FRIDAY 26TH DECEMBER 1969 06:36 HRS. GMT
QSS River Ankara. The name of this merchant ship with its thick restraining hawsers comes through the early morning haze as a frenetic activity matches the fluttering excitement of the flag of convenience. All you need is the ghostly clank of chains and the creaking of doors at the hinges and a crash of incidental music, and you'd have a scene in the…never mind me. One dizzy moment that's all. The Union Jack furls and unfurls frantically in obedience to the in-shore breeze. On the gangway, several able seamen move spritely with wooden crates out of the bowels of River Ankara toward an impressive rank of presumably new trucks in the olive-green colour of the Acme Freight Company. Cuts to a descending close-up angle shot of moving men.
"Why don't you put the damn load on your head, Lungu, if its too heavy for you? You drag your feet like a pregnant woman," someone shouts from the deck of the ship. The guilty seaman in a black beret and blue uniform shoots a hostile look in the direction of the voice.
"Go wash your prick, Nwalimu, it stinks," the one they call Lungu returns cuttingly. The whole crew bursts out with mirth. Ascending medium frontal of man on the deck.
"I heard that and I will get you for that one, Lungu. You wait and see," the one on the deck hauls back with a superior air. The activity continues all the same until Lungu drops a crate and the accident jolts the haulage process with a stiff repercussion. It dins in my ears.
"You fucking bastard!" A soldier says as he breaks away from the rank of the trucks.
The able seaman hisses under his breath as he picks a submachine gun by its short barrel amidst the blue-grey clutter of weapons and accessories lying on the cold concrete floor of the dock.
"Look at the fool, just look at him," the soldier says reaching the seaman in a trice to ruffle him with a swift kick to the rump. The one they call Lungu goes sprawling over the weapons but springs up suddenly from the pile and hits the soldier with the stock of the gun. Blood spurts from the soldier's head as he goes down in a daze of excruciating pain to become to a piteous blubbering sight.
Lungu straightens, anticipating a rough house. It comes by way of a group of soldiers in green khakis who promptly descend mightily on Lungu. They practically run him over. His shipmates beside themselves with rage, instantly come to his rescue. The rumpus engenders a lot of gore with several men out of commission before a gunshot brings the foregoing to a standstill. A captain bellows in its wake.
"What's this madness all about? Sergeant Koti, explain at once!" The stiff uniform and the clack of the studs under his glossy boots against the concrete floor seem to impress his authority over the bloody disarray.
"He started it, sir, he dropped the crate and attacked one of the men," the breathless sergeant speaks boldly as he comes to attention before the angry officer.
"Who's he?" The officer asks not seeing the unconscious able seaman lying prone on the concrete floor.
"One of the sailors, sir. He's over there," the sergeant indicates his position.
"You have delayed progress by at least twenty minutes. You will be disciplined for this, not to mention your behaviour. Let the loading continue immediately and get the wounded to the base infirmary at once", he orders crisply. The sergeant salutes and turns away to the dismal collection of men, shouting brisk commands. But the ship's crew balks at the behest of an angry captain.
"What is the meaning of this, captain? You are under obligation to shift the cargo into those lorries." The army officer mirrors his surprise in his expression.
"With badly damaged men, mmnh? Were your men compelled by the law to beat up my crew? That moron found it his place to kick the butt of that unconscious man over there because he dropped a crate. Regrettably, we have to deal with animals instead of men. No healthy man on this ship will touch any item of the shipment until the Defense Ministry apologizes unreservedly in writing and the men nursed to full health. And finally, additional port charges taken care of by the ministry and you have no authorization to come aboard this ship," the sailor spits furiously, shifting his white cap to the back of his head.
"Captain, this is uncalled for, both sides have sustained casualties and I have ordered their treatment at the infirmary," the officer says in an imploring tone of voice. The sailor shakes his head adamantly and stomps off the deck, descends the companion way, moving out of sight. The army officer makes as if he intends to go up the gangway but quickly decides against it and watches with obvious frustration as the able seamen help their bleeding shipmates with first-aid.
"Sergeant! See to the wounded as I have ordered. I'm taking over from here. The process must continue without hindrance," he barks stomping away with boots clacking towards the trucks paying scant attention to the sergeant's salute. He barks again in the distance and the throaty noise of engines coming to life heralds the up-country journey. Behind schedule. It seems.
The scene fades out.
The wreckage that presently fills the screen suggests the asinine attitude of early-morning road users, especially those coming from a binge. The horrid mangle of metal stands right in the middle of the road and a few metres away is the billboard put in place by the Information Ministry; a warning to motorists;
"Avoid carnage on our highways, observe all speed limits and traffic regulations". Opposite this, on the other side of the road, is another sign. An Africola campaign ad:
"That last drink for the road could be the end of the road. Play safe with Africola – the living choice."
And as if by a depraved contrivance the crash has to open just by these warning signs, to mock an important aspect of government and a scheming soft drink company. The Kombi bus and the Peugeot 404 sedan are beyond repair; a head-on collision which affects significant halves of both vehicles. Halves suggesting a sure loss of lives. The trucks with the Acme Freight Company logo soon reach the scene along with other vehicles as traffic gets into a snarl-up. The captain jumps out of his jeep in a fury and runs to the spot. His face crumbles as realisation hits him and suddenly decides to pull his rank on the hapless civilians, ordering them to back away from the spot to enable the passage of the trucks. Some grumble and receive the heavy boot on their backsides and a few slaps to boot. In an impossible crawl and a confusion of blaring horns, the angry drivers begin to reverse. Recklessly too, to accentuate the jam. The officer, now an impetuous traffic warden succeeds in clearing the left shoulder of the road and directs the leading truck through it. A car
backfires, it seems, and in that instant, the first smile of accomplishment freezes in his face and fades into one of stupefaction and a grim determination to hold onto life.
He stoops clutching his stomach with fingers presently dripping with his crimson essence. The captain, probably as a last resort, involuntarily reaches for the holster in his hip section but is cut down by a merciless hail of bullets from a bucking sten-gun as an anonymous gunman in a stocking mask storms the ugly scene to stifle the captain's desperate move. Back-up fire-power achieves a complete stultification which creates widespread panic amongst the motorists. The tall gunman in concert with others steps over the captain's body and races across the road, pumping hot lead into the cab of the leading truck. He gets to the truck, wrench the door open and out spills the driver onto the road. Close to the wreckage. Simultaneously along with this incident are several others with similar results; the bandits promptly supplant the corpses leaving them on the road to join those of the soldiers. The milieu looks on with slack jaws, several from a distance as the trucks follow the lead of the first truck in its zeal to smash its way through the wreckage. It succeeds. The small convoy heads along the thoroughfare for about a mile without branching off it into the dirt road that assumedly leads to the northern provinces. It momentarily cuts to an aerial shot. The trucks take a cue from the leading truck as it decelerates to negotiate a hairpin bend and they emerge into the Nyanga Industrial Area extension according to the huge green sign overhead. They soon disappear into one of the labyrinthine aspects of the country's economic sector with screeching tyres and dark rubber marks on the road.
The scene fades-out.
The streets come alive once again and the noise of the melange is deafening. On the curbs lie the waves of impecunious haberdashers and pesky shoeshine boys who pull the hands and clothing of pedestrians, importuning them. A character buys a pack of Gold Leaf and promptly breaks the seal to remove the foil and exhume a stick of cigarette. This he sets aflame using an overzealous lighter; tall flame nearly claims half of his mustache. Puffing tar into the pink horizon with an air of contentment he walks purposefully across the kerb sneaking casual glances at the array of local tabloids that litter the sidewalk through hooded eyes that speak an ill-concealed contempt for the drift of tired humanity. It appears that one eventuality arrests his attention and he pauses and inadvertently drops hot ash on the "Horizon" from the cigarette dangling from his thin lips. The vendor flicks the offending ash off the newspaper and scowls at him.
"Sorry, brother. Mistake, you see," the character shrugs casually and promptly skim through the headlines. He decides on the Lake Express, pays for it and promptly rolls the flimsy paper into a tube and uses it on his right thigh like an Army General would a swagger-stick. He pauses once more to appraise the backside of a girl in a miniskirt as she crosses the street. He twists his head and rolls his eyes in a neat little funny trick.
"Look where you're going, man," says a sweating burly truck-pusher. The character side-steps stylishly and smilingly taps the truck pusher's bottom with the paper and moves away briskly as if in anticipation of an attack. The eye-catching fascia above a watch repairer's shop soon swallows him. The big shop displays several clients with the intention of either buying or trying to repair their watches or, you never can tell…snitch one or two. An impressive collection of Swiss quartz watches lay within chrome and glass cabinets. One man stands out from others. He is an alien, an Asian with glossy hair graying at the temples. He instantly breaks away from a curious but hesitant buyer as he spots a fresh client, quickly instructing an assistant to handle the dawdler. The Asian walks to the far end of the shiny counter but still within a hearing distance to meet the cool customer. The man smiles his greeting. The Asian's face remains inscrutable and he pulls the tuft under his lower lip probably as a gesture of impatience.
"What time you got?" He asks through thin lips.
"The one that says 6:45," the client replies smoothly, tapping the counter with the newspaper.
"What make?"
"Russian," the client returns casually.
"Russian? Probably obsolete stuff." The Asian's visage mirrors his skepticism.
"New technology, with a precise and more sensitive mechanism," the client boasts. The Asian raises an incredulous eyebrow.
"Maybe I'll give it a try this once. Same time and place?" He asks condescendingly.
"Same place but time's changed."
"When?" The Asian furrows his thick brows.
"Tonight. The pieces are well sought after. 11:00pm." The visitor turns to go but returns as if remembering something.
"Hey! Vijay, you seen the evening papers? Have this one on me," he says throwing the paper onto the counter as he makes for the exit. The Asian picks the paper and unrolls it. The banner headline stares him in the face: Armed Bandits Raid Arms Convoy – a dying soldier reveals. He briefly scans the copy and folds it. With his expression gradually become distant, the Asian absently tucks the paper into the pocket of his white overall and whispers something into the ear of an assistant and quickly withdraws from the shop into an inner room. Vijay (that's what I heard the man call him) quickly reach for the telephone to dial a set of digits and wait impatiently for the connection. He gets it and starts blabbing.
"Monsieur Tekaya, its tonight. 11 o'clock. Messenger came in a few moments ago and he even had the nerve to leave a newspaper which reported the robbery with me…a military helicopter? That will be a mistake, suppose they spot the insignia?
His feverish eyes staring and skating over the contents of the cluttered interior. The oil-soaked and grimy wastes all over the floor. The ancient-looking globe on the desk. The old metal file-cabinet standing in a corner to his left. The turbaned and whiskered emaciated Hindu pariah smiling sadly from behind a fly-specked glass within a frame, et cetera.
"The roundel will be obliterated besides there is the heavy cloak of night. Just tell them, Vijay, that the chopper's the only means of fast and safe transport you can lay your hands on such notice. That should be easy," came the seemingly important voice of the receiver. The scene cuts to reveal a corpulent figure whose pudgy fingers drum on the leather blotter on a desk laden with the accoutrements of a high office.
"You have nothing to fear, the place will be surrounded by soldiers who would keep out of sight." The man swings leisurely in his swivel chair still drumming on the shiny desk. The scene cuts back to the Asian's frowzy inner room.
"That could be dangerous, they could be spotted or move in too soon," Vijay breathes tremulously down the line.
"I said out of sight, and don't forget that these are trained soldiers, Vijay." The man sounds irritable.
"Okay, if you say so," Vijay says with an air of resignation.
"Yes. They will be there, dead on eleven and don't forget to place out the beacons to guide them in, okay?"
"I shan't forget. I know what to do, Monsieur Tekaya," the Asian says, trying to assert himself.
"I'm sure you do. For your own sake. Goodnight, Vijay." The Asian replaces the receiver. The subtle threat hanging ominously. He makes his way out of the room wiping his hand on his overall.
And the scene expires.
The sound of a truck's engine heralds the scene. A white and blue pantechnicon with flapping wipers bursts out suddenly from a feeder road into a freeway, racing in the drizzle like a hurricane down the lonely cross-country road. The spacious cab shows the grinning husky driver with a funny squint and his goateed male companion whose present preoccupation is the Horizon and is absolutely unaware of the danger inherent in his pal's contravention of traffic regulations. In the distance is the Zebra barrier of the frontier Gendarmerie. Squinty-eyes slows down considerably, betraying a soupcon of apprehension. The eyes become more discordant than usual. Rushing past is the bold speed limit on a circular sign.
The gendarmes in plastic ponchos and their funny-looking fezzes wave frantically like men whose house is on fire and are trying desperately to rouse neighbours for help until the speed merchant comes to a stop.
"What do you have in there, man?" A fierce-looking gendarme barks at him.
"Resins. Plastic", Squinty-eyes answers with a shrug, fronting with contempt.
"Come down and let's have a look," the cop continues in the same vein.
'Haven't you got eyes, man? Go look yourself," the driver snorts at him.
"Come down I say, or I'll keep you here all night," the cop says as he yanks the door open. Squinty-eyes reluctantly comes down from the high cab of the van into the drizzle, muttering to himself. He dips his huge hand into the back pocket of his trousers and exhumes a white paper.
"Monsieur Amossou Tekaya won't love this delay. The resins are for the Star-Cloud Plastic Company, which is jointly owned by both governments." He hands over the paper. The gendarme opens the note to read rather quickly.
"Ministere de L'industrie et des petites et moyennes entreprises?" He asks with a shift in his mood and returns the paper.
"Oui, Monsieur," Squinty-eyes responds almost politely trying his darndest to hide a contemptuous grin.
"Still, we have our duty to perform, we won't keep you longer than is necessary," the gendarme says as he walks the driver to the back of the van. The driver shifts the huge metal levers to the door with difficulty and opens it with a curse. He caught his fingers in the back slam of the metal. Before their eyes are neat stacks of drums. The gendarme and two of his colleagues climb into the van and pull at the aluminium clip of one of the drums. It opens and they lift the lid to inspect the contents. The gooey substance clings tenaciously to their dip-stick and they wrinkle their noses in disgust. The odour is probably offensive.
"Close it up," One says to the other, and the wrap-around clip seals the lid of the drum. With an obvious loss of interest in the continuation of the search, they jump off the back of the van and bid Squinty-eyes "Bon voyage."
The driver mutters a "Merci" in response and climbs into the cab, paying no attention to his mate who still delights in the print of the Horizon. Squinty-eyes soon resumes his speed merchant role and the signpost that says: Samandilovu – Dix Milles, subliminally goes past. He whoops and pops a bubble gum into his cavernous mouth and a flick of the wrist sends the wrapper into the howling winds. The slick surface of the road is no deterrent for the speedometer shows the approach of the pointer towards 110mph. Still, he makes a career of his neck-breaking speed; his foot, down to the floorboards and it eases not as another check-point looms ahead beneath a flyover. Squinty-eyes suddenly takes a slip-road to his left probably to avoid another search. He whistles a popular tune by OK Jazz and taps the wheel to the beat. A crepuscular shadow suddenly hits the windshield and the melodic tune ceases to exist within the cab.
"Damn bats! Scared me," he spits furiously. Still, his companion remains silent. His annoyance becomes intense as he glances sideways to meet his pal's placid mien.
"Don't you ever say anything at all? You just sit there reading that rubbish," Squinty-eyes vents with a gesture at the newspaper.
"Aston villa beats Chelsea United, 3-0, what a narrow miss, but I got Leeds and Liverpool, and Everton and Queens Park Rangers. Phew! What a week," the man says and promptly resumes his previous repose. Squinty-eyes shakes his head in disbelief and chews his bubble gum with a morose expression nearly running a stray nanny goat over as it crosses the narrow road in the fading light.
"Turn left at the next intersection and then make a right turn, follow the road for about a mile until you see the compound of the abandoned primary school. Enter the premises and tap your horn three times," the driver's companion instructs without looking up from his newspaper. The driver grunts impatiently and negotiates the exit from the slip road, spitting the gum out through the window. He makes the right turn like a speed demon forcing his passenger to momentarily lose his composure with the resultant rustle of the sheets of the newspaper. The passenger utters not a word of complaint. Squinty-eyes throws him a baleful look but as it appears, his companion remains immune. Oblivious. Wasted is his unwarranted malice.
The headlights soon pick the decomposing remains of an old wooden sign informing motorists and passersby of a presence; the local primary school. Most definitely the vestige of an old communal pride. With his customary maniacal zeal, Squinty-eyes swerves into the dismal spread of the school compound and hits the brake pedal with an undying intent on hurting his reticent passenger.
It seems his companion has his feet firmly to the floorboards for he remains almost still save for the slight movement of his head and shoulders. He thumps his horn impatiently, three times, to elicit a sharp finger of light from the nearby bushes and a harsh querulous voice.
"Who goes there?"
"Kalusha." The driver's companion returns briskly with a hint at a certain authority.
"You're late, boy. What kept you?" The bushes rustle.
"Will you shut up and come out here with the boys?" Kalusha suddenly erupts; an antithesis to his previous calm disposition. A group of ten men emerge into the clearing and immediately crowd the pantechnicon. Squinty-eyes probably feels nervous and thumbs the overhead light switch.
"Go open the back and get the equipment out. We leave by first light tomorrow. Are the lorries ready to go?" Kalusha says as he jumps down from the van.
"Yes." A silent response.
"Get to it, we haven't got all night. This man is going back tonight," he orders briskly. The man's authority seems unquestionable. The men, in a trice, initiate frantic activity.
"Hey! You, where's Gina?" Kalusha enquires in the partial darkness.
"She's in one of the blocks. The one closest to the fence," someone responds and quickly disappears into the van.
Squinty-eyes lights a cigarette in the cozy interior and crunches a lobe of pink kolanut watching as Kalusha walks away into the gathering darkness barely able to make out his outline. His footfalls on the wet grassy earth come audibly to the cinema audience as they round the corner of a classroom block. They pause for a little while. The flame of a matchstick comes on momentarily to light a cigarette. The footfalls resume and the glowing end of the cigarette serves as a pointer to their direction. Someone's flashlight picks Kalusha as he strides effortlessly with sure steps towards a lonely block barely visible due to the faint flicker of light within. A shadow moves across the source of light and Kalusha hastens. The man with the flashlight gets to him.
"That you, Kalua?" He asks casually in a lazy tone of voice.
"Yes"
"How's she?" Kalusha asks with concern. Kalua grunts.
"She's been as touchy as a mamba all afternoon. Its time we leave this damned place", Kalua complains.
"Did she catch you again with her knickers?" Kalusha sneers taking a pull at the cigarette.
"Rubbish. My intentions were quite different from what you think. A mere joke." Kalua expectorates and spits phlegm onto the grass as if to show his distaste for what the female in question represents.
"Well, keep it that way and stay away from her. She's Thandika's girl," Kalusha says emphatically and moves away.
"Hurry it up, Kalua," Kalusha says over his shoulder. He finally hits the pavement before the block and pauses to take a long final pull on his cigarette by the door that's slightly ajar. Through the sliver of light that illuminates the pavement, he sees the ugly mess of his shoes and quickly stamps down on the concrete, hisses and enters the room. The room is virtually empty but for the presence of a desk and a chair resting against the opposite wall and what appears a sleeping-bag lay in a bundle against the wall to his left. The lamp sits glowing atop the desk.
"Gina?" Kalusha calls silently looking around the barren room in bewilderment.
"Are you in here?" He enquires into the partial gloom of the corners. The barely audible squeak of rusty hinges becomes a betrayal and Kalusha turns briskly in response. And there she is. Looking different but her all the same with shiny dark hair drawn tight within a pink ribbon and her hand to her mouth, with big eyes that seem to blaze with sparkling whites. She laughs. The sound of it is musical like the melodic tinkle of several tiny Oriental bells which some naughty restauranteur or shopkeeper would hang behind the front door to announce the entry of a client.
The audience betray their surprise when it becomes obvious that Gina is also Saphira, Koffigoh's companion at the Club Regalé.
"You look beautiful with your hair like that, Gina," says Kalusha as the dark woman slips gracefully into his arms.
"I know," she says with a chuckle.
"You've said it a thousand times." She kisses him passionately. For a long while. And slowly begins to break away, frustration and quiet emotional agony creeping into her expressive eyes.
"Kalusha, how long must we go on like this? I'm tired of being pawed by all those filthy apes," she says in a voice soaked in tears. She clings tightly to him once again as if to stem the inevitable tide of welling tears.
"Won't be too long now, my sweet, it is for the cause, you…," he begins with a whisper.
"Your inordinate ambition I do not share, Kalusha," she interjects into his flow.
He roughly pulls back from her to look straight into her eyes.
"We're both in this, Gina. Don't pretend not to enjoy it, in fact I have the shortest end of the stick. I've told you that we're merely using Thandika. He has the appeal, he's more forceful and above all he has the connections. Take the weapons for instance, we wouldn't have been able to get hold of a firing pin not to mention a whole gun. Things will change the very moment we reach the negotiation stage. Then I will immediately take over and gradually ease him out of prominence, he'll be out of his depths by then, and if he resists, his life will be placed on contract." The softly harsh tone of conspiracy with which these words emanate from Kalusha seems to soften her up. She turns to look furtively behind her, probably to see if there are possible eavesdroppers. Then she melts back into his loving embrace.
"Kalusha," she whispers sweetly and fervently.
"You don't know how it feels to keep up the pretence. There were times that I felt my every move was being watched even at the theatre," she says with worry.
"Does Koffigoh suspect anything yet?" Kalusha slightly pulls away with a soupcon of anxiety in his features.
"I'm not sure. I don't think so. He only told me casually about his friend's paranoia. Ochembe, I mean. The man suspects an arms snatch, so he decided to change the route up-country. That was all. You know how offhanded he could be most times, the only man with whom he could relax and be at home is Bussa. He doesn't suspect any relationship between us. I could have laughed last night at the club when he pompously dismissed me in Bussa's presence. But the actress in me instantly came to the surface." She laughs and the tiny Oriental bell tinkle once more. Kalusha breaks the embrace and strolls to the desk. He fiddles a bit with the wick control of the hurricane lamp and gently lowers himself onto the chair.
"How do you assess Koffigoh's usefulness in our plan?" He asks, absently pulling at his goatee.
"His business interests bring him in close contact with important and prominent government officials. Monsieur Tekaya, the minister for industry for instance. Oh, he has other shady business deals but they are small meat when compared with these men, and the tight corner we can herd them into to foster our revolutionary cause….."
"What do you have on Tekaya?" Kalusha's mood seems to change suddenly. Gina smiles radiantly.
"I have got very interesting things, thanks to Henri. What he wouldn't divulge willingly during the daytime, he does too freely at night….In his sleep." Gina's expressive eyes come aglow with mischief. She begins to walk thoughtfully from wall to wall.
"You mean he talks in his sleep? Does he know about this, have you ever joked about it with him?" Kalusha enquires anxiously.
"I almost did once but quickly checked myself when I remembered the significance of the revelation. He said something concerning the new LNG Project and the completion of the remaining phases of the steel rolling mills at Katanga. Both projects have two things in common. Graft, high fraud and embezzlement. Tekaya has plans to divert an extension of the gas pipeline into the Bafute catchment where detection is clearly impossible; his people inhabit the area. To achieve this; he has a design to create emergency companies using fictitious names and compliant fronts drawn largely from his minority Yaw tribe to which huge contracts would be awarded. Henri; a tribesman, has attended several of their clandestine meetings at the minister's country home at Bamakuru Springs. What I intend to do now is to lay my hands on the keys to his chest of drawers where he keeps private papers." Gina pauses in her stride with arms akimbo. A pose worthy of agent H.21. Mata Hari. They both remain silent momentarily and this heightens the stridulation of nocturnal insects loud and clear from outside.
"What do you hope to find?" Kalusha breaks the silence.
"Anything. Plans, and probably the names of three, members of his cohort. That should be interesting, our benefactors will tremendously increase. Kalusha, there are times I wonder if it is necessary to use blackmail or coercion at all when it is easy to dangle a fat juicy carrot in their faces. Don't you think so?" She comes to rest by the desk. Beside him.
"You're correct. But I feel both can go together. One after the other, depending on the outcome of one. I've always believed the method of persuasion before aggression." Kalusha motions toward Gina's fat buttocks in their tight miniskirt casing but his hand freezes in the air. A footfall on the concrete pavement comes audibly. Kalua enters.
"We're through, Kalusha. The driver wants a word," he says and promptly backs out, conscious of Gina's hostile look.
And the scene fades out.
The distant drone of an aircraft comes to the fore as silhouettes of several men run along a makeshift helipad with orange lamps to complete the rough circle. Some men emerge from the bright interior of a big warehouse shambling under the weight of wooden crates which they carry towards the orange circle. The drone is now overhead. The scene cuts into the interior of the warehouse. Up the metal staircase into an office with the attendant whirring noise of the ceiling fan.
Bussa sits behind a metal desk with his feet up on the blotter. A fat Havana juts from his thick lips. Lightly his fingers touch the cigar taking a healthy drag that produces several rings of smoke. They drift slowly towards the ceiling like a concentric smoke signal. Crazy Horse would love it.
He is alone, and it appears he's having some difficulty suppressing his excitement.
"Ngongo, you've been double-crossed by that sewer rat. Vijay. But not to worry, I will deal with the problem," says the incorporeal voice of the Huntress. Bussa slowly removes his feet from the top of the desk, his face; a mask, as he struggles to keep the cigar from dropping out of his presently loose mouth.
"The fucking shit-wallah! No wonder he was a little nervous minutes ago. What's the likely damage, Diana?" Bussa whispers coming to his feet to look furtively through the uncurtained window of his office. He briefly studies the human traffic down below and moves away.
"The place is surrounded by soldiers. Vijay talked to a fat idiot in the government. He ordered this," the voice returns.
"And what am I to do in the circumstances?" He asks with an expression of discomfiture.
"Rest easy, Ngongo, and don't go out of the office," the voice concludes. Just outside, the noise of the aircraft intrudes into the silence within the room. Bussa, with a show of innate courage, resumes his previous posture. His feet once again find a place between the blotter and the china ashtray on the desk. The rings of smoke from the Havana transmute into a surreal portrait of Diana's face with the luxuriant flow of cascading hair. Just above his head. He remains oblivious as he leans forward to tap ash into the ashtray before him.
The scene shifts.
The blinking red light on the dark fuselage of the chopper reflects on the men as they form a steady stream to and from the aircraft. The dizzy flow of activity suddenly freezes as it encounters an extraneous interference just a few metres away.
"Halt! Don't move", someone barks uselessly from the rank of interlopers. Someone suddenly drops a crate, definitely due to timidity and the resultant clatter reverberates into the night to mesh with the opening strains of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony.
A surprising harsh ray of light comes into being and permeates the scene to reveal an array of soldiers with the inevitable exhibition of hi-tech weapons. The blinking red light appears to be the only source of animation. Both sides are without movement until a female voice begins to sing to the rhythm of the symphony.
A sweet seductive voice and its negroid owner soon materializes behind the soldiers; one of ethereal beauty in a white gossamer transparent gown.
"Soldiers of war,
Come back home,
From the ones you saw,
Small, grimy breasts you feverishly paw,
Of the filthy Burmese wench,
Whose maidenhead you brutally tore…"
An interphase accented by the continued flow of the symphony ensues for a while.
"Come, o soldier, I say
To my large breasts,
Creamy and full, without flaw,
And pave thy way
Through my scented golden door
Of lavender and rose,
To make forgotten, those before."
In the second verse she curiously builds into a refrain as she repeats the song. Her hair is like that of a water goddess, and the gentle undulation of her hips as she moves slowly away with sprite-like grace, ultimately hypnotizes the soldiers. Their eyes become rather vacant and they lower their weapons to follow her every movement. Their expression soon changes to that of longing. Lust becomes a veritable inscription on their stupid faces. She beckons them to follow, and they obey. Struggling amongst themselves as if in a bid to pass muster. Christ! In great haste, they follow and for all their effort, seem unable to reach her as her voice trails off in the distance bringing in the closing strains of the symphony.
The workmen of the warehouse stand with gaping mouths, but apparently unaffected by the influence of the woman and the music. I wonder if they could even hear it.
"Where did they come from? I must have imagined it," One of the men breaks the stillness!
"I nearly pissed in my trousers."
This brings back animation. Peals of laughter erupts amongst them.
"They must be men from that nearby cantonment. Why did they turn away just like that?" Someone enquires uselessly.
"Lokossou, go and tell the boss, just in case," says the same man.
"Let me clear the contents of this broken crate. It's the last one to go," the one responds; a stocky individual in a white T-shirt and dark shorts.
The Asian moves into the scene. His thick brows meeting in a frown.
"What's all this delay about? You should have finished by now," he says tweaking his sweaty nose in obvious frustration.
"Don't blame us, man. Didn't you see those soldiers? They held us up," Lokossou blurts out with indignation.
"And where did they go, up your mother's vagina?" The Asian sneers.
Lokossou stiffens momentarily, bristling at the nape, and he blindly charges toward the Asian, knocking him to the ground as a bull would a hapless, maladroit matador. And in one swift motion, Lokossou deals the Asian a vicious blow to the jaw that skates across his face to burst his aquiline nose. Blood spurts like an angry geyser from the injury. The scene becomes chaotic, as men run here and there to break the fight. They manage to rescue the Asian from the brutal hands of Lokossou who despite his easy run is quite reluctant to let go, probably due to the gravity of the insult; the significant and sacrosanct niche the mother occupies within the African traditional establishment.
The Asian shakes himself free of his rescuers, tremulously touching his beaky nose every few seconds as if to gather the remains of his bashed dignity while smarting from the pain.
"You scum, you will regret this. I promise you," he says with an ugly nasal voice and stomps off towards the aircraft. Still blinking the red light. He consults briefly with the pilot and promptly climbs aboard closing the hatch after himself with impotent fury.
"The mongrel had it coming. He doesn't feel too arrogant now, does he? I have always said it; give a proud man a good bash on the nose and he is no better than a drenched chicken," Lokossou says with a complacent grin. And the others chortle with delight as the rotors begin to move. They quickly step away from the aircraft and hurry back to the comfort of the warehouse.
The scene shifts.
Bussa busies himself with the clipping of a fresh Havana's tip using a tiny gold antique pair of scissors. This, he gingerly drops on the blotter before him and immediately sets about lighting the cigar with a long match he picks from its beautiful box.
He pulls and puffs alternately until the tip burns uniformly to his satisfaction. Then I suddenly see the appearance of Diana behind Bussa. A mischievous smile playing with the corners of her mouth. And it lingers. She taps his right shoulder and laughs sweetly at Bussa's expression when he turns with a start.
"Ngongo darling! Did I startle you?" She bends forward to kiss him and slowly moves to his side to prolong it. She senses Bussa's reluctance and quickly assures him.
"No one can see me if I do not want it. They can't hear my voice but yours they will hear," Diana breathes huskily as she makes a career of the love-play. She eventually takes a breather when Bussa is just about getting into the heat of it.
"Let's save the rest, Ngongo. Take your things and let's go home. Your worries are over. The illusion I created will take care of the soldiers. And I believe that in a few moments, Vijay would breathe his last. So, no one can trace the weapons to this place." She pulls away from him as he begins to clear his desk.
The scene fades into …..
The noisy whirr of the chopper, as it continues on a definite course, comes to the cinema audience. Destination …. hell, by the reading of things. For a while, it encounters turbulence, it dips violently and banks dangerously to the left. The aircraft rapidly loses altitude, and a subliminal view of the cockpit reveals the confusion and distress within as the airman battles with the controls. Befuddled by the noise of mechanical protests and rioting red lights from the control panel and overhead. The pilot's SOS call comes loud and clear above the engine's drone. And to make matters worse, dark moisture-laden clouds drift massively and perfidiously into the aircraft's irregular course. Vijay hurriedly begins to gabble something that sounds like a Hindu prayer as if in the throes of drowning. Soon, a sudden explosion announces the fate of the men aboard the chopper.
The Asian didn't have the opportunity to scream. A crash-landing. And an inferno soon illuminates the spot. I'm not sure but I think I can hear someone screaming. Naaw, must be my imagination.
The scene expires.
The palpitations brought on by their exertions fill the cinema. They are obviously experiencing fatigue. The soldiers run after the ever-elusive "Siren" with rabid lust in their hearts and expressions and a bawdy chant on their lips. Cars along the road would occasionally come to a sudden halt to avert the knock-down of one or two careless soldiers apparently on a night roadwork. Strange, it seems for the drivers would look lingeringly at them through their rear-view mirrors careful not to express outrage. The audience could understand this since soldiers are known to exhibit a hair-trigger temperament when they esteem a situation as an affront.
We soon receive vindication when a crossing pedestrian cuts across their pathway. They immediately descend on him with the slightest of effort as if their minds nurse a different preoccupation. Indeed. The wailing moron who lacks the good sense of letting trudging soldiers be, presently resides, hopelessly too, in a filthy roadside ditch.
Still, they pursue this blatant amatory desire. The glowing, huge neon sign of the Agip filling station lights up their libidinous sweaty faces as they pass on. The floating apparition seems perpetually beyond easy reach. Still, though weary, they follow with surprising eagerness customary of their predatory nature. Eventually, their quarry stops right at the doorsteps of the Lake County Police precinct.
The "Siren", apparently to their surprise, begins to divest herself of her only item of clothing. Within seconds, she stands naked before them. Her enormous breasts sway to the now faint strains of the Fifth Symphony as she moves from side to side, smilingly exhibiting a sense of debauchery. The new debauches gawp at the indecent exposure with their, mouths hanging loose and for an instant appear not to know what the next course of action should be.
"Who would be first?" She asks teasingly with a melodic tone of voice. They all scramble up to her but she lifts a dainty finger and they manage to restrain themselves.
"The man left standing on his feet when the rest are down…..dead, will have me all night and suck my honeydew." She laughs and lifts her melon-sized bosom; one after the other to finally launch into the first three lines of the second verse of her song. The ominously pertinent lines.
"Come, O soldier, I say,
To my large breasts,
Creamy and full, without flaw..."
She trails off sweetly; a deceptive prelude to the unfolding brutality that immediately begins amongst the soldiers. The lines are explicit enough. Only one soldier will have the pleasure. Rapid gunfire and hand-to-hand combat using the bayonets at the end of their riffles soon wipe out the soldiers. A night sergeant and two of his colleagues come rushing out of the station to watch with stupefaction.
"What is this? Has the Army gone crazy?" The sergeant absently touched his red chevrons.
"They must have done several rounds of tombo and that spicy soup at Madame Milicent's bar. It's probably their payday," a constable observes.
The scene suddenly assumes a deathly silence. A lull presently occurs in the traffic due to an uncanny reason. Not a single soldier stands, all lay dead. They would need the Messiah to resurrect. Surely, verily, verily.
"We have a problem here, Corporal," the sergeant breaks the silence, scratching the back of his neck.
"Call the mortuary, let them send a van while I check with headquarters. I've never heard of anything like this. Ok if they must commit mass suicide but what I do not understand is why in front of the station?" The sergeant shakes his head mournfully.
"The lines are faulty, sir, don't you remember?" The Corporal returns in a jocular tone to excite the sergeant's irritation.
"Then take the jeep damnit! And go to the hospital," he barks.
"We ran out of petrol last night, sir," the Corporal submits standing frozenly at attention probably to placate the sergeant.
"Then walk, or run to the hospital. I don't want those hungry press boys coming over to ask silly questions." With this, he stomps off into the station. The Corporal gives the constable a conspiratorial wink.
"The seems to be getting worse daily," he whispers audibly.
"Could be the wife again, taking her charity to strange beds."
"Sharrap! How dare you talk such rot about your superior's private life?" The Corporal barks to the astonishment of the constable who gulps stiffening at attention.
The scene expires.
SATURDAY 27TH DECEMBER 1969 1039 HRS. GMT
The façade of an office block comes to the screen. It cuts to an office. The unassuming grey plaque on the desk reads Maurice A. Tekaya. The telephone suddenly rings. A pudgy hand reached for the receiver rather impatiently from behind a local newspaper.
"Hello?" The owner queries as the paper slowly descends to rest on the large desk. He listens for a while. The arresting features of Tekaya crumbles pathetically.