Publish and be Damned! (Part II)

A preamble about Giles Muhame followed by a revolting little story.

Salutations from your favourite pantomime villain, Edwin B. Though some may hiss and boo at my little theatre of the absurd, I like to think I’m performing the satire equivalent to ‘fluffing’. Those receiving the rough edge of my tongue can expect their hackles raised and their dander up - almost to the point off boiling over. And although my champing at the bit may not procure a satisfying outcome, it certainly helps me to get my head around things…

I would like to return to another species of villain, although his particular theatre of operation happens to be farce. Giles Muhame (see posting 'Publish and be Damned', 20 January 2011) represents a most fascinating and grotesque muse for me and worthy of some further gentle disdain.

Recently, I chanced upon a term employed in psychoanalysis that may well have some bearing on Mr. Muhame and his holy war against the LGBT community in Uganda:

‘Projection’ is a psychological defense mechanism whereby one ‘projects’ one’s own undesirable thoughts, motivations, desires, and feelings onto someone else. Emotions or excitations which the ego tries to ward off are ‘spat out’ and then felt as being outside the ego and perceived in another person’. Sigmund Freud.

So could it be that Giles is projecting his inner ‘demons’ onto the external world? Mischievous conjecture on my part, yes, but wouldn’t it be intriguingly dysfunctional if this man was actually a self-repressed ‘Kinsey Scale 3’?

With that in mind, I leave you with a short story of questionable denouement. Looming large is a character who (and I say this for legal reasons) bears no relation whatsoever to Giles Muhame. He’s called ‘Alikuraira’. This is a traditional Ugandan name for those poor fellows who are a little slow on the uptake (although not in all aspects of the uptake - as you will discover).

The tale also alludes to the policies of PEPFAR*, a US Government aid agency, and its dubious sexual health policies (under the Bush administration) in Uganda and beyond.

Happy reading!

Edwin

* Please see previous posting (16 March 2011).



THE BUBOES

Characters

Parts 1 & 3:

MILES ALIKURAIRA: Long-suffering patient, senior editor of the Daily Doublespeak and fundamentalist ‘Christian’.
DOCTOR AUBREY BENTHAM: Senior physician at Kampala University Hospital.

Part 2 ('The Buboes'):

RICHARD (DICKIE) CHANCROID: Debonair host at the Buboes’ dwelling.
SUE PHYLLIS: New arrival to the Buboes’ abode.
KHAMID IYAH: Radicalised follower of the ‘Great Abscess’ with a volatile persona.
JENNY TALWORT: Dour, but homely resident at the Buboes’ place.
PEREGRINE (PERRY) STALSIS; The Buboes’ antisocial neighbour.

(PLUS A MOTLEY CAST OF MICROSCOPIC EXTRAS)

* * *

Part 1 - Knocking the spots off.

‘Right, well now, good….there we are. If you’d just like to sit yourself down Mr Alikuraira, I’d like to establish a few details before we begin the examination.

‘Of course doctor.’ Miles Alikuraira said, lowering himself slowly but surely onto the seat then wincing as he finally achieved touchdown.

‘So what seems to be the problem here, eh?’ Doctor Bentham inquired amiably.

‘Ah! It is some disturbances in my body doctor. They are paining me.’ Miles gazed about the room, deeply perturbed by a conspicuous lack of religious iconography.

The doctor peered quizzically at his patient over half-rim spectacles. ‘Abdominal pain, I see. Could you be a little more specific as to the whereabouts of your discomfort?’

‘It is hard to talk about it,’ Miles frowned, ‘I believe that God has come down to test me.’

‘Well, yes, a possibly I suppose…’ the doctor pondered absently. ‘But let’s just initiate a few medical tests before God has his wicked way with you, shall we?’

The witticism fell flat.

‘Okay,’ Miles mumbled sullenly.

‘Believe me, I’m not here to judge you Miles - if I might call you ‘Miles’? I simply seek the best possible outcome for the greater number of patients.’

Miles Alikuraira gazed pensively at the floor. ‘It is my anus doctor. It is worrying too much.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ the doctor said earnestly before scribbling down a brief note, ‘…and so what about the old fella’, hmm?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Your penis, Miles…any itching or painful sensation around there?’ The doctor prompted.

‘Ah, it is hot…too hot! I think it has caught a fever,’ Miles complained sourly.

‘Alright,’ Doctor Bentham noted, ‘anything else?’

‘And some pains around my buttock.’ Miles murmured, shifting uncomfortably. ‘Also I can no longer pump my wife. Blighted, my root is withered, I yield no fruit.’

‘Hmm, erectile dysfunction, I see.’ The doctor commented thoughtfully. ‘So how long have you had the burning sensation?’

Miles regarded the doctor indignantly. ‘Who me? No, it is God who come to test you doctor. Oh yes, behold, with a great plague will the Lord smite thy people!’

‘Well, that may or may not be the case Mr. Alikuraira,’ the doctor remarked with a peeved expression, ‘but the only thing being tested presently is my patience. I’ve got a lot of people to see today so I do need to get to the bottom of the matter [cough] - as it were. Most of these things are entirely curable - provided, of course, I can rely on a patient’s cooperation.’

‘I see. Well, it started…perhaps…maybe a year or a year and a half ago…?’

‘Gosh, that long?’ The doctor inquired somewhat anxiously.

‘But I touched a door handle!’ Miles blurted. ‘It was used by a known lesbian. And ye keep yourselves from the accursed thing.’

‘Ah. Well…erm…I hardly think that has any bearing on the inflammation, Miles. What I would like to ascertain, however, is if you’ve partaken of any anal sex of late?’

Miles baulked. ‘Listen to me! You are only a physician but I…I am a God-fearing Christian. I will never, ever, ever go to debase myself with acts of abomination!’ he spat contemptuously.

‘I see.’ The doctor jotted down a brief note before returning an impassive gaze. ‘But just to clarify Mr. Alikuraira, I’m merely attempting to ascertain if you’ve been penetrated in your back passage within the last few months? Please, do try to be candid with me.’

‘Excuse me? You are asking me if I have cast myself into the fiery pit of damnation?’

‘Um…frankly no,’ Doctor Bentham sighed, ‘I’m rather asking you if you’ve seen any bum-action recently?’

Miles glowered wide-eyed across the desk. ‘You have the temerity to even suggest that terrible thing! Ah! Onto your knees doctor!’ he thundered, ‘you had better get down on your knees and pray to Almighty God for His forgiveness!’

‘Mr Alikuraira, please!’ The physician chided, ‘you really must endeavour to control these outbursts and comport yourself. I’m simply trying to gain a clearer picture of your sexual history and guage the risk of exposure to harmful pathogens. I can assure you, it’s perfectly standard procedure.’

‘Now listen to me doctor. I have never lain with another man. As it say in Leviticus, 18:22; Thou shalt not lie with a man, as with woman for it is abomination!’ Miles bellowed. ‘And lo, ye shall be smote asunder and cast into that flaming pit of brimstones and chilli peppers!’

The doctor blinked incredulously, then closed his eyes momentarily in an attempt to regain his composure. Sharply, he returned his attentions to his patient. ‘Mr Alikuraira, might I remind you that you’re in a hospital,’ he rebuked. ‘If you continue to behave in this agitated fashion I’ll be obliged to ask you to leave!’

Miles cowed somewhat. ‘Okay. I see doctor,’ he muttered, smarting as he shifted position. ‘But I think you should not be suggesting-’

‘Be quiet!’ The doctor snapped.

Miles grunted sulkily to himself.

‘Good. Now, just one last question; I need to know if you’re a sex-worker Miles? Y’know, a toilet-trader – if I might coin the vernacular?’

‘Hah! Of course not!’ Ah! You are not a godly man doctor – not at all! I will recommend to my people that they should never appoint you! Look, you do not even have a bible on your desk! Are you a homosexual, doctor? Tell me! Yes, I think maybe…you must be one of them!’

‘Now you listen here Miles,’ the doctor growled, ‘I can assure you that your loyal patronage is the least of my concerns. I restore people’s health! That’s what I do!’ And for your information, (not that it’s any of your concern) I’m happily married with two wonderful children. In all my thirty three years of practice, I-’

‘I do not believe you! It was you the white people who bring the gay disease to Africa. We used to be without sin until you people brought the evil-’

Doctor Bentham thumped his fist on the desk. ‘Will-you-be-quiet!’ he flared, glaring at his charge. ‘If you’d allow me to get a word in edgeways before launching into another diatribe, we might finally make some progress!’

Miles pouted, gazing disconsolately at the floor.

The doctor returned to his notes. ‘Now where were we? Ah yes, so you’re not a sex-worker. Good. So if you could-’

‘You should note down that I am chief editor of the Daily Doublespeak…in Kampala.’ Miles instructed the physician.

‘Hmm, yes, I’m familiar with it,’ Doctor Bentham frowned before picking up his pen: ‘…edits a parish newsletter for religious extremists,’ he scribbled hastily. ‘Alright, well, if you’d be good enough to get on to the couch and drop your trousers we’ll hopefully see what we’re up against.’

Miles eyed him suspiciously. ‘Yes, well, you should just make sure you don’t try any funny business on me, okay?’ He looked askance as the doctor got up and donned a pair of rubber gloves. It was some minutes before he finally managed to position himself on the examination couch and lower his undergarments. Shortly, he let fly a long, gurgling fart followed by a succession of bubbling staccato trumps. ‘Hmm…pardon me,’ he apologised grudgingly.

The doctor sniffed at the air disdainfully, grimacing. ‘Yes, well…I was about to advise you to relax but that’s clearly unnecessary. Anyway, I’ll just have a quick peek up there and take a couple of swabs.’ He proceeded over to his patient and delicately prised Miles’s buttocks apart.

‘What are you attempting to do to me doctor?’ Miles squealed. ‘Listen to me, I will never, ever allow another man to place his finger into my asshole. Putting a thing into the bottom is abomination!’

‘Miles please,’ the doctor sighed, ‘as I’ve already explained, I’m here to help you alright? Believe me, you’re only making things more difficult for yourself. I can assure you I’m a qualified doctor and consultant proctologist. So I do know what I’m doing when it comes to dealing with anal sphincters…’

Miles quietly seethed with the notion that he’d received a most grievous insult.

‘Good grief, that’s quite an inflamation,’ the doctor remarked, regarding a peppering of lime green pustules nestling within his patient’s buttocks. ‘Tell me, have you had a check up within the last ten years?’

‘Um…yes,’ Miles confessed, ‘I attended a Catholic hospice. They give me the test.’

‘Alright, yes, well…and…?’ The doctor said, anxiously twirling his forefinger midair.

Miles scowled over his shoulder at the physician. ‘And what…?’ He demanded.

‘For heaven’s sake man, the tests…’ Doctor Bentham exclaimed, ‘…what was the nature of the tests you underwent? I mean, are you deliberately trying to obfuscate the facts?’

‘Ah, I see. Well, they tested to see if I was a Christian…and also if I read the Bible.’

No, Mr Alikuraira, no,’ Dr Bentham gasped, ‘what I’m attempting to establish is whether you were screened for Chlamydia, penile warts, jock-itch, etcetera…?’

Miles’s pallor deepened, ‘No doctor, certainly not! I am not a Sodomite! They asked me if I was infected with masturbation. Then they test me for hairy palms. Also they see if I require exorcism. Afterwards they prescribe five hail Marys and a garter-spike.’

‘That’s really not what I’m trying to determine,’ the doctor said, rolling his eyes heavenward. ‘So you’re saying you’ve not been screened for anything whatsoever…?’

‘But then I was saved,’ Miles continued regardless, ‘when I go to the Abiding Ministry of Truth*. The pastor told me that I will visit the Promised Land where there is no disease or suffering. And also there are no gays, lesbians or Democrats with pinko-liberal-commie-Muslimist-tendencies. The pastor then placed his healing hands upon my buttock and I was cured by a miracle of the Lord.’

‘Erm, I’m sorry, but you call this…this…chain of pustular eruptions a miracle…?’ Doctor Bentham queried, motioning at his patient’s hindquarters.

‘Yes doctor. Hallelujah!’ Miles elucidated with a lackluster smile.

The physician exhaled a long, exasperated wail in a desperate attempt to curb a highly unprofessional urge to perform an epidural on his patient’s thick cranium. In all his long years of practice, he’d never had his professional judgment so called into question. Over those illustrious years, he’d prided himself on his ability to establish a deep rapport with patients. Trust, afterall, represented the very foundation of medicine. With that in mind, he mustered his dwindling reserves of goodwill. ‘Erm, ‘miracles’ aside Miles, I feel it would be prudent to administer an anesthetic prior to any further examination. And although I may not be of the messianic calibre, I can certainly numb the pain.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Miles retorted furiously. ‘I demand to know what is ‘anus-thetic?’

‘Well, it’s a simple injection…nothing untoward about it. It alleviates discomfort,’ the doctor assured him. ‘You’ll only feel a slight prick in the bottom, that’s all.’

‘No! You will not violate my anus!’ Miles roared.

The physician bit his tongue – by now questioning his ambiguous choice of terminology. However as he primed his hypodermic and turned to his patient he was confronted by yet another horrifying vista. Miles had assumed a spread-eagled position; his back against the wall and arms akimbo.

The medic shook his head in bewilderment.

Miles licked his lips. ‘I am now ready for my medicine doctor,’ he demurred, ‘mmm...just what the doctor ordered...’

After a good deal of coaxing and some careful repositioning, the doctor finally managed to administer the analgesic and commence a more probing examination. ‘Gosh, it’s a bit of a mess up here Miles. Now are you quite sure you’ve not put anything into your rectal cavity of late?’

‘I do not engage in bum-banditry doctor,’ Miles protested, ‘I only allow the spirit of the Lord to enter me.’

‘Well, I’m afraid, Mr Alikuraira, medical evidence would suggest otherwise. In fact it suggests you’ve been taking more than just holy communion during your genuflections.

* * *

Part 2 - The Buboes.

Meanwhile, on the underside of Miles’s penis, there was a different kind of commotion going on…

‘Ah, here cometh the new arrival. Guys, this is Sue…Sue Phyllis, yeah?’ Dickie Chancroid announced with an ingratiating smile.

‘Er yes. Hi everyone…pleased to meet you all.’ Sue giggled nervously glancing about the rather spartan dwelling.

‘Welcome to our humble abode. We’ve all been bursting to meet you, haven’t we folks? Anyway, I’m Dickie and these are the other hangers-on. Over there’s Khamid Iyah.’

Khamid grunted morosely.

‘Don’t mind him,’ Dickie apologised quietly, ‘he’s just a little churlish after being discharged from his previous place of employment.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Sue smiled sympathetically. ‘Well best of luck Khamid…y’know, with finding a new vocation and all that.’

‘Between me and you,’ Dickie intimated, ‘I think he flares up a bit too readily…a little testy, y’know? He’s also got this terrible habit of blowing up tubes. Actually, I think he misses his old pal Abuboe Hamza.’

‘Ah, I see.’ The newcomer whispered conspiratorially.

‘Anyway, last but not least, allow me to introduce Jenny Talwort.’

‘Oh hi Jenny,’ Sue smiled.

‘Humph,’ her counterpart responded.

‘Don’t worry,’ Dickie explained, ‘she’s a bit of a pain but she grows on you after a while. Anyway, welcome from all of us. I only hope all this isn’t too daunting?’

‘Thanks Dickie. No I’m fine. Anyway, my previous accommodation became a bit of a sore point. That’s really been rammed home in coming here. I guess certain things take a while to sink in?’

‘Guess so. Anyway, let’s put on some music,’ Dickie enthused. ‘Fancy a bit of Anglebutt Humpadick…or we’ve recently picked up some Urethra Rankquim…?’

‘I’m quite into Urethra myself,’ Sue admitted.

‘Great,’ Dickie concurred, ‘and it certainly makes a change from the usual Handel’s Water Music playing in the background. Can I offer you a sherry perhaps – we have Cockburns…?’

‘Lovely…thanks.’ Sue said graciously.

‘There’s a selection of cheeses too - veined mostly. You might be partial to a spot of Stilton perhaps? We’re also anticipating a consignment of Molluscum contagiosum, but you might not favour seafood?’

‘Another time maybe,’ Sue grinned nervously. ‘Besides, I must confess I’m a bit of a carnivore. Put a sausage in front of me and I just can’t stop gnawing at it.’

‘Fair enough. I’m quite stuck on wieners myself y’know?’ Dickie smiled warmly. It’s nice to have a nibble with a good novel. I’m currently pouring over The Scarlet Pimplesmell, y’know?’

‘Sounds interesting,’ Sue chirped up. ‘So what brings you here Dickie?’

‘Ah, well there’s a leading question I must say! I’m quite an ‘Ernest Hemmingway’ on the quiet you know? I’ve visited many different parts. I was originally stationed at Vatican City but I jumped ship many, many years ago with a castrati choir - but that’s all ancient history now. Anyway, then I was picked up by a Jesuit missionary in Kenya then found my way around a number of tiny outposts. More recently, I was kindly taken in by Pastor here in Uganda. Then I eventually found my way down here about three years ago.’

‘Wow, that’s quite a pedigree.’ Sue Phyllis enthused. ‘So you hail from quite a Roman Catholic background then?’

‘Oh, very much so - largely because His Holiness forbids the abuse of underage rubber. Besides, they’ve had a bit of a run on rubber stocks since the numerous clerical child abuse scandals,’ Dickie explained. ‘Y’know, a need for extra erasers...? (Albeit for those covert records that haven’t yet gone down the pan.)’

‘Ah yes…where would we ‘buboes’ be without him, eh?’ Sue remarked.

‘Yep,’ Dickie Chancroid concurred raising his glass ‘Come on everyone, here’s to the Pope. Long may he continue to prohibit prophylactics, stifle sexual heath information and perpetuate guilt. After all, ignorance and hypocrisy certainly make our lives easier…’

‘Cheers,’ came the resounding tribute.

‘Yeah well, I’ve always preferred to stay put rather than spreading myself around too much.’ Jenny Talwort commented dourly. ‘I mean, what’s wrong with putting down a few roots…building a place you can call your own?’

‘Absolutely nothing,’ Dickie responded. ‘Oh, but I guess some of us never lose that wanderlust. I mean, many of my ancestors were frontiersmen don’t you know?’

‘Mine too,’ Sue said, ‘I mean my ancestors spread like the clappers across Europe…and South America’

‘Well I like to stay put until I have accomplished a great deed in the name of Abscess,’ Khamid Iyah dissented. ‘I demonstrate my mental servitude by causing testicular inflammations. I think it’s a swell idea.’

‘Hmm…faith, religion, dogma…It’s all good but who actually knows the purpose of being?’ Dickie pondered, ‘I mean, ultimately, does any one of our great endeavours make a vas deferens…?’

Sue opted to steer the conversation from philosophy. ‘So are there any pitfalls with this place? Health and safety stuff, y’know?’

‘Sure there are,’ Jenny piped up. ‘There’s quite a groundswell sometimes. Our host has a bit of a penchant for shoving us into dark smelly tunnels. Yep, we’ve certainly been up the proverbial creek a few times.’

‘Really? Gosh that sounds horrendous,’ Sue said with concern, turning to Dickie.

‘True,’ Dickie commented, ‘but it’s not that bad. You just have to hang on in there. Normally only lasts a couple of minutes - tops.’

‘You can also get trapped in a fold of skin whenever the wife’s around – shrinkage you see?’ Jenny explained. ‘Mind you, it tends to expand when in proximity to goats.’

‘That’s rather worrying,’ Sue remarked.

‘Listen, I know this place has its drawbacks but at least it’s not a total shit hole,’ Khamid chipped in, ‘unlike our neighbour’s place…and the guy’s a real asshole! Always dumping his shit around the neighbourhood…’

‘So who is this contrary individual?’ Sue asked.

‘Oh, his name’s Peregrine or Perry for short – Perry Stalsis,’ Dickie elaborated, ‘and he deserves an ASSBO.’

‘Does he’s live nearby?’

‘Yeah, over there on the horizon…between those two hillocks…see it…a valley…?’

Sue squinted, following Dickie’s line of vision. ‘Hmm, just about I think.’

‘Well, if you look carefully you’ll notice a large crack at the bottom. Then you just head on down and bingo. Yeah, that’s Perry’s place. Real nasty.’

‘I can’t say I particularly like the sound of it,’ Sue squirmed.

‘I don’t blame you,’ Dickie remarked. ‘And y’know he’s even been known to take in the occasional guest or two...’

‘Good grief,’ Sue remarked, ‘does he take precautions?’

‘Never.’ Dickie sighed, ‘but then he’s always making those kinds of rash decisions.’

Sue became pensive. ‘So what do you think of our host then, Dickie?’

Dickie turned to Sue fondly, uncertain now if she deserved the man-eating reputation she’d acquired. Was it the way she’d said his name or the sense of recognition that now blazed in her eyes? How could he feel so at ease with this stranger? It was as if they’d been soul mates in another lifetime far removed from their present incarnation. ‘I think he’s an excellent host for us, Sue,’ he said reassuringly, ‘he denounces condoms, he’s riddled with self-denial and he mistrusts medicine and science. Anyway who cares what stygian depths his mind plumbs? Alright, so he behaves monstrously towards his fellow human beings but does it really matter one iota? Right now, I can’t imagine a better place to spend a lifetime together.’

Sue gazed into Dickie's eyes, sensing that an unfathomable gulf had been bridged. She felt rather queer and yet assured that, whatever happened, Dickie would be there for her. She drew herself towards him. ‘Do you truly mean that Dickie…I mean about a lifetime together? How could it possibly work? Y'know, the intertwining of lives…being as they are, so fleeting…?’

Dickie moved to her; causing Sue to gasp in his powerful manly embrace. ‘We’ll make it work, goddamit. Okay, so what if this place is a stinking quagmire…the asshole end of the universe - we’ve still got each other. This was meant to be, hon’. Hell, let’s start a family…make some buboes together.’

‘Oh Dickie, I don’t know what to say. This is all so terribly…sudden. Is this really a place to start a family?’

‘Listen princess, we’re stuck here ok? Let’s just make the best of a bad lot, huh? It could be worse. I mean we could have been stuck in that shithole next door…or worse, we might have been out there persuading hoteliers to accept Gideon bibles. I mean, who knows what lays beyond all this existential anguish but at least we got each other.’

‘You say the most romantic things,’ Sue murmured in a swoon, ‘but, don’t you ever wonder about where we are, what we’re doing here and our place in the greater scheme of things? I mean, aren’t we really just evanescent blobs of protoplasm or is there something more to this life?’

Dickie pressed his lips to hers, sensing her willingness to acquiesce with his manful passions. ‘Nobody knows the nature of existence sweetheart,’ he said, pressing her to his breast, ‘or what belies this venereal veneer. We’re just part of some divine comedy we call life…this istigkeit…this broken syntax of a temporal stream of consciousness.’

‘Oh, I do love it when you talk to me anthropologically, Dickie,’ Sue sighed wistfully.

‘Y’know there’s even folks out there who believe it’s okay to inflict savagery on their fellow species provided they toady up to a metaphysical being; a god or some such contrivance. Well, I’ll tell you what I think. I think the real meaning to this churning maelstrom of beingness is-’

Suddenly, a gigantic swab swooped in on the pair from nowhere and unceremoniously smeared them onto a Petri dish.

* * *

Part 3 - A dishonourable discharge.

‘Miles, I must insist that you get off my desk this instant!’ Doctor Bentham shouted, staring incredulously at his seminaked patient. ‘If not then I’m calling security! Do you hear me?’

‘Ah! You were trying to recruit me.’ Miles bellowed from on high. ‘You have trespassed against me!’

‘Now listen here, I was checking for polyps!’ The doctor yelled back. ‘But, I’ll tell you something, alright - forget polyps, I mean, you’ve got a whole bloody barrier reef up there, yeah? And furthermore-’

‘Shut up!’ Miles continued to gesticulate furiously whilst conducting a parallel conversation with the ceiling. ‘And as it say in Acts 9:5 of the Bible; Who art thou, Lord? And the Lord sayeth, ‘I am Jesus whom thou persecutest: it is hard for thee to kick against the pricks…’'

‘Mr-’

‘Ah yes, I too must resist those pricks, O Lord! I will fight those carnal temptations in your name. Amen!’ Miles informed the ceiling while flaying his limbs around like a traffic cop having a seizure.

‘I would strongly urge you to seek psychiatric help!’ Doctor Bentham yelled over the continuing histrionics. ‘Psychoanalysis, you know...? Because in my humble estimations, you’re having a psychotic episode!’

‘… giving themselves over to fornication, and going after strange flesh, are set forth for an example, suffering the vengeance of eternal fire…’

‘Mr Alikuraira, you’re unwell, I-’

‘You’re wife will turn into a pillar of salt, your children will transform into black pepper and their descendants will all become a variety of food seasonings…’ Miles burbled on.

The physician took the opportunity to inform security then rounded on the raving lunatic who’d commandeered his desk. ‘Aside from your evident mental impairment, allow me to elucidate upon matters physiological…’ he bawled over the cocophony.

By now the patient appeared to be frothing at the mouth, blinkered to reason and lost in rapture.

‘You’re a menace to society, Mr. Alikuraira, a walking bio-hazard. Your anus is inhabited by more species of invertebrates than a Tea Party convention. I’m seriously concerned that if you bend over in a populated area you’ll unleash a biblical-style pestilence even the Egyptians haven’t countenanced. As for the discharge…good God man, how could you fail to notice? I mean, Christ, you could start your own bloody Guacamole factory. Even on a macroscopic level your anus looks like The Somme, circa 1916. In all my years of medical practice I’ve never witnessed anything quite so…so compromised!’

Miles turned on his heel. ‘How dare you doctor! You think that I will take it lying down?’

‘Why not? I would venture that’s what brought you here in the first place. And as for the state of your knob (or rather nub) it looks like it’s been involved in a pitched-battle with a cheese grater. In fact, the thing would hardly withstand unfavourable comparison with a rotten acorn!'

Miles glowered maniacally, bunched up a fist and clambered down from the desk. All of a sudden the door burst open and two security guards wrestled him to the floor. He was bundled, kicking and screaming, towards the exit.

‘Now get out. Go on, clear off!’ Doctor Bentham bawled after him. ‘And you can bloody well take these things with you too!’ He promptly lobbed a pair of soiled underpants after his fleeing patient.

Miles instinctively ducked.

The poorly aimed briefs squelched as they hit a wall chart and stuck fast.

© Edwin Black, 2011


* A play on words regarding 'Abiding Truth Ministries' (see posting Published and be Damned Part I, 20 January 2011). Also an allusion to Nineteen Eighty-Four, by George Orwell.

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

‘He who pays the piper…’

A brief discourse on Martin Ssempa and anti-gay laws in Uganda followed by a pithy short story.

Welcome back to this small sanctuary for gentlemanly debate and freethinking. Yes, the king of corn returns to cast a sardonic eye over the vainglorious and prick them with his rapier wit. Well, that’s the theory anyway. Today’s sermon concerns Martin Ssempa of Kampala, Uganda. This eminent fundamentalist ‘Christian’ preacher recently scaled the media dunghill by treating his congregation (including minors) to a screening of gay porn. Supposedly, this bum-basting-bonanza served to warn his flock of the evils of homosexuality. Frankly, I find that proposition very hard to swallow - not a phrase commonly associated with porn.

This great theologian’s also a keen advocate of Uganda’s Anti-Homosexuality Bill. Amongst the bill’s original provisions was the introduction of the death penalty for consenting gay adults considered ‘serial offenders’. Even ex-pat Ugandans would remain under its jurisdiction and liable for extradition then charged accordingly - this, from the country that, only recently, banned female genital mutilation. However when western governments threatened to pull the plug on Uganda’s aid programmes, there’s been some partial back pedalling.

Mr Ssempa’s other towering achievement was conducting a well-publicised condom barbeque because he disapproves of safe sex (in a society ravaged by HIV AIDS). Aside from the rather chewy hotdogs, the innocent bystander might be forgiven for wondering if he plans to lob a few books on the pyre too? In fact, why stop there? Why not distribute a few back-issues of Der Stürmer and begin a spot of genocide?

In a world where unsustainably high birth rates threaten our finite ecosystem, shouldn’t Mr Ssempa be thankful for those of us who aren’t using their partner’s womb as a baby-making factory? Apparently not. According to his worldview, gay folks deserve imprisonment, torture and death since they pose such a dire threat to civilisation. Like, hello? Ever heard of global warming, corrupt government, war, pestilence, famine, etc?

What perplexes me is that Mr Ssempa regards himself as a Christian. Odd really, since the rhetoric of persecution and segregation represents the very antithesis of Christ’s teachings. I would seriously question if this charlatan’s been within ten feet of a bible (excepting his mother providing bedtime stories from Leviticus). And (yawn) as with so many fundamentalists, his limited mental faculty is incapable of separating the concepts of homosexuality and paedophilia. Trite, clichéd and downright bizarre, yes, but thanks to people like him, these offensive stereotypes still persist in the world. Worst of all, this twisted logic is being bandied about in the absence of reliable corroborative evidence. But, since when has empirical truth played a part in any superstition?

Why is it that so many extremist religious ‘leaders’ try to mask the rhetoric of bigotry and inhumanity behind a fallacious banner of righteousness? I mean, doesn’t the vast gamut of humankind deserve more than the rantings of didacts who arrogantly imagine that their doctrine supersedes the ethics of compassion, respect and human dignity? More saliently, isn’t someone who demonises the eclectic nature of humanity an enemy to humanity at large?

Naturally, I realise that I’m wasting my time by even daring to question the wrongs of such insidious and persistently antihuman mindsets. In fact, I should have more important things to do with my time - like scratching the old gluteus minimus, for instance. However, Martin Ssempa is a dogmatist with power and influence who’s intent upon crusading against basic human rights and freedom of expression. It’s difficult to imagine a worthier candidate for a little polite criticism.

Quite by chance of course, Mr Ssempa reminds me of Izi Cumeeng, a fundamentalist preacher in my next short story. In fact, it's uncanny, they could almost be the same person - although obviously they’re not…

* * * * *

‘He who pays the piper…’

The events in the following story are almost entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental. Please DO NOT continue reading this tale if you are not an adult.

* * * *

Rapturous applause reverberated about the vast auditorium. Row upon row of sweat-beaded faces gazed, spellbound, at a commanding figure centre stage. A suited prophet; hands raised as if in benediction. Cheers subsided. A baby’s shrill, mournful cry rang out…a stifled cough…air electrified by fevered anticipation. Izi regarded his flock with unconcealed pride. It was the regard of a man possessed by an unassailable certainty and blinded to the considerations of moral relativism.

In the great pantheon of human folly, Izi Cumeeng loomed large. Truly, he was a Goliath, straddling an effluent river of ignorance and hatred. He’d experienced his epiphany when American Evangelists had moseyed on into town to distribute free bibles and browbeat unsuspecting locals. Naturally, a largely uneducated populace always provided rich pickings for these latter-day conquistadors. This process of indoctrination was euphemistically referred to as being ‘born again’. Nonetheless, what it amounted to was a form of intellectual rape.

During a protracted spell in the US, Izi had gone on to achieve a masters in bible studies at ‘The Hallelujah University College of Redneck’. Hardly a centre for academic excellence, true, but at least he’d learned one simple tenet; society should be governed by thuggery, not buggery. And thanks to the theories of Kamerön Höss (a Nazi-revisionist), Izi’s mission to win hearts, drain minds and empty pockets was now finally being realised. After all, what nobler calling for a humble, god-fearing man than the acquisition of earthly power and wealth?

Again Izi lifted his hands messianic fashion. ‘This, I tell you…this, the one great evil! Our children suffer; our families rent apart. People starve, people die of AIDS. All because of the homosexual. Oh, suffer the children! He comes as your friend - to your family compound. Then he rape your family. This, the gay…vermin I tell you…evil! But the evil that men do should not live after them. Not anymore my friends. No, let it die with them. Let their bloods be upon them! We will curse them with our words and smite them with our vengeance and our wrath!’

The assembly was galvanised into a cacophonous eruption of enraged jeers. Fists waved at invisible assailants. Fearful sobs emanated from children. Finally, the furore subsided as the visionary raised his hands like some masterful puppeteer. Mothers comforted babes and the assembly gazed on as if bewitched.

‘Truly, I say unto you my friends - these the gays are plotting a world takeover. Look at the governments of Europe…infested with the gay and their diseased liberal ways. Like Sodom and Gomorrah - or worse… Oh yes my people - they are breeding with lesbians to create a race of heinous homosexual hybrids!’

Izi noted with great pleasure that his audience now bore the unmistakable look of fear suffused with their rage. They were as pliant as pieces of clay, yielding to his will.

‘And worse, the gays use juju against you. They are witches who give you the evil eye and despoil your children. They are harbingers of disease. Worse, they even gorge themselves upon baby flesh!’

There was uproar. Deafening shouts from the gathering. Even Izi was momentarily taken aback by the sheer ferocity.

‘So my people, shall we allow the sodomite, the family destroyer, to continue doing the work of Satan?’

‘No! No!’ women wailed hysterically.

‘Shall we let him carry on thieving, raping and defiling all that we hold so dear to us?’

Again, the anguished cries of mothers pierced the stifling air.

‘No, my good people.’ Izi resumed. ‘I say never, never, ever! Hell no! Because we are the chosen few. Only we can purge this great sin from our land - together! But we need money. We need plenty, plenty money! Amen to that! See the collection buckets. I beg, give generously. Gift me your money! Gift me your money to fight this cancer of vice and wickedness!’

Unbeknown to his impoverished congregation, Izi’s rather mercenary approach was a necessary evil since he’d recently made a down payment on his third Lexus. Besides, who could possibly begrudge a man a few of life’s trifling essentials? He’d once considered joining the ranks of faith healers in Africa, but decided that being a politician-cum-misanthrope preacher was a considerably more profitable enterprise.

‘You, the faithful, have chosen me as your prophet.’ Izi continued, his litany rising in cadence and fervour. ‘Truly, I am honoured and I am humble. But I am also strong - like an elephant. I have great tusks to impale our enemy, I have a large trunk to whip them and I have hard feet - like boulders - to crush them into their grave. And if they try to hide underneath me – oh, I tell you - I shit on their head with my mighty arse!’

There was a peel of thunderous applause, delirious cheers and exhultant handclapping. But by now, ‘the faithful’ had no thought of scripture, or God or anything else other than the idolatrous worship of their great demagogue.

Izi wiped rivulets of sweat from his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief. He looked heavenward with an enigmatic smile, visualising his first private jet. Indeed, the sky was the limit…the dream of salvation from grinding poverty was already in his grasp. Though his siblings had been lost to the wages of sin, he was the chosen one. He paused purposefully ‘See! See the work of Satan,’ he thundered over jubilant crowds. ‘See the evil of gay! This what they do!’

The hysterical rapture ceased as if a heavenly bolt had struck everyone dumb. There were gasps of horror as the congregation caught sight of a panoramic screening of naked, writhing forms. They heard groans of ecstasy as skin slapped against skin, hands grappled and mouths explored. Even Izi’s ‘hardcore’ supporters hadn’t anticipated such an unambiguous demonstration of sin. All of a sudden, grown men vomited, women screamed or tried to cover their children’s eyes and old ladies fell to their haunches and began weeping for their ancestors. In the shock and terror, even Izi’s wife failed to notice what should have been a familiar pair of buttocks receiving a good pounding.

‘Look at it!’ Izi commanded through his microphone. ‘Look at it long and hard! Witness the ways of the sodomite!’ Izi regarded the ensuing pandemonium impassively for some minutes. Much to his annoyance, he noticed that one of his collection buckets was being used as a makeshift sick container. He signalled to his henchmen to quickly recover the remaining ‘donations to the cause’. The film was abruptly cut.

Eventually, after the sobbing and wailing died down, Izi stared benevolently at his beleaguered congregation. ‘It’s okay, my friends.’ He soothed. ‘It’s okay. You are safe. Don’t worry. I will make sure that this terrible thing never happens to you…or your children…or your children’s children. I promise that we the faithful will defeat them. We will slay our foes and be victorious! In the name of Jesus!’

Of course, given the lewd and inappropriate nature of his sermon, Izi was hardly in a position to claim the moral high ground. In many ways, he might be likened to a person who’d shit themself, who goes around complaining about other people’s halitosis. But at least there was something to be said for his originality. It certainly upped-the-anti on those who preferred that well thumbed passage from Leviticus, since demonstrably, he had his very own well-thumbed passage. Besides, he’d already indulged in most of the seven deadly sins, so what was just one more between friends? Soon there'd be none left and he'd have to make a start on breaking The Ten Commandments.

‘Next week,’ Izi resumed unrepentantly, ‘I show you the evil of bestiality, where I corner my big fat goat. This I follow with movie about the evil of necrophilia and incest and a film I make with my dearly departed mother. Yes, my people, to show you sin I even go to f*ck my mother!’ Oh yes, like Jesus, I will bear the sins of all mankind in order to show you salvation. Oh yes, I, Izi Icarus Cumeeng, am your avenging angel!’

A partially recovered audience gave a lacklustre cheer.

‘Hallelujah! Amen! Hallelujah - now gift me your damn money!’ Izi smirked.

* * * * * * * * *

Somewhere in a darkened room sat two shadowy figures gazing at an illuminated map of the world set within a vast mahogany table. A faint smell of cigar smoke pervaded the air, infused with the scent of freshly cut flowers.

‘Where to next?’ One of them said monotonically.

His counterpart stabbed a plump, gold encrusted finger onto Ghana. ‘Just there,’ he murmured in rasping American twang. ‘In fact, the whole of West Africa looks real good to me. We already got the east pretty well in the bag – Uganda, Zimbabwe, Malawi…’

‘Think those Ghanaians will join us to do the Lord’s work?’ The counterpart asked diffidently.

‘Sure they’ll join us!’ The fat, pale hand made an expansive gesture over the continent. ‘Hell, they got no option. Oh yeah, they’ll do the Lord’s work alright…or at least they’ll do our bidding. You know what they say – he who pays the piper calls the tune.’

‘You mean a Pied Piper?’ Came the waspish reply.

The corpulent man gave a throaty laugh. ‘Listen, I gotta get to Congress bud. I’m late. Got an awful lotta of lobbyin’ to do…’

‘Amen to that, Sir.’

© Edwin Black

QUOTE OF THE DAY:
'Beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves. ' The Bible, Matthew 7:15