Two Hangmen, One Scaffold Book I

Basil Diki

Description

When an ex-commando, a man seeking celebrity status, prepares to rob the Louvre Museum of the Mona Lisa, his �wife� discovers that she is his mistress. In the eye of a cyclone, her son and she base their lives on hope. With a business proposal is another murderer prophesied as �a demon in human form�. At the Vatican, he once aspired to be the first black pope. He is angry with God and his eyes are set on a billion-dollar heist. The ex-priest baits his archenemy and makes his way to a scaffold. Of the happiness he found after cursing God, he is tired. Scars disfigure his manhood. The two men are fugitives lethally dangerous to the other. While the ex-priest desires to honour the same gods and spirits that wrecked his priesthood, the ex-commando must rise above his limitations or he risks total ruin.

Sujets

• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Langaa RPCIG
• Date de parution: 15 février 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9789956727131
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

BOOK I: Baiting the Hangman

Two Hangmen, One Scaffold Baiting the Hangman Book I Basil Diki

L a ng a a R esea rch & P u blishing CIG Mankon, Bamenda

Publisher: LangaaRPCIG Langaa Research & Publishing Common Initiative Group P.O. Box 902 Mankon Bamenda North West Region Cameroon [e-mail] www.langaa-rpcig.net Distributed in and outside N. America by African Books Collective [e-mail] www.africanbookcollective.com ISBN: 9956-726-34-6 ©Basil Diki 2012

DISCLAIMER All views expressed in this publication are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of Langaa RPCIG.

Foreword Although fictionalised, actual events inspiredTwo Hangmen, One Scaffold;therefore the storyline, the major characters and a majority of the elaborate incidents and locations in the story are factual. In pursuance of an editorial recommendation, I had to split the tale into two,Baiting the Hangman andIn the Hangman’s Shadow,for technical conformity; otherwise, the two books are components of one story though both are technically readable on their own. The Johannes Masowe Apostolic Sect, founded in 1932, is a flourishing faith in Zimbabwe and many southern African countries. The sect’s songs and prayers in this story are verbatim and their bracketed English versions transliterate. The Great Dance,Gule Wamkulu, orNyau, is a feared Malawian secret cult practice too mystic for outsiders to understand ordinarily. Aspects of this cult herein are without bias or favour, and gleaned from practitioners and witnesses who chose anonymity. I wish to salute my wife, Joleen, for her patience, support and endurance of a writer’s solitude. I am indebted to Kumbirai Murisa Kundiona who went through the initial draft of this tale in its crudest form, and spurred me on with her encouragement. I am also grateful to a number of people I interviewed. My thanks are equally due to some illegal gold diggers who ventured several fathoms in defunct gold mines to sustain themselves, and volunteered to me accounts of their experiences on and inside the earth’s crust. The interviewees elected to remain anonymous. Although Empress, Venice and Patchway mines were indeed on the goldfield mentioned, and at the time of writing operational, closed and semi-defunct respectively, the accounted circumstances of these concerns, though fictionalised, are as honest as humanly possible.

iii

Notwithstanding the tale’s roots in facts, I deliberately peopled the tale with maverick characters. Should this story elevate or offend any person(s) in any manner, religious, political or otherwise, such offence or elevation is outside my storytelling intentions. Basil Diki Harare

iv

Prologue For members of an impoverished mining and farming community, New Year’s Eve was a time to bury a terrible year and learn what the coming year offered. The Johannes Masowe shrine, an open acreage on a gentle hillside slope, was the place for everyone wishing to know what the coming year had in store. Because most of the sect’s members and non-believers alike had turned out, the shrine was packed. The shrine proper, the area around Archangel Gabriel’s arena, where the Man of God, Prophet Jatropha, paced the length of a bonfire of logs and tree trunks, was heavenly by the appearance of the faithful. Throngs in white flowing garments and shawls sat on both sides of the fire. The women sat cross-legged on the western side while men sat with their legs spread out before them on the eastern side. On the periphery, with some people sitting well in the bushes, among boulders and shrubs surrounding the shrine, were the Christians and ordinary people from the surrounding farmlands and gold claims. Everyone, including the prophet, was barefoot. Naturally, at this time of the year, more so after the prophecies, many people converted to the sect, denouncing their surnames and totems, except their first names. In lieu of their surnames and totemic salutations, every believer in an unmitigated manner adoptedJohannes as their second name and lost whatever title he had. The title Madzibabaprefaced every first name. Loosely translated, the salutation meantReverent Sir. Women becameMadzimai,Reverent Madam. Sleek cars, mostly Japanese all-terrain luxury vehicles, were parked in a cleared area at the foot of the hill, the portion designated for the profane things of this world; cars, money, shoes and sandals, umbrellas, jewellery, cellular phones, purses and bags... anything other than the sect’s stipulated white garments. People left all their items

v

unattended and believed the Archangel Michael stood guard over them. The occasion attracted cabinet ministers, high-ranking army officials, some heads of government departments, and captains of industry. Members of the feared Central Intelligence Organisation (C.I.O), suspicious by profession, mingled with the faithful. They came to spy and abduct the prophet should he utter subversive statements. The faithful sang with resignation, a show of their unwavering allegiance to the prophet and the spirit of Baba Johannes. A woman with a mournful girlish voice led the singing, the chorus blending with her words at fever pitch: Baba, munoziva kwati-cha-enda! Chorus:Tiudzeiwo, Ndimi munoziva kwatichaenda! Tiudzeiwo! (Father, You know our destiny! Chorus: Tell us, You who knows our destiny! Reveal it to us!) At twelve midnight, when cocks were crowing in distant compounds around the shrine, the prophet stretched his hands, silencing the singing, and immediately went into a cataract of tongues perceptibly Aramaic, the words vituperative and cracking from his mouth. The bonfire didn’t only illuminate his white garments, but also gave him an outlandish appearance as shadows danced on his towering figure when he turned or gestured. With a matching two- metre shawl draped on his right shoulder, which he kept adjusting, he appeared overdressed. He was a very tall, skeletal man, evidently a man who had tortured his body with relentless fasting. When the tirade of tongues ended, the prophet was sweating profusely. Everyone sat up anxiously, within them duets of fear and joyous

vi

expectation raging. To some the prophet would deliver devastating prophecies of illness, miscarriage, expulsion from work or pending death. To others he would deliver predictions of good health, looming weddings and prosperity. Of the hundreds gathered, some would receive prophecies and some would not. “Peace!” Prophet Jatropha’s voice was sermonic. “Amen!” the multitude responded in unison. “If a man’s thoughts are free from sin and distraction,” he shouted, his voice both melodramatic and sangfroid, “if he apprehends Baba Johannes and God in an acceptable manner and rejoices in what he apprehends, no evil can afflict that man whatsoever! May the Word of God be your refuge!” “Amen!” the gathering roared. “But if a man’s thoughts are marinated in sin and his eyes and hands seek feminine curves and earthly riches, God’ll hide His face from him! He shall fall prey to the devourer! Many evils and troubles shall befall him in the coming year! To you who believe and are steadfast in their trust in God, your reward lies in believing without seeing. May the peace of the Lord abide in all of you!” “Amen!” He began prophesying to the sect’s twelve elders sitting in a row immediately before the fire. One after the other he pointed at the elders. When an elder’s turn came, the man knelt, arms folded or hands clasped. The Man of God told them about the ailments they’d suffer in the course of the year, births and deaths in store for their families, and many other things that usually devastated the hearer. To some he prescribed regular prayers, to others he picked pebbles where he stood and consecrated them into charms they’d carry wherever they went to avert disaster in their lives. After every ten minutes or so singers spontaneously relieved the prophet with lengthy songs, whereupon the Man of God uttered tongues on top of his voice until the singing died. The session went on like that, singing interrupting prophecy, until

vii

about three o’clock when the prophet turned to national topics. He said the country would continue to hold scheduled elections and allayed fears of war. When he reminded the gathering of the political violence that saw gangs of arsonists, rapists and murderers gut urban houses and rural homesteads with fire, abuse women, and maim or kill unfortunate people in past elections, total silence fell on the shrine. Afterwards, he told the crowd, “Before the year ends, a man who lives in a nearby mine compound, a Mr Emedhi, by occupation an office orderly, will split heads open with an axe.” A fearful and flabbergasted murmur ran through the gathering. “Untold evil awaits this man,” the prophet continued. He turned to the row of elders. “Look for him at Sakis Mine! When you find him, coerce him into being baptised seven times. It would be better if he were baptised in the River Jordan, the Nile or Euphrates. May God give His angels charge over this man!” “Amen!” the gathering thundered, many people craning to see the prophet. Prophet Jatropha wished them peace repeatedly, and the crowd’s responsive thundering was nine-fold. He stood still, head inclined at an angle, hands clasped, like one listening intently in the humblest manner possible. Then he began to nod, intermittently bursting. “Yes, my Lord...I behold the holyMerkavah...Yes, Rabbi... I hear you, Gabriel...Yes, Messiah... I’m here, Metatron...Sandalphon, my lord!” Everyone sat still in awe. “You’re poor in spirit and worldly riches,” the Man of God went on with a tone of accusation and mockery. “All your lives you’ve petitioned God for nothing but bread and school fees for your children. Because you ignorantly belittle the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the God who gave innumerable wealth to Solomon, the very God who gave you dominion over everything, it’ll suffice to take Emedhi to any nearest river. After a sevenfold immersion, christen him Aaron! Pray the Lord delivers this man from the snare of the

viii

fowler!” “Amen!” “A tumultuous wind is gathering in the east!” He paused. “Beware, a demon in human form shall come to this area and pitch a tent in our midst! His tentacles and tendrils are long and seductive! The plumage of the raven is his clothing! Pray that neither his tentacles nor tendrils touch anyone of you! At the appointed time I shall shade more light to relevant individuals with regards to this prophecy!” He looked about for a while, shaking his head, before shouting, “May the peace of the Lord help your unbelief!” “Amen!” He went round the fire and stared at the womenfolk, seemingly scanning. After a while, he pointed at a woman in white robes. She knelt on the ground, her hands clasped in humility. “Madzimai, tell your husband at God’s appointed time he’ll pick digging tools and dig. Go and say to his face, ‘The prophet says when you dig, dig, dig, and dig!’Madzimai, wealth awaits you and your husband underground! If you can turn him from his wickedness, he’ll find the wealth sooner than later! Make God’s bosom your habitation!” “Amen!” the multitude rambled.

ix