Locking Horns with a Gargoyle

Perhaps it’s perverse to derive gratification through needling another human being? Ordinarily yes, but I refer obliquely to my recent ‘exchange’ of emails with Giles Muhame, managing editor of Rolling Stone. This Ugandan newspaper editor recently achieved worldwide infamy by outing gay men and women, publishing their addresses and calling for them to be hanged - essentially, murder by proxy.

(Can someone please remind me which century we occupy…?)

Mr. Muhame describes himself as ‘Christian’. However, perceptions of him in Europe differ markedly. Having undergone the persecution of Nazism, Europeans recognise the taint of religious and political extremism acutely. Sadly, Mr Muhame’s crusade against human diversity is only a part of a pandemic that has engulfed this region of Africa. (Please see my postings; ‘publish and be damned’ and ‘he who pays the piper’.)

So should Europe cut off all foreign aid and leave Uganda to the bidding of American Christian Fundamentalism? After all, it’s patently obvious that people like Giles Muhame are simply their ‘ventriloquist’s dummy’. No, let’s dissect this. Let’s deconstruct the mindset and hopefully engage in fruitful and gentlemanly debate.

Meanwhile… these are all very noble sentiments but I’ve taken an inordinate amount of Merlot this evening and find my aptitude for being a ‘master-baiter’ rekindled. Oh yes, goading is my catharsis, my Hajj and my ‘born again’ moment all rolled into one. So I emulated Giles Muhame’s lack of critical analysis and mindless misanthropy and leave you with the following transcript. Oh yes, Edwin B can be beastly too…

Subject: Blood on your hands
Edwin Black, January 28 at 5:06am.
A Ugandan friend of mine is distraught. His friend, David Kato Kisule (featured in your headline ‘100 pictures of Uganda’s top homos leak’) was recently murdered. I expect you are delightedly happy wth that outcome? My only observation is that you are really not a Christian and if hell exists, then please pass on my regards to Lucifer and remember your fire-proof knickers because that's probably where you’re headed.

Re: ‘Blood on your hands’
Muhame Giles January 28 at 8:50am Report
am too x-tian. Read Corinthians 6:12 -20: “Flee from sexual immorality, for he who sins sexually sins against his own body....”

(This appears to be an archaic diktat regarding prostitution. Am I missing something here...? Perhaps one of my more scholarly readers might be able to illuminate further?)

Subject: Thank you
Edwin Black January 31 at 11:25pm
Thanks for volunteering your ‘passage’. Very enjoyable! I hope you enjoy mine too (below) and I look forward to our next exchange. Edwin.

Interpretation of the Holy literature.

In her US radio show, Dr Laura Schlesinger said that, as an observant Orthodox Jew, homosexuality is an abomination according to Leviticus 18:22, and cannot be condoned under any circumstance. The following response is an open letter to Dr. Laura, penned by a US resident, which was posted on the Internet:

Dear Dr. Laura:

Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination . End of debate.

I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some other elements of God's Laws and how to follow them.

1. Leviticus 25:44 states that I may possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can't I own Canadians?

2. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?

3. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of Menstrual uncleanliness - Lev.15: 19-24. The problem is how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.

4. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord - Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?

5. I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?

6. A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination, Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this? Are there 'degrees' of abomination?

7. Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle-room here?

8. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?

9. I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?

10. My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev.19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? Lev.24:10-16. Couldn't we just burn them to death at a private family affair, like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)

I know you have studied these things extensively and thus enjoy considerable expertise in such matters, so I'm confident you can help.

Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.

Your adoring fan,
James M. Kauffman, Ed.D. Professor Emeritus, Dept. Of Curriculum, Instruction, and Special Education
University of Virginia

Re: Thank you
Muhame Giles February 1 at 12:04pm Report
boring

Re: Boring
Edwin Black February 1 at 6:01pm
- A bit like your stultifying editorials then...?

I couldn't resist the urge to bait further. Well, at least it might delay Mr. Muhame formulating his next murderous editorial...

Subject: Free career advice for a misanthrope
Edwin Black February 2 at 6:40pm

Any news on the Rolling Stone High Court injunction yet? Litigation can be terribly costly even for those with wealthy patrons. I hope you don’t end up bankrupt and having to tout your bottom on street corners. (To entice the men, why not tattoo a ‘w’ on each butt cheek - when you bend over it spells ‘wow’?)

Alternatively, you could always team up with Martin Ssempa for a comedy double act; ‘Pastor Poo-Poo and the Hanging Judge Hack’? ...Provided of course that he’s not busy screening gay porn in his church again. (I’m almost tempted to go along for a quiet jerk-off in the back row.)

Another career option might be to edit one of Scott Lively’s books, like ‘The Pink Swastika’. (I imagine he’s probably working on an amusing sequel claiming that Winston Churchill was a butch lesbian…?)

In fact, I’m sure there are many vocations more befitting than journalism for a Narcissistic personality disorder – a foreign dictator for instance? ‘General Giles and the Barmy Muhame Army’ sounds impressive. It would certainly provide you with further scope to incite a gay genocide.

Lastly, you could always become a paid volunteer for a human cloning experiment. That way you’d be able to go f*ck yourself.

Regards,
Edwin

At this point, I imagine Mr Muhame may have hurled his bible at his poor secretary in a fit of pique. However, sadly, I received no reply from our enraged Managing Editor. Days elapsed. Nonetheless, I persevered doggedly. I noticed that on a certain homepage, he describes himself (without a trace of irony) thus:

Basic Information about Muhame:

G-generous
I-intelligent
L-Lovin
E-energyetic
S-silly

M - mighty
U- unwed
H- humorous
A-amiable
M- meticulous
E- eloquent

“i am not always right, but i am never wrong”.
“Some times you have to wage war to live in peace”

Subject: Suggested revision for your homepage;
Edwin Black February 5 at 1:50am

G - grotesque
I - ignorant
L - laughable
E - egotistical
S - second class honours degree (at a third rate university)

M - murderous
U - unchristian
H - hack
A - antihuman
M - megalomaniac
E - evilgelical - sorry, evangelical

Regards,
Ed


No reply. How disappointing! Oh well, baiting can be such fun between consenting adults…


ENDNOTE.

An interesting finale to all this pointless blather is that ‘Giles Muhame’ is actually an anagram of ‘SMEGMA HUILE’. ‘Huile’ being French for oil. Hmm…well oily seems apt. As for ‘Smegma’ it's defined as a ‘thick cheese like secretion that accumulates beneath the prepuce (foreskin, or in the common tongue ‘nob-sleeve’).

- Strangely appropriate for a man who really knows how to get under a person’s skin…

© Edwin Black

Thanks for reading and might I mention that I’m still labouring over ‘The Buboes’; a wicked satire mentioned previously.

Fondest regards, Ed

Publish and be Damned!*

PART I

Welcome back and a belated happy New Year to all.

A new year also allows many of us to spiritualise over past and present. Whether a year passed represents milestone or millstone, hope it is said, springs eternal. Even a shameless skeptic like myself can’t help but pause and revive a flagging faith in human nature.

Meanwhile, back in the known universe and indeed blogosphere, I feel mildly disappointed that I’ve not been insulted in at least five different languages by now. What’s wrong with Edwin’s withering wit eh? Is my lampoonery limp, my pasquinade passé or my ridicule redundant? Don't I deserve a fatwā too?

Onward…and to Uganda, favoured stalking-ground for nutty American Evangelicals…

CASTING THE FIRST (ROLLING) STONE

October 2010 saw the first publication of the now infamous Ugandan ‘newspaper’, Rolling Stone - no relation to the U.S. magazine of the same title. Indeed, the lack of ingenuity regarding the title derived from several near calamitous attempts at naming this borderline-literate rag. ‘Tumbling Turd’ vied for pole position with ‘Careening Coprolite’ (fossilised shit). Despite both names having been considered ‘eminently appropriate’ by expert marketing gurus, the editor opted for a less risqué baptism.

Prior to a High Court injunction, Rolling Stone published a lead story ‘100 pictures of Uganda’s Top Homos Leak’. The truly reprehensible aspect of this great ode to Parnassus (aside from the grammar) was the fact that names and addresses of alleged offenders were published along with the banner ‘hang them’. This rallying cry for ochlocracy didn’t go unanswered. Victims of the ensuing mob violence included a woman who was seriously injured and forced to flee her home in order to evade a biblical-style stoning. (Erm, I’m not a Christian but isn’t there something about casting stones in the Gospel of John?)

The article also asserted that the homosexual movement [?] were actively engaged in a recruitment drive for kids as part of their dastardly worldwide takeover. (Hang on a second - aren’t they confusing gay folks with the Holy See or something?) Presumably this indoctrination involves playing Liberace songs to the intended victims while encouraging them to wear sequined ball gowns and nibble gingerly at dainty cakes…? Or perhaps the editor favours slightly more far-fetched and disingenuous stereotyping?

Next from this repository of rancour came the startling headline ‘Men of Shame II’ featuring that other great scourge of society - the ‘generals’ the clandestine homosexual cabal. Apparently, these monstrous military masterminds included liberal clergymen within their ranks. In the next breath, Rolling Stone asserted that ‘Homos raid schools’. I imagine these were effete interior designers whose delicate aesthetic sensibilities compelled them to offer their services pro bono?

I could attempt to elaborate over ensuing muck-raking headlines like: ‘Homosexual generals plotted Kampala terror attacks’. But y’know, I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not undergoing some out-of-body experience here. We are evidently straying into the realms of Fortean Times and a world of paranormal phenomenae. One can only speculate at what further diabolical horrors await... ‘Frenzied faggots enjoy fondle-fest in maternity ward’ or ‘Extraterrestrial bum-bandits kidnap kids for mass rectal probing experiment’…?

Meanwhile back on earth, one can’t help but wonder who’s been stirring up this disgorging sewer of hatred? Is it entirely the brainchild of managing editor, Giles Muhame? It seems doubtful since both in print and on Youtube I’ve rarely seen a more convincing impersonation of an ignoramus. In fact this person’s histrionic and downright fantastical editorials would barely make the grade as childrens’ fiction, let alone journalism. Here are some examples:

‘It has also come to our knowledge that some youths’ butts have been shattered by merciless homosexuals.’
No source, bibliography or research paper is cited as corroboration (because none exists?) Or could it be that Mr. Muhame is simply indulging his erotic fantasies and concocts this rot while jerking off?

‘This investigative newspaper has hundreds of files implicating some top homosexuals in sexual harassment and spreading sexually transmitted diseases with impunity.’
Naturally, these ‘hundreds of files’ are as yet unpublished and therefore unsubstantiated (gosh, what a surprise!). Erm, ever heard the term ‘journalistic veracity’ Mr. Muhame?

‘...these homosexuals need to refocus their energies to seeking the grace of God.’
Ha ha, yes, all hail the mighty prophet Muhame - great arbiter of human ethics! Might I suggest, Mr. Muhame, you dust off your dictionary and look up the words ‘sanctimonious’ and ‘prick’ ?

In fact the Rolling Stone editor is sufficiently conceited to profess that he’s on a mission to ‘save the moral fabric of our nation [Uganda] and preserve cultural values.’
Delusions of grandeur… megalomania? Or does this man regard himself as the rightful successor to Idi Amin?

Since Giles Muhame advocates a ‘final solution’ for homosexuals (‘hang them’) it would suggest that he has more than a grudging sympathy with Nazi ideology. This, despite the occasional back-peddling statement like ‘we are not advocating violence against any group in the country.’ Really? So I suppose hanging someone is just a kindly act of Christian charity, yes?

The whole fevered polemic of Rolling Stone echoes the sentiments of Nazi newspaper Der Stürmer that also sought to demonise a minority (in this particular instance, Jewish people). Its editor, Julius Streicher, described Jews as sex offenders who were ‘violators of the innocent’ and ‘perpetrators of bizarre sex crimes’. So does this sound vaguely familiar Mr. Muhame...?

Der Stürmer too spared none of the lurid details of these alleged crimes and invariably published the names of those involved. However, shock-horror headlines, articles and accusations were rarely referenced to specific or reliable sources. This may also ring true Mr. Muhame? Incidentally, I’m given to believe that real Christians adhere to the tenet ‘you shall not bear false witness against your neighbour’. Ever heard of that one?

Hubris (and indeed nemesis) finally caught up with Herr Streicher at the Nuremberg trials. Prosecutors were of the opinion that he was guilty of inciting Germans to exterminate Jews. This made him an accessory to murder. He was found guilty and promptly hanged. (I assume Mr. Muhame doesn’t aspire to share such an unpleasant karma.)

It’s interesting to note that circulation of Der Stürmer reached 480,000 at its zenith compared with the pitiful figure of Rolling Stone that barely approached 2000. (Are there not performing dogs on Youtube that enjoy greater popularity?)

A LIVELY MASS-DEBATER

So what belies Muhame’s jaundiced perspective of humanity? The smoking gun is as apparent as it is abhorrent. This poor soul studied at Makerere University, a favoured destination for well-financed misanthrope preachers (artfully disguised as ‘Christians’). Among the central protagonists was Scott Lively, president of ‘Abiding Truth Ministries’.

In 2009, Lively led a vanguard of U.S. evangelical preachers into Uganda. Among their various acts of misinformation, they sought inculcate impressionable young minds with a hackneyed treatise concerning homosexuality. One of their assertions was that gay men were, ostensibly, preoccupied with buggering minors. Another preposterous theory argued that the ‘gay movement’ [?] was plotting to ‘defeat marriage-based society and replace it with a culture of sexual promiscuity’. Lively also propounded the notion that homosexuals could be ‘cured’ - which is pretty extraordinary…if not miraculous. It certainly encourages one in the hope that there may be a corresponding ‘miracle cure’ for total arseholes.

Obviously, ideas this repugnant represent something marginally less pleasant than a substance one might scrape from one’s shoe. But then Mr. Lively is widely regarded as a conspiracy theorist and revisionist historian, so talking crap represents his stock-in-trade. Furthermore, this hallelujah-hollering-hillbilly became so infuriated at being likened to a Nazi by his critics that he attempted to deflect censure by co-authoring a book that claimed Nazism was a gay conspiracy. Obviously, I wouldn’t wish to sully myself by acquiring such a discreditable tome (The Pink Swastika: Homosexuality in the Nazi Party) but I suspect the Amazon.com reviews speak volumes:

‘…a one-sided piece of far-right religious propaganda. Definitely not a piece of scholarly work as it cherry-picks and distorts the facts without presenting opposing points of view or providing proper historical citations.’ R. Erkert.

‘This book attempts to use smoke and mirrors to trick unsuspecting or prejudiced readers into accepting a completely biased and blatantly revisionist version of history.’ ‘Aeroefie’ (Middleburg VA, USA.)

‘Nonsense wrapped in conspiracy theory.’ S. Smeets (Utrecht, The Netherlands).

Jon David Wyneken, an Associate Professor of History at Grove City College (PhD in Modern German history 1933-1955) went further:

‘…he does no original research in primary archival documents; meaning, he has not examined the thousands of documents available on these subjects for himself.’

And:

‘…responsible historians tend to cast a skeptical and cautious eye on any historical conclusions that appear reductionist, monocausal, and polemical in their conclusions. In particular, books that use historical topics to score contemporary political points.’

Further:

‘While lessons can and should be drawn from history, these are not nearly as easy to arrive at as many (especially Lively, it seems) think.’

Clearly, Lively disagrees with mainstream academia and has convinced himself that Hitler and his cronies were part of a homosexual conspiracy. Wow, this must be one of Mr. Lively’s ‘abiding truths’... I mean could anyone look at footage of the Nuremburg Rallies again and not think ‘screaming queens’? Oh heavens - that’s not goose-stepping, it’s an impersonation of the Twirling Corps Majorettes! And maybe, Mr. Lively, the Holocaust was simply one of Hitler’s hissy-fits because he preferred his men ‘uncut’? Ah, but what of the estimated 300,000 gays that the Nazis had killed and tortured? Who were they then - spurned lovers possibly?

So what else might we expect from this great visionary of our age? Allow me to suggest some further ‘potboilers’ for Mr. Lively’s series:

The studded Ankh - Rather than being an exotic siren and seductress of the Nile valley, Cleopatra was in fact a flange-munching lesbian who employed her asp to commit unspeakable acts on handmaidens.

The crinoline hammer and sickle - Joseph Stalin wasn’t really a paranoid sociopath but rather a renowned cross-dresser who recruited a secret society of fellow ‘trannies’ in order to affect a world take over. A dastardly plot was hatched to coerce fine upstanding Christian men into high heels, micro-skirts and pantyhose.

The bent scimitar – Although Genghis Khan appeared to be a Mongolian pugilist, all the manly bravado was merely a pose. Incontrovertible evidence now points towards a secret life as a limp-wristed, flannel-wearing aesthete novelist from Oxford.

But finally Mr. Lively, genteel society might like to brace itself for your ultimate literary tour de force:

The brown bulldog – A jaw-dropping exposé proving unequivocally that Winston Churchill was an unabashed coprophile whose shit-gobbling hoards swarmed into Normandy in order to liberate fellow turd-burglars from the clutches of fanatical Germanic enema fetishists.

GOBBLING UP SEAMEN

Giles Muhame, like his svengali-like mentor Scott Lively, appears to be on a voyage of vengeance. Like some latter-day Ahab**, he is obsessed by the pursuit of a fabled homosexual leviathan. Seeking it out, whatever ruinous fate might befall the innocent or the orphaned. Yet, what drives a man to such loathing? What compels this mania to lunge blindly at the inscrutable malice of ‘gay conspiracy’? Does Muhame dare to tear away that despised paste-board mask…gaze into the eyes of abomination?

…Does he dare confront his own chimeral reflection?

* Quote attributed to the Duke of Wellington.
** From Moby Dick, by Herman Melville.


QUOTE OF THE DAY: ‘You [the English] wisely threw out your Calvinist witch hunters 400 years ago but they landed in the U.S. and have never gone away.’ Armistead Maupin (novelist).

.............................................


In Publish and be Damned - part II, I hope to post a short story, ‘The Buboes’. It's a bawdy satire, set in somewhat less than salubrious surroundings. The tale will feature a character that may remind the reader (vaguely) of Giles Muhame - coincidence, of course...


Thanks for reading.

© Edwin Black

Dark Black Soul - an erotic story, set in a prison

Greetings. As a change from the customary humour, I thought I’d add a short story set in Ghana (Africa). Amusing? Well, not exactly, but I occasionally like to cast off the mantle of humourist and look at the wider picture. I’s the story of a man forced to confront his demons. However, rather than letting go of this inner darkness, he allows it to consume him...

Dark Black Soul

The events and characters in the following story are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual events, persons or organisations is purely coincidental. Please NOTE WELL that opinions, attitudes or lifestyles expressed or portrayed herein DO NOT necessarily represent those of the author. This story contains ADULT ONLY homo-erotica. If you are likely to be offended by such literature, then I strongly advise that you read no further.

* * *

Part 1 – INCARCERATION

‘Listen, Mr Black, in all honesty, I really don’t think that you appreciate the gravity of your situation. In fact, I have to say I’m at a loss to know where we go from here. Without the cooperation of local police officials, there’s very little Her Majesty’s Government can do for you. I would like to think that–’

‘I need water. They’re not providing fresh water.’ Bertram Black cut in, looking up wearily.

Lugubrious eyes peered at Donald Kurtz, a senior official from the British Consulate in Ghana. Kurtz returned a sympathetic smile that failed to instil much hope in his beleaguered compatriot. ‘Oh I see. Yes, well of course. I’ll ensure Radley gets that to you shortly. No doubt, they’ll expect another bribe for their help in poking it through the bars.’ Kurtz sighed resignedly, reaching for a white handkerchief and dabbing his glistening forehead. He wished to god that he was still in the sanctuary of his air-conditioned villa rather than the stifling torment of Kumasi Central Police Station. Its languid atmosphere was dulling his wits. He removed a pen and notebook and dutifully scribbled ‘water’ on a growing list. ‘And how are we being looked after here otherwise, Mr Black?’ He enquired somewhat distractedly.

Black shot him a dejected glance. ‘Not well,’ he murmured.

‘In what way? Are you being mistreated? Please, Mr Black, do be candid with me. It may ultimately assist us in this, um… predicament.’

Black caressed an angry looking abrasion on his cheek, wincing slightly. His recollections of the past few days remained a blurring tumult of anguish and confusion. He gazed absently through a barred window at the blurring myriad of city lights. Kumasi’s sprawling maze of tattered shops and peeling facades tumbled down the hillside, diminishing into the smouldering embers of the horizon. The city; a fading relic of some imperial grandeur and a testimony to the slow ravishment of time. ‘They’ve hit me. Well, one of them has anyway. A thug they call ‘Ni’…uses nylon ropes to ‘educate’ the inmates. Doesn’t seem as if my English credentials have saved me from his attentions.’

Again, Kurtz put pen to paper briefly then returned a solemn gaze. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Black. I’m afraid the rights and privileges we’ve come to enjoy in the United Kingdom aren’t necessarily exercised elsewhere.’

It was a trite remark. Black resisted an urge to be sarcastic. ‘You shouldn’t worry about me, Kurtz. I’m well accustomed to being vilified…’

Kurtz noticed Black’s simmering irritation and checked his watch. The rather officious duty officer had made it abundantly clear that Black would have to return to the communal holding cell by 10pm. There were minutes to spare. After a hurried series of assurances, he got up and shook hands with Black, hoping to convey a sense of concern.

Black did not feel greatly heartened at this, nor by his somewhat brisk departure. A uniformed guard entered, giving the British official a rather farcical salute to which Kurtz nodded politely.

The guard’s avaricious eyes glinted appraisingly at the spectacle of his latest prisoner. It was as if he were scrutinising some prized chattel. Black was attracting more than just notoriety in his new-found abode. In the dank, sweating recesses of the shadowy inferno, frustrations could reach fever pitch. Under the breathless veil of darkness, a mass of sleepless desires festered and stirred. Tentative hands strayed skittishly yet inexorably…

‘You go back now, my white friend. The men, they look after you.’ The guard’s inflection was laden with innuendo. A knowing smile flitted over normally austere features, softening his furrows. Black begrudgingly returned a smile as he was ushered along a shabby blue corridor. As he shambled passed the main desk, the duty officer called after him.

‘Ah, English man! You enjoy Kumasi Police Station? You should, it was you people who built it!’

The taunt seemed like an open invitation for sarcasm but, not for the first time, Black wisely resisted. He was darkly amused by the likelihood that these officious autocrats had inherited their pomposity from their British colonists - his ancestors…

‘I’m managing thanks. I’m fine.’ He muttered back with veiled contempt.

‘You invite me to your country one day. You find me good English wife to marry!’ The officer yelled. Black tried to stave off a smile, but failed.

The guard bade him undress and bundled his clothes into a tattered cardboard box. He had been reminded on numerous occasions that being able to retain his underpants was a special dispensation that should be generously rewarded.

The guard proceeded to unlock an ancient lattice steel door, gesturing for Black to cross the threshold. ‘Go sleep. Say Prayer.’

‘Yes, thanks. Thanks so much.’ Feigning humility made things easier, much easier. Black ventured blindly through a fetid darkness until his outstretched fingers floundered against a clammy, uneven wall. Somewhere in the steamy blackness, bodies stirred. An unspoken anticipation charged the air like the brooding prelude to an electrical storm. Indiscernible forms writhed restlessly at his approach.

When Black had first entered the bleak squalor of the Ghanaian prison, it had been lit by a pallid daylight. All eyes had been upon him. Thirty or more inmates, maybe more; dumbstruck. Incredulous at the unlikely prospect of a white detainee. No one had dared approach him at that time. It was as if some imperceptible barrier had set him apart and made him untouchable. Black even speculated that they were in awe of him in some way. Why? Was he really so different? Was not incarceration contrived to be the great leveller? For some seconds the momentous tribulations of that day had paled into the shadows. Black gazed in wonderment at a vision of taught muscle and lithe sinew. A breath-taking dark host of African men encircled him; an amorphous mass of gleaming torso and hungry eye. Gloriously naked, all stood proud and indomitable, quite unaware how, in Black’s eyes, they represented such an iconic and potent masculinity. But that was nearly two weeks ago now…

Black continued to nudge and grope his way to his allotted sleeping space. He tried to slow his breathing and still the flurry of runaway heartbeats. His left hand revealed the alcove into an adjoining cell. As with previous nights, he would attempt to sleep on the mouldering floor. His only comfort would be his toilet roll for a pillow. That was how it was; a vile, barren womb of concrete and steel. Languishing in filth like a beast. A daily degradation, inexorably stripping away the last lingering semblances of one’s humanity.

Within the harsh surroundings he perceived whispers, snoring. Restive hands brushing skin, scratching hair. Low, longing groans at the fringe of hearing. From somewhere in the dark there came a ribald whisper: ‘Ah, nice white man, my brudda return. Handsome white man. Let me be your friend.’

And that was how it had started…

Part 2 – GHOSTS OF MEMORY

Memories of the fateful night that led him to this place of torment drifted back to Bertram Black, unbidden. Phantasms of some ghastly nightmare haunting a swirling within a drunken miasma. The broken syntax of conversations…monstrous snapshots…a reeling nausea. Self-recrimination plucking incessantly at frayed nerves. Ghostly fingers insinuating accusations in some cruel and relentless fury. It was all his fault. It was all his damn fault and there was nothing he could do to rewrite history. History was a bleak, unassailable fortress that imprisoned him, obliterating hope beneath its cold, unforgiving shadow. If only things had been different... Jesus! How many times had he wished for that? Inexorably, Black’s mind spiralled downwards into gloomy recollection.

The argument that night with Austin had driven him to some kind of madness. What the hell was his boyfriend thinking of, fucking the hotel porter in their bed? Their bed, for Christ sakes! The same bed that, only hours before, they had made love, made promises, talked about a future, about commitment. Then having to witness all those hopes smashed to smithereens. Obliterated. And then, Austin, standing there, indignant; even smiling! Tempers had flared. A blind rage had consumed Black. Fists had flown…blows exchanged. Spiteful home truths hurled too lightly. Black’s anger eclipsing his pain. Stinging tears. A leaden numbness in his limbs. A dull ache in his chest…

During the confrontation, Black remembered how Austin’s face had contorted into a grotesque mask of rage. Some kind of monstrous fury had overtaken him. Black was knocked to the bed, pinned down; ensnared like some naturalist’s thrashing specimen. His strength was no match for Austin’s. The agony of the frenzied rape still plunged like a dagger into his stricken heart. When it was over, Black had careened into the bathroom. Knocking over chairs, blundering and dizzy. There was a desire to cleanse himself. Wash away the pain. Erase the stain of memory. He staggered into the shower cubicle. Pink rivulets drained down into a porcelain vortex. Blood. Stark light jabbed like realisation at his watery eyes. Black pressed them shut as he scoured his violated body. Over and over. Scrubbing until crimson welts striated his skin. Drying himself, putting on some pants. Pouring a measure of vodka sufficient to nullify pain, obliterate thought…

Austin was leaning nonchalantly against the ornate balcony railing, oblivious to his approach and apparently indifferent to his torment. He was speaking jovially on his cell phone in his guttural language. He was even laughing! Seemingly, untroubled by conscience or regret. The seconds blurred. Black remembered feeling oddly dislocated from his body. Austin had turned as Black’s silhouette had been framed in the doorway. Again, he was laughing.

‘Bastard!’ Black had bellowed as he hurled the drink at his tormentor. He had only intended to scare him or to make him somehow share his pain. Yes, he had lost control but…

The glass struck Austin squarely on the forehead in a cascade of glittering shards. He had staggered heavily against the railing. Then, with one heart-stopping wrench, it had given way…

For a moment, Austin had looked dazed as he teetered at the edge of a precipice. Then he lurched backwards, plummeting into an inky chasm of shadows. Black heard the railing clatter onto the concrete. Seconds later, here was a nauseating thud from somewhere far below. Then silence.

Moments later, the remaining vodka had not been sufficient to drown out that same ominous silence. It was only when the frantic knocking at his door turned into thunderous blows that it receded. It was only when the door splintered and armed police invaded the room that Black realised absently that he was clutching Austin’s tear stained photo. The rest was a swirling haze. A melee of gruff unintelligible phonetics, jumbled images; flashing past, echoing in the void. He was on some out-of-control carousel whirling; faster, faster…

Part 3 – SEX IN THE DARK

There was no lavatory in the jail. Inmates had to undergo the indignity of having to shit in plastic bags. A putrid mountain of them occupied the furthest corner. A single shower ran intermittently and randomly. The men observed a strict pecking order in its use. The sporadic downpour also provided the only source of drinking water. Black wished he were under that spray of soothing water as he lay restlessly in the prickly heat. At least Kurtz had organised some fresh water. That was something. He had even given Black his sandwiches and a lug of whiskey from his hip flask. He had devoured both rapaciously.

There was however one thirst that had not been quenched. One hunger that still lingered. He was being driven insane with sexual frustration. It was a perpetual urge that deprived him of sleep and tormented his waking thoughts. All around him there was that same undeclared need. Sometimes he would discern groans, the sound of men pleasuring themselves in the dark. He would hear the rising crescendo of their panting and the faint friction noises of sticky flesh. Those at the bottom of the pecking order would sometimes find themselves the object of inescapable manly desires. In the dark, they would remain strangely compliant, as they were vigorously gang-fucked. There would be the sound of sweat-drenched skin slapping rapidly against skin. A succession of stifled and lusty groans of rapture. When it was finally over, a pitiful whimper would sometimes emanate from an unforgiving night.

So far, interest in Black had been tentative. But that was all about to change. The company he was keeping was proving to be a potent aphrodisiac. Black knew at that moment he needed a lot more than just a stiff drink inside him…

Part 4 – AUSTIN AND DUPLICITY

Black wallowed in the darkness; pensive and remote. Austin had made a lot of promises over the years. Deep down, Black knew that he was incapable of keeping any of them. He had lived with the delusion that ‘things would get better’ for so long that it had become some kind of mantra in all his many disappointments. If anything, Austin was getting worse. His recent choice of lovers plumbed depths that seemed quite unfathomable, even to Black.

There was one recent example. His name; ‘Jocelyn’. He was rich, overweight and overbearing. In Blacks estimations, he had the personality of a pig and the porcine hygiene habits to match. And yet, after hearing of their liaisons and confronting Austin, it seemed his boyfriend had still ‘gone there’. Jesus Christ, what a farce! Well, the guy had money, and that was the harsh reality of it all.

The inescapable truth was that Austin was an opportunist hustler. He enjoyed the ego trip of his conquests to such an extent that aesthetic considerations no longer applied. Anything and anyone was considered, and a quick fuck was his equivalent of a polite handshake. There was no line that Austin wouldn’t cross. No taboos or boundaries in his untamed desires. Most of Black’s more reliable friends had, at some point, spoken of their polite refusals and mild shock at Austin’s clumsy attempts to seduce them. When questioned, Austin would either deny it or simply laugh it off. What a piece of work he truly was!

‘Each man kills the thing he loves.’ Isn’t that what Oscar Wilde had written? Isn’t that what they had done to each other? Maybe that was what everyone did to each other, ultimately?

Black remembered a time when things had been different between them. God, so different. Those halcyon days before he had finally peered into the gloomy underworld of his lover’s clandestine existence. Too late, he had realised the true nature of Austin; ersatz, devious, manipulative. But by then, love had clasped him in its insidious tendrils. He was too late in his realisation that his lover’s life was ruled by passion, rather than governed by ethics. Austin, his one great love, possessed all the qualities of a dog - except loyalty!

There were those same damn pointless arguments about Austin’s continual infidelities. If only Black could extricate Austin from memory. And yet, he just couldn’t bring himself to leave Austin (oh, the persistence of sentiment!). Maybe their souls were now bound together in hate where once they were intertwined by love? If only he could have severed his ties and maybe discovered someone more worthy of his devotion. It was all one big fucking mess and the bitter irony was that Black’s high ideals had, in many ways, made him the author of his own downfall.

Yet despite Austin’s total lack of ethics, Black had loved him, adored him, but most of all he always hungered after his sex. His sweet injection was an intoxicating anodyne flooding existence with meaning. It was an ambrosial poison that saturated mind, body and spirit with sublime and rapturous torment. For Black, there were no comparisons. Sure, he’d taken occasional ‘paramours’ in England, but they were pale substitutions for his one true passion.

But that was then…a time before the absence of light in Black’s mind. A time when the disfigured manikin that had lain sprawled in the filth of the street had been an angel incarnate, winging its way across a vastness of solitude.

Now there was no past. There would be no future. There was only now. The seizing of the moment. Nothing else mattered anymore. In the temporal glimmer of existence, there was only sensual gratification remaining to illuminate the dim corners of a dark black soul. The paradox of his life, Austin, was no more. Austin: light of his life…heart of his darkness. All that remained now was a final surrender to carnality; being swept up and borne away within the oblivion of pleasure.

Part 5 – ENEMY WITHIN.

‘And how are we today, Mr Black?’

Black ignored Kurtz, choosing instead to stare through a barred window at the abstract configurations of city lights beneath a waning sun. The vista seemed strangely apocalyptic in its infernal vastness.

‘What the investigation will try to establish is whether there was premeditation. Did you have forethought in your actions that night…or was this some spontaneous crime of passion?’

Once again, images of the fated night started to well up from some murky abyss, clouding Black’s eyes. ‘It was neither…an accident okay? Jesus Kurtz, how many more times do I have to go over this with you? How could I have known that the balcony would give way? It could have happened to anyone!’

‘Correction, Mr Black. It happened to you just after a fight that was overheard by several other guests at the hotel. You tell me that you were brutally raped in the course of events. I’m sorry, but that gives you a motive…maybe even for murder. I’m afraid we find ourselves in a very precarious situation…’

Black’s temper flared. He resented Kurtz’s unremitting condescension. ‘Listen Kurtz, I may not be the academic that you are. I may not even have attended the right public school, but at least I know how to use my pronouns correctly…don’t we?’ He mocked.

Kurtz seemed slightly taken aback for a moment, but quickly regained his composure. ‘On the contrary, Mr Black. You’re quite the brooding intellectual when you put your mind to it.’
Black snorted derisively.

Kurtz continued, unabashed. ‘What, actually, I had planned to say was that we might be able to secure your release. Quite an achievement given that there’s no extradition treaty in place. Believe me, Mr Black, I’m doing my utmost toward that end.’ He paused, allowing himself a modicum of smug satisfaction.

Black, however, regarded him impassively. ‘Do carry on Kurtz. Or is this a cue for me to appear impressed?’

‘Listen, Black, to be frank with you, one might be forgiven for thinking that you actually wish to remain in this bloody hell-hole? This little corner of Sodom. Believe me, I do understand your frustration with proceedings, but protocols have to be adhered to. We find ourselves in a complex position…’

‘No, you listen Kurtz,’ Black cut in impatiently, ‘I’m tired of all this bullshit. What do you want from me? Where’s this leading? That’s all I need to know.’

Kurtz exhaled. He reached into an inside pocket and produced a pack of Davidoff cigarettes. Pausing to light it, he took a long drag, deliberately blowing smoke into Black’s eyes. ‘Inducement, Mr Black, or may I call you Bertram?’ A calculating smile crossed his face. ‘There are always ‘ways and means’. And these…erm…ways and means simply require the right incentive. Now, if you were to plead guilty at trial and accepted deportation, I could ensure a very agreeable outcome. You know, it’s been known for certain overseas convictions to go away, or at least ‘go astray’ once a fellow reaches the United Kingdom. The Home Office does have an unfortunate tendency, from time to time to, shall we say, misplace certain legal complications.’

Black regarded him with contempt. ‘A bribe. You’re talking about a fucking bribe!’ His anger flared. ‘You’re a fucking disgrace, Kurtz! You’re not even fit for purpose!’

Kurtz crossed his arms defensively, regarding Black with icy, deadpan eyes. ‘I’m sorry you see things that way.’ He chided mildly. ‘I was simply making you aware of your options, that’s all. It seems to me as if you don’t have too many more avenues to explore.’

Black had been dragged headlong into a realisation. It was as simple as it was monstrous; it was money would guarantee his freedom. Lurking behind all the sanctimonious posturing and threats from all these officials was the expectation of a huge pay-off.

It had not escaped Black’s notice that many of the senior police officers drove large luxurious cars. Even to an outsider, it was obvious that a police salary in West Africa could never afford them such opulence. Bribery and corruption were the accepted currency; even among his own countrymen who he’d once considered beyond reproach. Clearly, greed was the vice of choice and it was evidently rife at Kumasi Central Police Station.

‘Welcome to the real world.’ Kurtz smiled.

Black remembered a drug dealer who had been interrogated at the same time as him. The guy had also fallen prey to Ni’s attentions. After several beatings and some hours of horse-trading, Black had overheard the man agree to pay several hundred million Cedis ‘bail’. It was to be divided three ways between the ‘interviewing’ police officers…

Black’s attention wavered as Kurtz’s droning voice drifted from his conscious thought. Again, he was haunting the corridors of time. He wondered if he was a good man? A few weeks ago he would have declared an unequivocal ‘yes’. Maybe that was simply self-delusion? A complacency composed from the frail pretensions that personal ethics were somehow immutable; stone tablets immune to the flux of fate and fortune. Time, it appeared, had proven him wrong in these assumptions. Maybe every human being harboured some germ of self-destruction waiting to be kindled by rage or stirred by the passions. Borne on the tide of doom, people drifted into to foreign lands; alien places.

Part 6 – UGLINESS AND BEAUTY

‘Buy me this ok? There’s a store nearby and I need a tee shirt…also a bag.’ Austin shone beautiful beady eyes upon his drowsy benefactor.

Black retreated under the bed sheets, disorientated. Austin wrestled back the covers, forcing Black’s bleary eyes to focus on an ingratiating smile.

‘Huh?’

Austin straddled him playfully. Was this just like old times, Black wondered, half-dazed? He squinted up at the dark naked perfection that pressed him to the bed. But then there was the melancholy realisation that such innocence was long gone. Or should he rather call it ‘naivety’ on his part? The play-fight was just another means to wheedle money in order that he could dress himself like a diva and impress all his would-be lovers. Black had been there a thousand times. But as ever, he relented. As ever, beguiled by Austin’s intoxicating beauty. He was under no illusion that Austin was simply manipulating him. But letting go still seemed unimaginable. Black reached for his wallet and took out a bundle of Cedi notes, handing them to Austin.

‘Thank you.’

The tall figure lowered itself and pressed lips to Black’s mouth. Simultaneously, passions stirred. Austin slipped under the sheets, holding Black in an almost smothering embrace. Black marvelled at his eyes; smouldering embers of desire; captivating, intoxicating, hypnotic. Half closed with veiled intention, like a coiled snake. From the insatiable furnace of Austin’s loins, a slow rising monolith awakening a desperate need within Black. Searing lips devouring him; gorging on neck, nipples, thighs. Lust engulfing them and the world paling into shadow, obscured by the ascendant incandescence of ecstasy. The love they had made was, as always, consuming, frantic; as if it would be their last time.

And this time, it would be…

The pair lay exhausted in dappled sunlight. Black stared absently up at the ceiling with wistful, dreaming eyes. He had hoped to take Austin away from all his usual temptations in the suburban ghetto of Accra. He’d naively imagined that a stay in Kumasi could salvage something from the dereliction that they chose to label a ‘relationship’. It would be an opportunity to talk about the future and if, somehow, they might have one together. But every time Black tried to articulate his feelings to his lover, it just sounded like accusation, blame. Perhaps silence was the only medium to preserve the remnants of a paradise lost. Nevertheless, Black resolved to speak…to try one last time to convey his sense of disappointment and maybe turn things around.

‘Why weren’t you ever around in Accra, Austin? I mean, I came three thousand miles just to share your life… to be with you. But all I’ve discovered is another form of loneliness. Jesus, London was bad enough! You brought me to the ‘zongo’, the ghetto, but you were never there. I was just a prisoner in your family home. Christ, and then there was that fucking religious zealot of a brother…’

‘You’re insulting my family,’ Austin turned to him, irritation furrowing his brow.

‘No, just an observation,’ Bertram said defensively. ‘Remember, I had to listen to that prick evangelising about ‘sin’ when you were out gallivanting. He was goading me, I’m sure of it. I’m not talking about real sin either - as in genocide, murder, deception. Oh no. He was pontificating about the ‘sin’ of homosexuality. Sanctimonious prick! And you know, I think he suspects we…um–’

‘No! You always think the worse. You always criticise everyone…as if you’re better somehow. Sa? It’s only your nasty mind.’

‘A nasty mind, eh? Fuck you Austin. Listen, you said you loved me. And I damn well know that I loved you. Imagine…I had to defend you from your own father. Oh yes, he’s not impressed with your behaviour,’ Bertram sneered, ‘He came to the family house and asked me where you were…why had you left me alone (again)? Anyway, I burst into tears. I cried over you like some lovesick schoolgirl. Jesus, it was so embarrassing. Then he tried to assure m with that knowing look…telling me that some friendships just aren’t worth pursuing. And how some of his sons were such a disappointment. I told him that it was okay. You must be on an errand. Everything was fine…’

Black tried to control his sense of indignation, but felt anger rising. Words flowed from him; poison from a festering wound. ‘So you leave me cloistered in your family house. Meanwhile, in your life, there’s always some new friend, some new face… the latest ‘friend’! You and him exchanging knowing looks… saying nothing. Then what? Within a week he’s out of the frame forever. Never to be seen again! And I’m left wondering what the fuck that was about? What happened? Then, of course, realisation dawns; the guy was rich, you were broke. What else is there to understand? And me? Well, maybe I’m paranoid? Maybe I judge you too much by your past. Are you surprised? Or perhaps I just know your true nature Austin, but part of me refuses to believe it.’

‘What do you want, Bertram? You think I should be with you always and never have another friend?’

‘Yes! Why the hell not? Be mine…don’t ever have those ‘friends’, yeah? Spend your whole damn life with me. Go on, I dare you. I’m sick of sharing you with the rest of Africa!’

‘But I’m free, Bertram…or? You want to put me to be in a cage like a prisoner, a slave? Is that what it’s like?’

Black’s spiralling confusion conjured up bleak images of some monstrous colonial history. Was Austin really trying to assume the pose of some abused chattel; a victim of an unforgivable western exploitation? The cultural divide grew vast and unwieldy. Black was wracked with an irrational guilt. In his consciousness, he felt the onerous weight of a history beyond comprehension or reason. Love was just not enough. As for money that would never be enough. Grim reality, however, threw its opportunist punch like a sparring heavyweight.

‘Austin, I can’t cope anymore with your…I don’t know…prostitution. Aren’t you better than that? Aren’t you more than that? Isn’t that the one and only real thing that enslaves you? I just don’t know what to believe in anymore. I just don’t know...’

Austin regarded him harshly, but then his fierce stare became tempered with pathos. ‘I… I love you… chally.’ The words hesitant; beguilingly sincere and heartfelt.

Black was not appeased. Clichés cascaded from his mouth; frustration he had expressed so many times before. ‘I’d hoped for so much more, Austin. I’ve wished sometimes that you could think above the mentality of the ghetto. You are so much better than the choices that you’re making. Christ, for once in your life, why not just allow yourself to trust someone? Do you want me to promise you that I can take you away from it all? I can. I will. I swear it. I’m not like all those other guys that you tell me about; promising the earth just to take what they want from you…’

‘Bertram, I know that. You’re so special, okay? I promise I’ll be good. I’ll change.’

The words rang hollow, failing to assuage Black’s misgivings. He sighed, exasperated. They were going around in the same circles. The same pointless damn circles...

‘You’ll never change, Austin. You know that. I guess that deep down I know that too. It’s how it is and how it stays. It’s the way of things.’

Austin regarded his lover with cool, speculative eyes. ‘You know I love you deep down, Bertram. You’re in me okay? Even though I do those thing.’

‘Fuck you, Austin.’ Black whispered. His tears finally broke cover and traced their inexorable decent onto the pillow.

Austin gathered up his lover into his arms, smoothing the ravelled tresses of his hair. But somehow those arms no longer offered sanctuary.

Part 7 – DESIRE SET FREE

It was dark within the holding cell. Pitch dark. The heat, perpetual. Noises. Groans in the dark. By now Black was aware of the true nature of caged men in the absence of women. For some, it took days before they considered alternative avenues. For others, it was only a matter of hours…

Out of nowhere, a hand brushed against Black’s knee, meandering gently upwards and settling on his thigh, brushing over it lingeringly. Such boldness was quite an aphrodisiac. From the opposite side another hand glanced over his arm. Black quietly moaned his approval as it strayed over his chest, clumsily teasing and tweaking his nipples. Without warning, thick full lips were pressed to his. Hot breath; voracious and burgeoning with passion. Black began to lose himself; swept away in a deluge of pleasure; abandoning himself to a rich sensuous paradise that he had so longed for. Hands tugged at Black’s underpants. No words had relevance. Yes, there was a time when he’d believed in more…something better. But that was all long gone.

It wasn’t long before, Bertram began to feel like one of those female toads he’d seen on the ‘Discovery’ channel; the ones that become inundated during the mating season. He suspected, however that the only thing he might be spawning was another disaster - particularly if the guards took an interest in his night time antics.

Part 8 – LAWS OF KARMA

‘I’ve asked the guard to leave us alone today. There’s a rather salient matter we need to discuss.’ Kurtz sat, lit a cigarette, and exhaled a billowing plume into the oppressive confines. His compatriot seemed distant. But that was of no consequence. What he needed to say would not take long. Besides, his patience had run out. A crossroad had been reached in Black’s fragile existence. He glared at his countryman with barely disguised loathing. ‘Listen Black, I’ll be blunt with you. I’ll be damned if you think I am going to stand by and let you harm British interests in this region with a lengthy, public legal battle. There’s too much at stake here. Way too much. I’m telling you this for your own good. Make a full confession of murder and I’ll ensure that you get a fair hearing in England. Fail to do so and well…I shan’t be answerable for the consequences.’

Black stared at Kurtz agog, disbelieving. The insinuation hung ominously in the prevailing gloom. Finally, Kurtz’s deadpan mask of civility slipped away, revealing an ugly reality.

‘I would strongly advise that you cooperate, Mr Black. I’m telling you this as a personal courtesy. Time is running out. More specifically, Mr Black, your time is running out.’ He fixed Black with an imperious stare; twin pinholes into some dismal pit.

‘Fuck you, Kurtz! Go to hell!’ Black flared. He baulked as a stark reality dawned on him: he was an inconvenience. Kurtz wanted him out of the way...perhaps permanently...?

A mosquito buzzed and circled. Black felt its bite; inevitable somehow on his bare shin. It seemed the entire world was a parasite, sapping life and hope. He shifted listlessly then slapped his leg brutally.

Kurtz’s smile was more of a grimace exposing an array of glittering teeth. ‘Evidently, it would seem, there’s little point in continuing this little chat. Never mind. I had hoped for a more amicable solution but that, as they say, is how the cookie crumbles.’ He sneered.

It was an expression that chilled Black’s blood.

‘No matter.’ Kurtz hastened, almost incidentally. ‘I’ll bid you good night Mr Black. And I trust that you’ll sleep soundly tonight. ’

Again, insinuation…threat. Black stood, eyeing the enemy, emboldened now in his knowing the true nature of things and how he faced his doom. In that instant, an idea acquired volition in his mind. In appearance, there was little separating the two of them. In another time, another lifetime, they might have been brothers. In that split second, his lightening fist struck Kurtz full square on the jaw, sending him reeling against the wall. His head rebounded from it with a satisfying thud.

Black was vaguely aware from his newly-acquired Cartier watch that it had taken him just over four minutes to strip Kurtz of everything. His unconscious naked but for Black’s soiled, counterfeit Polo boxer shorts. Black remembered buying from Hackney market one cool crisp winter afternoon in London. They seemed eminently befitting for a man such as Kurtz.

Black held his head high as he sauntered casually along the corridor. He was conscious now that image, demeanour and attitude would be the determinants of freedom. Aware that, by now, a different duty officer would have started his nightshift. Sure enough, as he reached the counter he was regarded evenly. Black handed him a bundle of large denomination Cedi notes as he levelled with the desk.

‘We’ve concluded our business now. You can return the prisoner to the cell.’

The duty officer looked slightly quizzical, seemingly awaiting some further explanation.

Black returned an arrogant stare and gestured back towards the interview room. ‘I believe he’ll be receiving a visitor soon. I dare say he’ll need to see Mr Black in privacy.

‘Ah, okay. His lawyer?’

Black did nothing prevent a sardonic smile creeping across his face. As one hand felt the reassuring profile of Kurtz’s car keys and the other fingered a bloated wallet. His dour mood shifted perceptibly. ‘Yes,’ came his sibilant reply. ‘It’ll be his lawyer. Ensure that they get absolute privacy will you?’

‘Okay.’

Outside the decaying building a glittering cityscape appeared engulfed by the encroaching night. Black paused, drinking in the blackness. He was an effigy of a former self. And yet altered; ersatz, devious, manipulative…

A carbon-copy of the world that he had come to know.

© Edwin Black