BLACK AND WHITE BLOOD

BLACK AND WHITE BLOOD

There is a lovely road that runs from the airport to the hills. It passes through the sparsely populated rural uplands on its way to the capital, built during the colonial era on a high plateau. The countryside surrounding the city for hundreds of miles in all directions is designated rural and farming. Almost all of the land is owned by farmers.

Only the capital and its slums are considered urban. This is where most of the population lives.

The scenery is spectacular, the climate serene and the living conditions despicable.

*

The boy in charge of the cattle saw the dust in the distance thrown up by the vehicle. He left his herd and ran down the hillside towards a group of ramshackle dwellings shouting. ‘Wake up! Wake up! The farmer again. He’s coming!’

Two men came out of one of the ramshackle huts. They stared at the approaching vehicle and then walked quickly into the bush.

The boy’s name was Jabulani. The farmer’s name was Kruger. He was looking for Jabulani’s father, whose name was Paul Delani.

The huts were on Kruger’s land. Land his forefathers had found empty before they settled on it. That’s what they said, anyway.

Paul was in one of the crude buildings. He did not know yet what the farmer wanted. So he was only mildly apprehensive about the Kruger’s sudden appearance. Paul thought it was probably to do with the men who had just left. And he’d had nothing to do with them. He’d ignored them when they were there.

As he watched the approaching truck, he formulated what he’d say. He thought that, if asked, he’d simply tell Kruger that he did not know the men. So he felt that if this was what the farmer wanted, information about the strangers, he would be reasonably safe.

But that wasn’t the case.

Although Paul was not aware of it, Kruger was on his way to get Paul because Paul had killed Kruger’s wife’s pet dog.

Since her baby had died, the dog had been the light of her life. She’d carried it round with her everywhere. A beautiful looking, but snappy and thoroughly spoilt fox terrier called, of all things, Nipper. It was white with a brown head, and she’d named it after the dog listening to a phonograph on her mother’s collection of old black-with-red-labels seventy eight His Master’s Voice records.

Kruger didn’t like the dog much and often referred to it as Shit Head. Of course he said this mainly when his wife was not around.

But now the light had gone out of her life again. A dead baby and a dead dog. Both in the space of a year. What had she done to deserve this? ‘Die Here, please give me back my dog,’ she pleaded in prayer.

And all because Kruger had asked Paul to set a trap for the small buck that were eating the vegetables in his wife’s garden. But the wire snare had trapped Nipper instead of the thieving dik dik or duiker. So Shit Head, or Nipper, if you like, had died an agonizing death meant for a dwarf deer.

*

When Kruger had found his wife’s pet, the dog had been dead for some time. The sick smell of death filled the air.  Bloat was forcing fluids to escape from its bulging eyes, mouth, nose and anus. Flies were buzzing and fighting to get at the putrefying orifices.  When he picked it up, the stench was revolting and maggots covered the underside that had been in contact with the soil.

So much for his wife wondering around the property for several days and nights calling it’s stupid name.

‘Nip! Nip! Nippy, where are you? Nipper, mummy’s waiting. Come on, Nippy, come home to me my baby.’

He put the dog’s body in the back of his truck and drove home to confront his wife with the news. He was anticipating a crisis.

And he got one.

*

Kruger’s wife was in the kitchen. ‘Bad news about the dog, I’m afraid. Caught in a trap.’

They went out to the truck. He pointed at the dog lying in the back, flies swooping and swarming across the lifeless body.

She stared at her darling in disbelief. Then she started to hit Kruger. She struck him on the face and chest with balled fists. ‘You… you…’ She was lost for words. ‘You bastard. You fucking bastard,’ she shouted as she let fly at him.

‘What are we doing here? Why did you bring me to this godforsaken place?’

Why indeed? He had no answer. What were they doing there?

*

Kruger looked at the huts in disgust. ‘These people,’ he thought. ‘No self-respect. Just look at the fucking mess.’

He called out for Paul who had once been one of his farm labourers until he got too old for regular daylong work. But he had to earn his living in order to remain on the farmer’s land. So he looked after the farmer’s wife’s extensive vegetable patch.

Kruger saw an old man come shuffling towards him from one of the shacks. Paul took off his battered hat.

Kruger immediately detected a sullen look. He knew how to read these people. He’d been amongst them all his life. And he was sure that Paul looked both truculent and guilty. He’d done it deliberately. That was obvious from his surly manner.

Times were changing. Things were different now that times had changed. But the changes were not for the better in Kruger’s opinion. Some of his neighbours, and worse still, even some of his relatives, allowed these people to ride in the cab with the owner of the vehicle. But Kruger prided himself on one of the old guard. ‘Get in the back!’ he told Paul. The old man climbed up onto the bakkie and sat on the metal seat over the rear wheel.   

*

When he got back through the automated gates in the perimeter fence, Kruger told Paul to go to the machine shed. Then he went to fetch his wife. He told her to stand by the door. He told Paul to take off his shirt and lean across one of the tractor wheels. He took a sjambok off a hook on the wall.

He had a few practice swings. The animal hide whip made a swishing sound as it cut through the air.

Kruger’s wife stood with her legs slightly apart, watching. He began his work. 

Paul made no sound. The only thing that could be heard was the sjambok in the air as it arched towards the cuts it made in the flesh on the labourer’s back.

After a few minutes, Kruger’s wife shouted, ‘Stop. Stop Jannie. Stop now. That’s enough.’

Kruger stopped. He told Paul to get into the back of the truck. He drove the man back to his hut.

*

Jabulani was staring at Kruger from where he lay on the earth floor of his father’s hut. He was looking under the gap in the door. He saw Kruger grab Paul and pull him off the back of the truck. The old man’s shirt was covered in blood. When Kruger had driven off, the old man put his hat back on his head.

*

Kruger’s sister-in-law lived with them. She was a widow. His brother had been killed when he was still a young man and she’d moved in with Kruger and his new wife.

Kruger found her in the middle of the milking shed one day. She was dressed in denim shorts bleached almost white with a ragged hem. Her blouse was not buttoned, but tied in a knot that showed her underwear. And she was wearing cheap canvas Dunlop tackies.

The milkers stopped smiling as soon has he came back to the shed. He told her to get out of the building. ‘The only females allowed in here are the cows,’ he said.

When she’d gone, he walked up and down the rows of heifers dodging the dung and piss and wagging his finger menacingly at the milkers. He shook his fist at some. They felt his ugly mood and concentrated on squeezing teats and expressing milk into silver pails.

*

Kruger didn’t really like his sister in law. She had the wrong attitude. He thought she was far too familiar with the servants. And the farm labourers. He told her to stop speaking to them when she walked around the farmyard.

‘You never know what they’re thinking. And you know by just looking at them that they have evil things on their minds. I don’t trust them. Any of them. Because they hate us. You can see that written all over their faces. So you don’t have to be Einstein to work that out.’

*

Kruger had once propositioned his sister in law.

It happened only once.

It was as if he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t like the woman, he didn’t respect her, but she had an effect on him. So he wanted to show off to her. His male prowess. He wanted to establish a relationship. Where he could show her what he was made of.

‘Shall we… Well… I was thinking… do you feel like…? Well… You know what I mean, don’t you? A bit of fun, perhaps. You can’t had any for quite a while.’ He laughed. ‘I hope not anyway.’ He laughed again.

He stepped right up next to her. He could see the faint moustache on her lip and a few minute cracks where her makeup was leeching into the surrounding epidermis.

He put his hand around her waste. He pushed his pelvis up against hers so that there was no mistake about what he had in mind.

‘Fok, Jannie,’ she said as she pushed him away. ‘Your brother’s not dead a year and you try to sleep with me? No way man. What do you think I am?’

As the unexpected rebuttal sunk in Kruger felt crushed. Demeaned and affronted. Humiliated, in fact.

‘You ungrateful bitch,’ he muttered as he left the room.

*

A few years before Jabulani would automatically have entered the labour force on Kruger’s farm, he was playing outside the milk shed waiting for one of his brothers to finish milking. But Kruger gave orders to one of the younger milkers, Dixon, to go and look for a missing heifer before he could go home.

Jabulani went with Dixon who was in his late teens. As they walked they chatted and Jabulani was fascinated at the older boy’s attitude. He didn’t like the farmer or anyone in his family. He didn’t like farmers, period. He didn’t like the conditions he lived under, but he had no other options. He didn’t like the government. It had changed little in fifteen years. The signs on the toilets had changed. And on the railway stations platforms. And on the front of the busses. And everyone was allowed to sit on the same benches in the park. But very little else had changed. Very little indeed.

A prominent priest had said the gravy train stopped just long enough for one set of politicians to get off while the others - the new lot - got on.

Well, perhaps some people’s attitudes had changed, but there were not many of them. Most simply masked their innermost thoughts and feelings because they had not changed at all.

Dixon talked about some people that had plans to change things at a faster rate. They would be visiting all the labourers on Kruger’s farm over the next few weeks, he told Jabulani.

*

They found the missing heifer in a field of maze and chased it back onto the dirt road leading to the farmstead. It knew the way and walked in front of them.

They saw a white Japanese car parked just off the track. They both knew it belonged to Kruger’s sister in law. Dixon ran up to the car, gesticulating frantically. He was pointing to the fact that it was unlocked. A very unusual situation. A ladies handbag lay on the front seat. They both looked around. A path led through the reeds down to a dam surrounded by willows.

Jabulani was apprehensive. He beckoned to Dixon to get back to the cow and their mission. Dixon started down the path. Jabulani hesitated for a moment then followed him.

Smith’s sister in law was lying on a blanket. Most of her clothing lay in a neat pile next to her. She was in her underwear.

She was with a man the boys both knew. He was from the work force on the next-door farm. He was completely naked. And it was obvious that he was ready to make love.

Jabulani was terrified. He pulled at Dixon’s shirt and motioned him to leave. Dixon shook his head.

Jabulani crouched down and walked quickly back along the path back towards the car. He looked back once. He saw that Dixon had taken out his penis and was started to masturbate while staring at the couple involved in this frightening situation.

Miscegenation had, until recently, been a serious crime. Jabulani probably didn’t know what that meant, but knew that there would be serious consequences emanating from what they had just seen. Love played no part in the equation. Because he knew intuitively that the social convention was as powerful as ever. The consequences were inevitable, and that the couple they were spying on were fucking across the so-called colour bar. A very dangerous thing to do in this area.

*

Dixon came to see Jabulani the next day. He showed Jabulani a brilliant gold lipstick. He took the cap off and, by twisting the shaft, Dixon made the bright red make-up protrude from the top of the container. Then, by reversing the action, he made it retract. Just like a shiny wet glans moving in and out of a golden prepuce.

Dixon made a mark on his skin with the crimson colouring. Jabulani thought it looked as if Dixon had slashed his skin with a blade revealing the bright flesh beneath. He looked away.

Dixon took Jabulani to a rocky outcrop. He moved some large stones from the front of a small cavity to show Jabulani where he had hidden Kruger’s sister in law’s handbag in amongst the dassie shit.

*

The boy in charge of the cattle saw the dust in the distance. He knew it was Kruger’s vehicle. He ran down the hillside towards the huts shouting. ‘Wake up! Wake up! It’s the farmer. He’s coming!’

*

Kruger stopped his truck and got out. ‘Where’s Jabulani?’ he asked.

Paul took off his hat and went across to speak to the farmer.

He came back and told Jabulani to get into the back of the bakkie.

‘Where’s Dixon?’ Kruger asked the Jabulani.

They drove to a nearby group of crude dwellings and asked for Dixon. Dixon’s parents sent him out to the farmer.

‘Where’s the handbag?’ he asked the boys.

They looked at him blankly and shook their heads. But Kruger knew they were lying. He could see it written all over their faces. He’d lived amongst these people all his life. He could read any one of them like he could read a magazine.

*

When they had driven through the automated gates, Kruger told the boys to wait in the machine shed. He told Dixon to take off his shirt and his trousers and to lean across one of the tractor wheels. He tied the naked boy’s wrists and ankles to the machine’s axles. He told Jabulani to stand next to Dixon.

‘Take your pants off. You’re next,’ he told Jabulani.

‘No. Not there. Closer to him. I want you to feel this too,’ he instructed.

Kruger took a sjambok off its hook. He touched the tip of Jabulani’s foreskin with the whip.

Then he struck Dixon viciously across the buttocks. Once. Twice. And again. And again and again.

Jabulani wet himself.

Dixon was bleeding and screaming. The farmer’s wife came to the door of the shed. She stood there with her legs apart.

‘Fok, Jannie. Be careful. You don’t want to kill him.’

Jabulani told the farmer he would show him where his sister in law’s handbag was hidden.

*

Dixon shot the farmer through his bathroom window. Then they drove the tractor through the front door. Jabulani found the farmer’s wife in the kithen. She was crying without making any noise. He stabbed her in the throat. She slid down onto the floor.

There was no sign of Kruger’s sister in law.

When they left the farm, they each took half the money.

Dixon held a shotgun over his shoulder. Jabulani had a revolver in one hand.

With their free hands, they lifted a large television between them and started walking. Dixon helped Jabualani to carry it away from the burning buildings and up into the hills. 

It was old, very heavy and cumbersome to carry with one hand. They plodded on holding onto the TV and their guns.

After a few miles, Dixon said he was tired, and that they should abandon the trophy.

Jabulani said he would handle it alone. Dixon went off without further comment.

Jabulani managed to manhandle the set down the rocky hillside to a dirt road where he sat on it and waited.

It would have been a long walk home, but a priest gave him a lift in a bakkie. Jabulani loaded the television set into the back and sat alongside the driver who wore a dirty black suit with a soiled white dog collar. He said nothing to Jabulani about the TV.

Jabulani tried to engage the priest in conversation, but he could see that the old man was afraid. He replied in monosyllables.

Eventually Jabulani asked him to turn off the road they were on.

‘To where I live,’ he told the priest. ‘I want

you to take me to my house.’

‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t do that I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘I’m on the way to a meeting. And I can’t be late.’

Jabulani stuck the muzzle of his gun into the priest’s neck. ‘Jou fok! Just do what I tell you.’

*

Jabulani dragged the large lump of old-fashioned electrical equipment into his hut. He placed it on the earth floor in the corner. He stood a wooden chair in the centre of the room and sat down.

He looked at the TV, but there was no picture or sound because there was no power. Nor was there any for miles around. The nearest available electricity would have been the farmhouse he’d just left. Which used, or had used until recently, a diesel generator, and was not connected to an electrical grid anyway.

So the stolen television set would never work.

Jabulani sat in the near dark and stared at his distorted reflection on the screen.

He waited for the police to arrive.

*****

FOOTNOTE

Although he is long dead, and my thanks are therefore futile, I would just the same like to thank Dr Alan Paton, albeit posthumously, for starting a process that eventually completely changed my political perspective.

Anyone who has read his book Cry the Beloved Country will recognize that it is his road to Ixopo in disguise at the beginning of this short story.

*

BAD FAITH

WARNING: Some people may be offended by some of the themes in this short story.

In bad faith, it is from myself that I am hiding the truth. 

Jean-Paul Satre (1905-1980).

Paul and the boy both heard the vehicle drive into the courtyard. A car door slammed but the engine was kept running. Paul looked at his face in the mirror and went on shaving. He was expecting a visit, but he showed no sign of fear or the pangs of pain he felt gnawing at his bowels.

The boy put down the old enamel jug of water he was holding and went to the window. He looked out and then quickly stepped away from the opening.

‘Well, who is it?’ asked Paul, trying to sound more casual than he felt.

‘It is a jeep, Father. It’s the army. There are three soldiers. One is at the front door. He is speaking to Father Xavier. We must be careful, Father. They might have been drinking, and they do not drink wine with song, Father.’

‘Don’t worry, my boy. We have nothing to fear. It’s probably a routine visit. Perhaps Father Xavier will give them something and send them on their way. Now, more hot water please. I must finish my face.’

There was a soft knock at the door. And a brief conversation in Kingala. Paul did not understand what was being said. But he understood the wide-eyed look on the boy’s face. He turned to Paul and said, ‘I will pack some things for you. You must go with them.’

In the courtyard, Paul tried to insist on traveling in the seat next to the driver, but a young soldier slapped him across the face with an open hand and pointed to the rear of the jeep. Paul felt the blood in his mouth, but he turned the other cheek and climbed into the back of the vehicle. He sat on the floor. Two soldiers got in with him. One of them drew his finger across his throat and laughed. Paul did not think it was funny.

***

Four years earlier, Paul was told to meet a man in a black suit at the airport. Some request. All but impossible he thought as he went into the congested international terminal. But the man found him easily. No trouble at all, it seemed. Seek and ye shall find, he remembered, was one of his mother’s favourites.

The man immediately asked for Paul’s passport. He put it in his briefcase and handed Paul a new one.

‘It’s completely legal and legitimate. Which means it’ll take a little longer to work out where you’ve been, etcetera. Not a huge advantage, but one never knows. Don’t forget though, if they really want to find out about you, they will. On the other hand, maybe they won’t bother to check.’ The man stopped. He reflected on what he was about to say. ‘But you must be very careful. It’s always best to play it safe. Eternal vigilance and all that. Not everyone is on our side. In fact some people will be vehemently pitched against you. And where you’re going they may even try to kill you.’

Paul looked at the document. Where they got the photo from he had no idea. But it looked fairly recent.

‘Now listen carefully, because this is very important.’ The man handed Paul a brown envelope sealed with tape. ‘Don’t open it now. Only when you get to Bangala immigration. You’ll be in for a long wait. There will be only one official on duty. So, just as you get to the counter, take all the dollars out and put them inside your passport.’

They shook hands.

‘Ite in pace.’ Paul was surprised. He had not been addressed in Latin for a long, long time. ‘And may you have a long life.’

The man in black was soon lost in the crowded concourse, and Paul was on his own.

***

On a hot day in the rainy season, but with no sign of rain, the small aircraft circled Bangala’s airport. On a metal seat next to a window, Paul, his white knuckles clutching the armrests, looked down at the ribbon of runway in the land of his new posting. In the far distance he could just make out a large open pit mining operation. On the horizon, a ring of purple mountains reached out of the jungle marking the frontier. Despite their closeness to the equator, some of the higher peaks were white with snow.

A slight change of course brought the capital’s handful of skyscrapers came into view and Paul caught sight of the notorious haze of smoke that rose from the city whatever the season.

The pilot’s approach was complicated because of the proximity of a series of rocky outcrops. Years ago questions were asked about the airport’s location. Mist and smog were common, it was pointed out, and wasn’t it too close to the mountains? But no answers were forthcoming. Construction inevitably went on to completion but well behind time and millions over budget.

As they descended several military vehicles floated into view. Then the aircraft banked suddenly as it overshot the pockmarked tarmac landing strip. Father Paul instinctively clutched at his favourite silver rosary in his pocket. He looked down again and saw that many bomb craters still lined the edges of the black apron. Ten years after the end of the civil war they had still not been repaired.

The pilot had told Paul his conditions. He wanted full payment in advance. He said Paul must disembark immediately on landing.

When the plane stopped, the pilot left the engine running. He lowered a flimsy ladder onto the runway. As Paul touched the concrete, the metal frame disappeared back into the fuselage. He handed down Paul’s backpack. The door slammed and the aircraft did a U-turn. It stopped for a moment before accelerating down the concrete apron towards take off. It was soon a spec disappearing into the heat haze. Then it was gone, and Paul was alone in his new country.

***

It turned out to be exactly as the man had said. It was a long wait. Crowds of people sweating in the corrugated iron customs and immigration shed built onto one side of a concrete mass that was Bangala International. Piles of baggage. No signs to say what to do or where to go. And soldiers with guns everywhere.

There was only one man at the immigration desk and it took a long time to get to him. He looked bored even when he took the money out of Paul’s passport. ‘OK, pass through.’

‘No stamp?’ asked Paul. ‘No entry visa to say how long I can stay?’

‘Go! Nothing more.’

Paul went through into the filthy main building. He was met by a young man in a white robe with tribal scars on his face and perfect white teeth that positively beamed when he smiled. But he was not smiling now.

‘Father Paul?’ he asked and then introduced himself as Simon. ‘We must hurry. This is a bad place. There are many soldiers. Please come with me, and don’t look at or speak to anyone. Let us be like the prudent man who foresees evil and hides himself when the simple pass on and are punished.’

As they neared a splintered glass door, they passed a group of armed men in uniform several of who were sitting on their haunches smoking and drinking. One of them called out. Simon ignored the shout, and taking Paul by the elbow, led him towards the exit. But the sound of a bolt assembly being pulled back and a round being loaded into the firing chamber made Simon stop and look at the group of ragged men surrounded by empty plastic beer cartons. One of them got up and sauntered towards Simon and Paul. He spoke to Simon who answered in a language Paul didn’t understand. Suddenly the man raised his rifle and hit Simon in the chest with the butt. Simon collapsed and lay on the floor. Paul stepped forward and grabbed at the gun. This infuriated the man who turned on Paul shouting for his comrades to help. The man from immigration appeared suddenly. He was holding a short swagger stick. He hit the soldier across the face. They all obviously knew who he was, because they immediately backed off. The man he’d struck was fingering the bright pink weals on his ebony cheeks.

Paul helped Simon to his feet.

‘Very pleased to see you again,’ he said, attempting to make light of a difficult situation. ‘Thank you very much for interceding.’

The immigration officer stared at them. ‘Why don’t you just get out of here before you both get hurt?’ Then he walked off, glaring at the young soldiers and gesticulating at them with the rattan cane he’d just used with such effect. And with such authority.

***

Beneath the surface the mission station and school had changed little since its founding in the colonial days. Old fashioned or politically incorrect concepts and words like ‘assimilation’ and ‘tribal development’ were no longer used, but that was about it. Very few of the locals had the view that the missionaries had taken their land in exchange for a book - the concept had just not crossed their minds. Perhaps because they were too busy eking a living out of the soil.

This was the milieu Paul fitted into so well from the day he arrived and he took to his new teaching situation like a duck to water. Always willing to help his peers – and of course the pupils.

Paul was a very good teacher. He had a natural rapport with young people, in this case boys, because there were no girls at the school. He knew his subjects well, spoke fluent French and Spanish and had studied European and colonial history. He went to great lengths to ensure that the mission school boys liked his lessons.

One boy, Naftali, the son of a minor tribal elder, caught his eye. He was a bright kid. Very bright. And he spoke good English with hardly a trace of an accent, and he was handsome, self confident and amusing. He could be the class jester whenever he wanted to. He asked probing questions in class and was never slow to spark a debate on testy matters. Paul liked him a lot.

‘How can it be that our Bengala style of animism is not considered in the same league as European religions,’ asked Naftali. ‘Despite the fact that it’s been looked at from all angles and upside down by anthropologists for generations. Experts with their own religious leanings declare it to be pagan, and those who call themselves freethinkers give it disparaging labels like animism or totenism. At best it’s considered a cult – at worst it’s dismissed as primitive native mumbo jumbo.’

Paul realized he was on difficult ground on many occasions. But he tried. And he kept trying. In the end, he found this uphill battle to be gratifying and stimulating despite the deep-seated doubt and anxiety it sometimes provoked. He’d not thought about religion so much since he’d taken orders.

Sometimes the questions were even more difficult. Especially one that one occasion when he brought the house down. Paul was never able to work out if Naftali was being deliberately provocative or simply playing the clown.

‘Forgive me for being intrusive, Father Paul, but how can the church prognosticate on the matters that, in theory anyway, none of it’s adherents should know anything about. For example, Father, why are we taught that something we all do and which is so much fun is considered to be so bad? Why is such a simple pleasure condemned as a mortal sin?’

This question was like a runaway train, and, although Paul saw it coming, there was no way it was going to be stopped. Naftali saw to that.

‘So what we’d all like to know Father Paul, is how often do you yourself masturbate?’

***

It was obvious from the start that Naftali was extremely precocious. He was good at all subjects, and his mind was quick, alert and receptive. He grasped new ideas and he was open to new concepts. So of course the time came when it was obvious that Naftali would benefit from extra instruction.

Paul wrestled with the situation for a long time before making up his mind. But how to couch it? How to make the offer?

Finally Paul decided. It would be encouragement and more face to face contact. ‘Naftali, you’re a very bright boy. Here’s a key to the front door of the building. Feel free to use it any time at all. I am always available if you feel the need to talk. On any subject you might wish to discuss.’ After all Paul told himself, this was solely in the spirit of developing a young mind. So that’s how it started, regular visits from Naftali. Sometimes at night. And sometimes quite late.

***

They came to get him well after dark. A group of men in shabby clothes with sullen faces. He recognized most of them. Two uncles and four cousins. They all carried pangas. Several had been drinking. He recognized the slurred speech and bloodshot eyes. His father’s brothers did not speak to him, and the others refused even to look at him. They would not meet his gaze. His father said he must go with them. His mother was not present. This was mens’ business. He told Naftali it was to prepare for an initiation ceremony. A right of passage that all boys went through. Although he knew it was a lie, he realized that it was important to be seen to obey his father. So he went with them from the dark night into the darker forest. But he knew it was more than circumcision they had in mind.

***

When Paul was pushed into Major Kimani’s office, a saying his mother had used flashed into mind. Black as your hat, is what she would have said in those days when that kind of metaphor was tolerated. And that’s what he was, but with a mind as sharp as a razor. As Paul was about to find out.

‘Stop! Leave him alone,’ he shouted at his men. And, ‘My apologies, Father,’ to Paul. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard that old colonial expression, You can take an African out of the jungle, but you can’t take the jungle out of the African. Well, although it’s a racial slur, I know why the original settlers thought along those lines. But my people continue to exasperate me.

Although his mouth was badly swollen, Paul relaxed somewhat in the Major’s presence. He did not know why he’d been brought in but he knew he’d have to be on his toes when answering any questions. But he felt reasonably confident that he’d be able to work his way out of it. Because he’d been here before. The situation had not been quite the same. But very similar. Not in this country. Not in Africa. But in Ireland, it had been. Picked up and interrogated by Garda Siochana. And then exonerated and apologized to in a sudden change of direction. Or a change of heart.

Kimani spoke to the soldiers for a while in Kingala. He never raised his voice, but it was obvious he was livid with them. Then Paul heard a word that he recognized. An English word. It sent a chill down his spine. They were talking about a laptop. His laptop.

Then, obviously for Paul’s benefit, he switched to English as he bundled the soldiers out of the door. ‘Now get out. Go and do your jobs. Properly. Fetch his computer and bring it back here.’

***

An hour went by. They talked about all kinds of things. The politics of post colonialism. How global warming and overpopulation appeared to be the major burdens Africa would have to come to terms with in the twenty first century. The influence of various United Nations institutions and the role of NGO’s. Kimani pointed out what he saw as similarities between the Bangala tribe’s primitive religion and Paul’s. The influence of the spirit world and an entrenched heirachy of men with influence. The role played by magical or supernatural powers. Paul chose not to refute any of the hypotheses proposed by Kimani.

Eventually, there was a knock at the door, and a soldier came in with Paul’s laptop. Even at that stage, he felt reasonably confident. But not for long.

Major Kimani picked up the phone, and a few minutes later a man who was not in uniform entered the office. He spoke to the Major, but took no notice of Paul.

‘This is Philemon, our very own black faced white hat hacker. He’s rather uncommunicative as you can see, but he’s a whiz with computers. An expert with software. Even protected software. As you will see. And shortly, I hope.’

The major spoke to Philemon in Kebanga, but Paul recognised one word that caused a burning sensation to start churning in his stomach: photos.

Philemon went to work on the laptop. Then he pointed out something to the Major. He wrote a few notes on a piece of paper, and when he’d left the room, the major started scrolling through Paul’s files. Although Paul could not see the screen, he knew what the Major was looking at. Downloaded pictures that he kept in what, until now, he thought was a safe place.

The major switched off the laptop.

He got up and walked over to Paul. He deliberately stood over him. Up close. ‘Well, now that I’ve looked at your photos, I’ll show you a few of mine.’

He handed Paul a folder. Inside were five glossy colour photos. They were all of Naftali. He was naked. And covered in blood. With dozens of gaping panga wounds. And obviously dead.

***

A few days before Paul’s arrest, the old mission panel van stopped outside a large colonial era mansion surrounded by high walls. Some Bugambian soldiers sat outside a metal security door. Paul said good morning to them in Kiswahili which he knew they understood, but they ignored him. He pressed the intercom and the gate was opened by two much paler soldiers in battle dress. They said good morning politely and he stepped over a barrier into the embassy. They saw immediately that he was in a highly distressed state.

One of them escorted Paul to the Ambassador’s office where he was received by Sir Richard Campbell and his assistant.

‘I am sorry to trouble you, but I need to phone those one hundred and ten acres in Rome. And I need a secure line. Well, I know it’s not a line any more, but what I mean is your satellite phone. As per our arrangement.’

‘Certainly Father, it’s your right. We’re at your disposal. And we’re happy to honour our country’s agreement with yours. Well, I know it’s not really your country you’re phoning. I suppose it’s more like a… well, a club, perhaps. But you know what I mean, I’m sure.’

Paul telephoned the unlisted number. He was sweating profusely. The man who answered asked him a question. ‘Quo vadis?’

Paul searched through the dark labrynth of his mind for the code he’d been given so long ago. Eventually he dredged up the answer. A phrase he’d once been given to commit to memory. When he’d first had dealings with these people. Paul remembered. He gave the answer that was required. ‘Ad vitam aeternam.’

He was immediately put through to a man who called himself Gregory. He had an Irish accent. He told Paul to calm down. They’d arrange something. He said not to talk to anyone about anything. Not even at the school.

After Paul had made his call, he felt much better, and he left, thanking the Ambassador profusely. ‘Everything in order?’ Sir Nigel asked. ‘Nothing we can help with? At the school I mean.’

‘Thank you Sir Nigel, that’s very kind of you, but I think I’ve got it sorted now. The person I phoned was very helpful, and he knows what to do.’

During the whole exchange, Lionel had said nothing to the priest.

When Paul was gone, the Amabassador asked,‘Why so glum, Lionel? Something on your mind?’

‘No sir. Well, yes, I suppose so sir.’

‘Well, what is it. Cough up now. We’re both in this together. We have to know what each other thinks.’

‘I’m sorry sir, but it makes me sick. Why do we do it? Because this kind of thing sends the wrong message to everyone. About what we stand for. You know, white hats versus black hats. Just who’s side are we on exactly? After all, we know who he’s phoning and we know why. Two of the most corrupt governments in the world colluding with each other, and we simply stand by. I know the standard rationale is that there is a chance we can influence this one for the better. But the one he phoned… It’s a lost cause isn’t it? With a hold on millions of people around the world. It’s more corrupt than corrupt.’

‘Now, now, Lionel. I can see that you’re passionate about it. And distressed perhaps. But ours not to reason why.’

‘Yes sir, and into the valley of death rode all those who thought that.’

***

The taxi owner-driver couldn’t believe his luck. He’d never had a fare like this before. And, because the distance was so great, there was no problem with the deposit he’d asked his passenger for. Forty miles from the airport through built up areas to the start of the interstate road and two hundred and fifty miles on the Great Western Highway. Then another hundred or so, through several small spread out towns with unpronounceable names. Up into the mountains to the mission and the school. A very remote place indeed.

When the taxi had gone, Father James took him on a quick orientation tour of the institution.

‘Please don't hesitate to ask if you need anything, Father Paul. It's my job to make you welcome, remember. To take care of you. You have nothing to worry about here. We're a very closed community. Close-knit you might say. We have to be, being so far from everywhere. But this isolation brings with it certain benefits. Which I’m sure you’re aware of. Let's just say it's nothing like where you were before. No, not a bit like that at all.

‘You see, we've been here a long time, and we have established very good relationships with the authorities. It's a well developed partnership if you like. Right from the earliest days, we got things off on the right footing. And we’ve been at pains to keep it that way. So, no, there's no problem with the government. None at all. We're all in this together, if you like. A symbotic relationship the scientists would say.’ He smiled at what he saw as an amusing metaphor.

Then he went on. ‘And we do our best here at St Luke's. For the boys I mean. We believe that these boys should be treated with love and care.

‘So I'm sure you'll fit in. To be sure, I know you'll like it. We have a fine bunch of boys to take care of. You’re going to like them Father.’

The priest beckoned to a handsome boy in his late teens.

‘Oh, Martin, come over here for a moment, will you.’ Then he turned to Paul and added, ‘I’d like to introduce you to this young lad. He’s been assigned to help you. To show you around, that sort of thing.’

Paul shook hands with Martin who flashed back a disarming smile. He appeared to take little notice of what Father James was saying about him. Father James put his hand on Martin’s shoulder and shook it slightly.

‘Martin is, how do I put it? Well, he’s only very slightly…er…handicapped, as we used to say. Almost normal, one should say I suppose. But he comes from a desperate family. And he’s much better off here. Where we can look after him and give him all the love and care he needs.’

Paul picked up his rucksack and handed it to the boy. ‘Perhaps you can help me with this to start off with please Martin. Your first chore. It would be really helpful, because I’ve been carrying it around for a long, long time, it seems.’

Martin smiled at Paul. ‘Of course Father, I’m at your disposal.’

Pauls spirits rose. He felt elated. Exhilirated.

And why not? He was about to start a new life in a new world. And from what he’d been told, he had a feeling he’d be very happy in this strange but stimulating environment. Here where the faded sign on the wall proclaimed: St Luke’s School for Boys with Special Needs.

*****

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