn, this Tinder date turned out to be a carbon copy of last week’s date!

Eventually, Emma handed the cashier a ten-dollar-note and she smirked at me as we took our coffees to the table. Unfortunately, our conversation was inhibited by the noise of the traffic and my phone was buzzing. “Don’t mind me, answer your phone,” Emma suggested.

Reluctantly I answered the call. “How was your date?” Martin, my author friend, asked.

“I am still on it,” I replied

“Oh, I better not disturb you then,” Martin replied and hung up.

‘No shit!’ I thought, and I turned around to talk with Emma.

Emma was gone! She must have snuck off during my phone call! I cried on the inside. Despite being a successful lawyer, I had attended 100 consecutive Tinder dates without having sex!

I was travelling on the Ghan, the luxurious overnight train that crosses Australia, from Adelaide to Darwin. For most people, it is a fantastic way to experience the Australian outback, but to me, it was something else. I was here on a mission.

I am Samantha Nyamwasa and the sole survivor from my family of the Rwandan genocide in 1994. I travelled on this train to kill Patrick Bagosora, the man who murdered my family and avoided justice through living in Australia under a fake identity.

I finished my drink in the luxurious restaurant carriage, and I told my husband Jakob that I needed to visit the bathroom.  I wasn’t, I had something far more important to perform. It was time for Patrick Bagosora to face justice.

I published my manifesto detailing Patrick’s crimes and collected the gun that I had bought illegally. After that, I turned on a live video feed to the internet and went to Patrick’s cabin. I opened the door and shot the man who had murdered my family, streaming the murder online. Jakob saw me and came running towards me.

“Samantha, what have you done!”

“I did it!”

“You did what?”

“I killed Patrick.”

“But why? Have you lost your mind?”

“No, he killed my family. I am infertile, and my family ends with me. This is my resolution.”

“So, what are we doing now?”

“I will do what Patrick should have done. I will own up to my crimes and take my punishment.”

Sometime later, the train stopped, and the police arrested me when we arrived at Alice Springs. A few days later, I received some great news. The autopsy revealed that Patrick Bagosora had died many hours before I shot him. Someone had poisoned Patrick the night before.

The court lowered the charges against me to desecrating a dead body and unlawful possession of a firearm. Since my case was so unique, the court case received international exposure, and I used this opportunity to tell the story of my family and to remind the world of the suffering of my fellow Rwandans.

A year later, my prison sentence ended, and I did something long overdue. I returned to Rwanda to visit my family’s grave, located in a beautiful cemetery.

I kneeled at the grave, hoping that my ancestors’ spirits would hear me and spoke. “I did it. I killed the man who murdered you and reminded the world of the plight of our people. I committed the perfect murder.  I admitted the second murder of Patrick Bagosora, which convinced the police that I wasn’t the one who really killed him. In fact, I was. I delivered a brew of frozen margarita laced with cyanide, on the night he died. He never saw it coming, and neither did the investigators,” I said and smiled.

As I relaxed in the beautiful cemetery and watched the sunset. I was relieved that I had committed the perfect murder and had finally found inner peace.

The air was thick with smoke and anticipation. My best friend was getting married, and there was only one way to celebrate: To party like it was the summer of ‘69.

I looked through my notes. I was meant to give a speech, but I couldn’t decide what I wanted to say. My friend and I sledge each other hard, but I had to keep it balanced as outsiders might not understand our sense of humour.

My friend’s sexy sister, who was also his bride, spoke to me sensually: “Do you have any murders or executions planned for the wedding?”.  Yes, the wedding took place in Westeros!

I didn’t know how to respond. Would I reveal my plan to poison the King and take control of the kingdom, or would I play it cool? I decided to reveal my plan, making it sound like a joke. “Nothing special Danielle, just putting some dragonwort in the King’s chalice to fire up the party,” I said and laughed. “Oh, I would love to see that,” Danielle replied and winked as she walked away to entertain some other guests.

The problem with joking about regicide is that you don’t know whether people support you or not until you give it a shot. But I can tell you one thing, fairy-tale weddings are incredibly stressful!

When I am back on Earth, I often hear women talk about how they want a fairy-tale wedding. They don’t know what they are talking about. I have attended ten fairy-tale weddings, and there have been fatalities on eight of them.  Regicides, dragon attacks, angry fairies, and vengeful gods; it’s a miracle I am still alive!

I have also attended several weddings in the real world. The most significant incident I ever witnessed was someone rolling an ankle. Easily fixed with an icepack. Definitely less scary than Morgor the Red Dragon!

Speaking of Morgor, did I smell smoke? I panicked because I hadn’t brought my sword nor my magic wand. Then I realised that I was in the real world, and the smoke was from a minor fire in the kitchen, and someone had pressed the fire alarm button as a precaution.

The fire alarm went off, and we had to go out in the icy rain. My friend’s real bride Sandra was upset and cried that her dress was ruined. She scolded my friend Brian because of the rain. “I dreamt of a fairy-tale wedding, and you gave me this,” Sandra exclaimed.

“Vive Silencia Noctis,” I said and realised that the silence spell didn’t work in the real world.

“Huh?” Sandra replied.

“Well at least no-one died,” I said with a reassuring voice.

“I can’t believe Brian made you his best man,” Sandra said and stormed off.

Eventually, the fire was put out, and we returned to the venue. As we walked in, Brian approached me: “You pronounced Noctis one note too high!” he said with a disappointed voice and returned to his bride.