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| (c) Copyright 2007 by HM Inc. + Meja Mwangi |
Arrakan Express
"To check everything will take two weeks,” said the Captain.
“With due respect, Captain, we haven't got two weeks.”
“I know,” nodded the Captain. “We don’t do it unless I suspect
smuggled guns. Do you carry guns?”
“No.”
“Not even a pocket one?”
“No.”
“Well then, you have nothing to worry about. We shoot gun-
runners.”
A woman in a flowing dress and leather sandals came in with a
huge black kettle. She passed tiny cups round, poured coffee and
left out without uttering a word.
“My wife,” said the Captain. “Your passports, please!”
For the next hour or so, the captain sat at the desk, cup of
coffee in front of him, and went through the passports. He read
them as though they were engrossing novels. From time to time he
gave a shout for Idris to go tell Salimar to bring coffee for the
visitors. Salimar came in with her steaming soot-blackened kettle,
dutifully refilled the cups and went out. The Americans sipped the
sweet, spiced coffee and watched and waited.
“You have been everywhere,” said the Captain as he studied
the various visas. “Except Bore.”
“Never heard of the place,” admitted Jack. “Where is that?”
“Bore?” he looked up, smiled. “Bore is here.”
“It's not on our maps, Captain,” said Jack.
“No,” nodded the Captain. “Bore is not on your maps. But it is a
real place all the same. You will be surprised how many smugglers I
have caught trying to sneak through Bore because it is not on their
maps.”
They thought about that. It was impossible to figure Captain
Hussein, a wind that blew cold and hot, hard and gentle, and from
all directions at the same time. He was a thoroughly perplexing
proposition. Gail spoke up. “May I smoke?”
“Outside,” said the captain. “Better still why don’t we all go out
and see what my men have found?”
They drained their coffee cups and followed the Captain into the
hot mid-morning sun. They stopped and watched as about thirty of
their Sudanese crew were herded into the police compound and
made to line up.
Hussein turned to Jack, a very faint smile on his face. “It seems
that my men have arrested your men,” he said.
“What for?”
“What for?” the Captain finally laughed. “Come with me.”
Jack followed. Gail lit her cigarette and tugged along. Eddie
pondered the situation a moment before following.
“Where would you like to begin?” asked the Captain. “Does it
matter? Look, this one here is a thief. This one too, a smuggler, a
camel thief, a house-breaker ...”
He paused to look at Jack.
“For nine years I was CID in Port Sudan,” he said. “Ask them,
they know me. This one here is also a thief. Another thief, a thief, a
thief and another. But this one here is an incurable rapist.”
He glanced at Gail she stared back at him, refused to let her
reaction show.
“We castrated him,” he said to her. “But I don’t think it did much
good.”
The rapist shook his head in agreement and the Captain moved
on down the line.
“This big one is a smuggler,” he said. “Gold mainly. This one is a
thief, another thief, a drunkard, a smuggler, a bicycle thief... I have
arrested them all before. Ask them.”
There was no doubt in Jack’s mind. The Captain moved on.
“This one I do not know,” he said. “But Shariff here is an
assassin. They want to hang him in Khartoum, in Port Sudan and
even in Adan.”
He stopped, looked over his herd of worried prisoners and
asked “Gibril? Where is Gibril?”
No one answered. His men pretended not to know who he was
talking about. He turned to Jack Rivers and said, “Maybe I should
just arrest all of you.”
READ ON ...
"To check everything will take two weeks,” said the Captain.
“With due respect, Captain, we haven't got two weeks.”
“I know,” nodded the Captain. “We don’t do it unless I suspect
smuggled guns. Do you carry guns?”
“No.”
“Not even a pocket one?”
“No.”
“Well then, you have nothing to worry about. We shoot gun-
runners.”
A woman in a flowing dress and leather sandals came in with a
huge black kettle. She passed tiny cups round, poured coffee and
left out without uttering a word.
“My wife,” said the Captain. “Your passports, please!”
For the next hour or so, the captain sat at the desk, cup of
coffee in front of him, and went through the passports. He read
them as though they were engrossing novels. From time to time he
gave a shout for Idris to go tell Salimar to bring coffee for the
visitors. Salimar came in with her steaming soot-blackened kettle,
dutifully refilled the cups and went out. The Americans sipped the
sweet, spiced coffee and watched and waited.
“You have been everywhere,” said the Captain as he studied
the various visas. “Except Bore.”
“Never heard of the place,” admitted Jack. “Where is that?”
“Bore?” he looked up, smiled. “Bore is here.”
“It's not on our maps, Captain,” said Jack.
“No,” nodded the Captain. “Bore is not on your maps. But it is a
real place all the same. You will be surprised how many smugglers I
have caught trying to sneak through Bore because it is not on their
maps.”
They thought about that. It was impossible to figure Captain
Hussein, a wind that blew cold and hot, hard and gentle, and from
all directions at the same time. He was a thoroughly perplexing
proposition. Gail spoke up. “May I smoke?”
“Outside,” said the captain. “Better still why don’t we all go out
and see what my men have found?”
They drained their coffee cups and followed the Captain into the
hot mid-morning sun. They stopped and watched as about thirty of
their Sudanese crew were herded into the police compound and
made to line up.
Hussein turned to Jack, a very faint smile on his face. “It seems
that my men have arrested your men,” he said.
“What for?”
“What for?” the Captain finally laughed. “Come with me.”
Jack followed. Gail lit her cigarette and tugged along. Eddie
pondered the situation a moment before following.
“Where would you like to begin?” asked the Captain. “Does it
matter? Look, this one here is a thief. This one too, a smuggler, a
camel thief, a house-breaker ...”
He paused to look at Jack.
“For nine years I was CID in Port Sudan,” he said. “Ask them,
they know me. This one here is also a thief. Another thief, a thief, a
thief and another. But this one here is an incurable rapist.”
He glanced at Gail she stared back at him, refused to let her
reaction show.
“We castrated him,” he said to her. “But I don’t think it did much
good.”
The rapist shook his head in agreement and the Captain moved
on down the line.
“This big one is a smuggler,” he said. “Gold mainly. This one is a
thief, another thief, a drunkard, a smuggler, a bicycle thief... I have
arrested them all before. Ask them.”
There was no doubt in Jack’s mind. The Captain moved on.
“This one I do not know,” he said. “But Shariff here is an
assassin. They want to hang him in Khartoum, in Port Sudan and
even in Adan.”
He stopped, looked over his herd of worried prisoners and
asked “Gibril? Where is Gibril?”
No one answered. His men pretended not to know who he was
talking about. He turned to Jack Rivers and said, “Maybe I should
just arrest all of you.”
READ ON ...
| Gun Runner |
| Gun Runner hm books 2007 ISBN 978-0-9796476-0-4 |
| SHE is the visionary, the liberator, the sword of justice; sworn foe to anyone who would oppress her people. Her sole reason for living is to deliver her people from the shackles of neo-colonial bondage, from the pseudo-socialist GENERALS who have hijacked the revolution and slaughtered her dream and the aspirations of her people. |
| HE is a man of war, a merchant of death, a vile and despicable creature, or so She tells him; a selfish man who can't believe in any cause other than his own; a man incapable of love. When they first meet, She promises to shoot him dead herself, if it becomes necessary. |
| Gun Runner |
| SHAKIRA Jack pushed the door open and hopped out. As he did so a couple of men grabbed him, one on each arm, and shoved him to the ground. They frisked him quickly, efficiently and, taking his passport, let him go. They presented the passport to their leader who was at that moment barking orders to the others. Jack rose and dusted himself. The lorry stood by the roadside, its cabin dented from its violent contact with the bank, its windscreen shattered and the steel body pockmarked with bullet holes. About a dozen heavily armed guerrillas watched two of their colleagues drag the body of the driver out of the cab and, as ordered, take it into the bushes for burial. Their leader, a huge black man with tangled wild hair and greying beard, watched briefly then turning ambled over to the shaken Jack. “Your driver was a foolish man,” he said. “That’s no reason to kill a man.” “Maybe not,” said the guerilla leader. “But still he was a foolish man. Why he no stop?” “A truck's not a donkey,” said Jack. “My men don’t see very good.” They stood by the edge of the road where the ground fell two hundred metres to the rocky floor of the ravine. A small black stream trickled through the rocks and boulders at the bottom. The guerilla leader perused the passport in his hands. He glanced at Jack Rivers and spat tobacco juice from the corner of his mouth. “My men don’t trust big machines,” he said. READ ON ... |
| ARRAKAN is a persevering, a land that welcomes adventurers and mad men with open arms, promising bounteous treasures and delivers instead a feast of cruelties. |
| ... perhaps Meja Mwangi's best book yet. The picture he paints of the relentless quest for modern Africa is grim. What is most depressing, is that there seem to be no solutions. Western philanthropists, such as Jack Rivers, are portrayed in a favourable light as sincere people. All their energies, however, are expended on trying to understand Africa's problems and once they understand them they realise that the problems are beyond them. |
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| US $ 14.95 |