A WORKMAN IS WORTHY OF HIS WAGES
He makes sure that the drain valve is shut, before quickly completing his body suit with his pressurized Steinke hood, only closing the lower hatch by a remote control device after he climbs up into the exit chamber. When the door to the sea opens, the man swims out from this docking airlock, out of a submarine about a hundred meters down the depths in the coast of cape verde, quickly breaking the blue surface and back stroking to the shoreline of a white sandy beach. On this quiet, deserted beach, he removes his diving emersion gear piece by piece, till he is wearing only a drab gray singlet on a pair of forest green boxer shorts. The man is alone, he walks with a steady gait, a purposeful stride with a bundle of wet things under his arm, along the beautiful shore of Every Man's Island, towards Kwanzawali, the training camp base of an African brotherhood known on the lips of guilty rich men by a secret name; where his assembled team of thirty skilled expert mercenaries await his next command.
Its a long distance from the boat, usually he is accompanied by a select, lethal brethren from his faithful flock, but today the first day in the new year, he decides to walk the distance alone, deep in thought. To a passer by, he looks just like a fisherman because of his raggedy, well worn clothing, but he is anything but. This man, is Citizen Kweku, an elusive, dangerous mercenary even now as he walks in a laissez faire and a somewhat disheveled state, his guns, grenades and sharp knives are skillfully tucked away in pockets not clearly defined by design in his beach bum attire, he is not the type of man to take unawares, indeed, that will be a mistake.
Kweku needs the silence to think alone, the cool morning ocean breeze is very relaxing, soothing his taut nerves like the soft hands of a deep pressing masseuse... normally he cares so little about anything in this life, but currently he feels he is being taken for a ride, shanghaied, by international partners he has grown to trust the most over the years. It is a jarring feeling; a wake up call, like the scent of hot coffee brewing bitter affront to one who prefers just lemon tea. Why is he here? He should be resting on a beach somewhere, maybe a place like Panama, certeris paribus, except for the matter of the monks, the terrorist, Hafeez Ibrahim and the other matter of the money... Cape Verde has called him to judge the witch-hunting monks, to conclude on United States's most wanted botched up experiment, and fees owed him by Fourie Botha.
A workman is worthy of his wages. The volatile nature of his work does not give room for any combustible deterrents; an angry killer is worse than a mad man. It is because he is feeling unhinged, that Kweku paces his solitary trek with slow steps, he walks, waging unseen battles in his mind, trying to ward off the many decaying faces of the dead; people he has assassinated for wages, constant in their vicious clawing at the iron walls of his conscience, forever trying to escape their graves of gruesome injustice, screaming at his ears in silent, deafening cries, voices so loud in condemnation but heard only in wailing winds of stormy nights, haunting his days with troubling times, conspiring with life to mock his expectations against his fragile peace of mind, money is what he uses to block the darkness trailing his deeds, but it's been too long letting the Mzungu mess with his money.
Recently, he and a select few of his comrades narrowly escaped that nasty business in the Congo Brazzaville and then in that other operation in Liberia, where, forty innocent people trapped in the middle of an altercation between his forces and the political rival group, lost their lives, their cries begging for mercy just before the bombs detonated still shatter the facade in his mind, no matter how many times he builds back up resistance. It was a senseless killing, a ground offensive which went horribly wrong; nothing at all could be done to salvage any form of peaceful negotiation, or to prevent the infernal blast, nor save those villagers so suddenly and unexpectedly caught in that cross fire. ..
Just another job undertaken by his elite group on behalf of the Mzungu organization, a job for which he is still being owed. Now, yet another past mishap is come haunting him in cape Verde.
An urgent call had come in from one of his mercenaries on the monk situation, apparently two Jesuit priests undercover, penetrated camp Kwanzawali, parading themselves as representatives sent by the organization to supervise things in his absence. Kweku wonders how they even succeeded to gain access to the camp, with so many seasoned, vicious wolves and bulldogs in it! Luck was on his side and they were caught. Now, they wait for him to deliver their judgement. He has no time for stale matters, like this congo issue, but certain circumstances mandated his presence so as not to be seen as trivial, neither should his particular brand of leadership be taken for granted, especially when blood thirsty religious fanatics are involved. This is a threat he cannot ignore, even though, on his part he has since moved on. Its a pity that the two priests can't forgive his men for their recklessness in the congo last October; neither will they ever forget! They still seek his pound of flesh and the heads of his men. Kweku has learnt that dealing with extremists is never a simple matter. It is said that they can hunt a man even after death...
Hafeez ibrahim is whithin the camp also, a man who should make him ten million dollars richer any minute from now; this ought to make him happy but it does not... lately, things have been slipping from his fingers, so until the money enters his account he has nothing to smile about. Hafeez Ibrahim is currently America's most wanted man, he is one of the best kept secrets the world may never uncover; a botched scientific experiment turned premature whistleblower finally apprehended by his mercenaries in Eswatini.
Kweku reaches the tall iron gates of Camp Kwanzawali. He hurries inside and is greeted by a hoard of male and female voices. He goes into his camp office and is briefed on the events which occured during his absence, a period spanning the last three months, then, he's taken to a tent made with bamboo sticks where the monks are being watched over by a masculine woman, Ima; a no nonsense, fiery somalian. The hot midday sun beams brightly through spacial lines between the bamboo sticks into the tent. Kweku walks in-between the beams with his hench woman, he surveys his captives one after the other, the two priests have been beaten and flogged with horse whips, their hands, stretched apart, tied at the wrists, and their feet astride, tied at their ankles, are suspended in mid air, twin starfish spectacles pulled yet tethered by thick, biting ropes to the iron pole on either side, their backs bleeding bare with open gashed wounds from the flogging, their light cotton black trousers are torn in several places, they look at kweku through hard unflinching eyes, they should be out of breath and overwhelmed by the scorching of the sun's rays, but neither monk shows it, they glare instead at kweku with mockery in their eyes.
kweku is not amused by this, he stands at a corner deeply considering his captives,
"I thought men of God should know their place, which is in the house of God, but you two were sent to be amongst thieves, assassins, throwing money around to sway the hearts of my men away from me, trying to stir up a mutiny on my bounty, how ignoble, I've always admired men of the cloth but now what business do priests have with mercenaries except they be of the same cloth, or is there any honour amongst thieves? The woman you seek revenge for came to lay with my men, I train them to be weapons of destruction, not how to lay with the opposite sex! So, you blame me! I thought forgiveness is a pivotal center of sound doctrine, but your organization wants an eye for an eye with no room for a settlement, why then did God send His Son to die for us, monks? If I am guilty, if my men are guilty, if that woman is guilty of sin, so are you..."
The first monk speaks at last,
"Our cause is to execute judgement for the defenseless dead woman. So nay, you have it halfway, because to conclude the matter you should turn your other cheek for us to smite as well, this is the gospel of Christ. We did not come here only for you, but for all your lousy hoard of filthy devils,you should be grateful we didn't bomb the whole lot when we arrived as was planned! It is our only regret!"
"So you came to kill us all. Should I still pray for you, bless you and have no ill feeling towards you plus to conclude the matter, forgive you both, seventy times seven?" Kweku asks, genuinely curious. Their only response is to continue to glare at him with unflinching eyes.
"If you'd been successful in your impersonation, and caught me unawares... what would you have done to me?" Kweku calmly inquires.
"We'd have burnt your black bottom until there is nothing left of it, before castrating all of your men!" The second monk tells him with relish, a feral gleam in his eyes.
"Forgive you both I have, but I cannot have you walking around with such evil desires in your hearts; do you see, that your iniquity is like witchcraft? I should not suffer you to live! Again, does the holy word not say do to others only what we do to ourselves?" Kweku says, concluding the matter. He turns, walking out of the shoddy bamboo tent.
"What now boss," an eager looking Ima follows after him, "-should I burn them?"
Kweku casts her a side glance. "No... there is still honour amongst African thieves," he says. Imma looks confused, but he just brings out a pistol from his rag clothes and aims it at the forehead of one of the monks, pulling the trigger. The bullet embeds itself in the monks head. Then he gives the pistol to Ima, "You can have a go at the other one," he says to her. She takes the gun, raises it towards the other priest but before she pulls the trigger the monk speaks, "We'll wait for you all in hell," he tells Kweku.
"Until then," Ima replies, but Kweku remains silent until the gun goes off. "Now, you can do as you please with them," he tells Ima as he walks out. Ima looks at the dead monks. She steps out of the tent but soon returns with a gallon of petrol which she pours liberally on their dead bodies, then pours some on the bamboo sticks, and on the sandy earth about. She then goes outside the tent to first wash her hands at a nearby tap, before returning to the shack to light a slim cigarette. She inhales a few drags, then throws it into the tent, on the wet ground. The fire lights up instantly, catching the bamboo within seconds. The fire soon becomes a raging wall engulfing their carcasses. "So long, priests!" Kweku mutters in his tent office as he pours himself some red wine. The man likes to keep his diet healthy. He sips his drink while walking towards another tent where a rather special prisoner is kept...
Hafeez Ibrahim sits on a mat placed for him in the center of this tent, the tent is made of fine raffia, it's roof blocks out the hot midday sun while simultaneously allowing the cool ocean breeze to draft in through it's large open entrance, it is spacious, and Kweku enters, walking around him, considering the very young man seated on the mat. Hafeez is bound hand and foot with interlocking chains, he has a bleeding gash on the left side of his head, his gold coloured caftan and trousers are smudged with dirt, his gold wristwatch glistens, still fastened to his wrist under the chains, his eyes are shut as if in prayer. Hafeez is the reason why he should be rewarded with ten million dollars anytime from now.
Kweku does not disturb his praying, he feels the young man needs all the prayers he can say to his allah, indeed; he remembers how it all started! That brief phone conversation. His soon to be sold mini jet was en route to Libya after another successfully completed mission in North Sudan. He'd sat in the plane thinking of all the possibilities; why did the organization keep skipping his payments? Yet he and his mercenaries have run operations smoothly, sans the payments, for every jobs assigned to them, mostly, by virtue of their fame amongst the inner circle of their kind. But why...
His phone rings.
"Mr Fourie Botha," Kweku says to the man at the other end of the line.
"Hallo Kweku! It's good to speak with you, how is the African Front?"
"African."
"Ok that's fine, that's fine... Now... something's come from our American friends that we need to address urgently, it's a matter concerning a certain young man called Hafeez Ibrahim, does this name ring any bells?"
"No."
"Alright, it's about a government scientific experiment gone hay wire. In a nutshell, Hafeez Ibrahim is a walking time bomb and our American friends find him expendable. Hafeez, however, is not the type to brush under a carpet, he threatens to blow the whistle before his light goes out, making impossible demands. He's gone missing! They think he is somewhere in Africa. You must apprehend him immediately, Kweku, before he carries out his threat."
"Time frame?"
"He'll be dead in two weeks. If his demands are not met, he will expose certain things about America's government that the world must never find out."
"Can you be more specific?"
"His head was turned into a digital computer storage facility for the U. S. military base in Fort Bragg, North Carolina, to be the interface between the pentagon and a secret party. It is the nature of communication with the third party that caused the error, a highly unethical procedure which triggered a fail safe self destruct to detonate in fourteen days. Ten million dollars will be paid by our American friends, once he is found and prevented from being available physical evidence to whatever claim he intends to claim against them. Your job, is simple. Hunt him down, hand him over. Do you understand the instruction, Kweku? He must be returned to the United States government! We will send you his profile, everything you need to know about him, plus his last location. You're the best in the business Kweku. You are a son of the soil. The company is rolling with you."
And that was it, the money trigger. He'd sat in the plane, thinking about ten million dollars. He quickly mobilized his mercenaries to begin the manhunt for Hafeez Ibrahim, and three days later, after a rigorous search, Hafeez finally pops up in a village in Estwatini, so his men picked him up, and brought him here, to Camp Kwanzawali. Hafeez must be handed over to the team already sent by the company's American friends. The new instructions are also simple. Kweku is to drop him off anywhere in Cape Verde at noon, they even now, have him on their radar. The American team is not to be seen, the men in black are not to be engaged.
Looking at the young man praying, Kweku finds himself feeling a wave of pity. Hafeez is already half dead from the botched experiment, the fail safe self destruct, changes made to his brain structure, the way his humanity is wired. Kweku heaves a sigh. His quiet captive is surely damned if he does, and damned if he doesn't, both case scenarios are without justice, is this why Kweku is grateful for the gold watch still on the dying man's wrists? Perhaps they will let him blast away with some honour and dignity.
It is 11:49 a m. Kweku calls out to some of his men and when they meet him in the tent, he gives the orders. "Get the chains off his wrists and feet, then load him in the truck and drop him off down the beach, let him walk and look at the sea," he says, thinking to himself, surely the young man will not try to drown in the water? It did not matter. The strange Americans are no doubt already here. His men comply immediately. Kweku returns to his tent office, sits down on a bamboo chair and waits for an alert of ten million dollars, but none comes, even after two hours. His anxiety builds up as he patiently waits much longer before begining to make the necessary calls to Fourie Botha, but that man does not pick his call. He tries again and again but Fourie doesn't pick it at all. Fully frustrated now, he begins pondering over the issue of his other payments well overdue from the organization, his much deserved fees which Mr. Fourie assured him will be paid a month ago... but neither monies have entered his account. The big boss has not called back. This business is like shit business, it's blood money, it's not supposed to be owed. This is not something that the company does not know. What is happening? He still remembers that conversation clearly.
"Mr Fourie, a volatile situation disturbs my mood and also that of my men; the company has not oiled my palms for a long time, and both of us know very well that it is out of the respect I have for you, that this is now four years pending; four years and twelve successful missions."
"Kweku, I know you need your money... I'm assuring you, that by this time tomorrow your pockets will be ten million dollars heavy, all your other balances remitted, every last coin! Some setbacks caused this delay, but mark my word, come tomorrow you will receive your due wages, it's currently being arranged as we speak. Let me be the first to congratulate you!"
Kweku remembers how overjoyed his mercenaries were, but tomorrow is now here without any joy. It bothers him all through the sleepless night, and then the following day, and the next day after that, and the next, all his one thousand calls to Mr. Fourie Botha's mobile going straight to the man's voice mail...
Hi. I'm Fourie! I'm not available right now, but you can leave a message for me after the tone.
This number cannot be reached.
This number, is not on the MTN network, please check the number, and dial again.
The person you have called is not answering.
His men are beginning to grumble. They've tagged Fourie 'the big liar,' in their social media tweets. Kweku knows that frustrated men can't be controlled, it is why he discreetly disposes of his mini jet. Money used in the proper way can diffuse a rebellion. He leads a whole Pan African team of street born and bred, deadly professionals under his wings; it will be a mistake to not take care of them, just as it will be a big mistake for anyone to try to doublecross him. Kweku is conceited enough to believe that a lot of money can plant roots of honour, upon which sturdy foundation, respect and loyalty can be laid. The days linger on as he waits for the logical explanation as to why he is still owed and being thoroughly ghosted.
With his trust in the company completely eroded, he becomes bitter, even enraged, not able to tolerate being taken advantage of, swindled, shanghaied. When Kweku finally decides to hunt down Fourie Botha, he pulls in every one of his loyal contacts on the man hunt, from the North, East, to the West, and South of Africa, to track all of Fourie's recent movements. Soon, snippets of information begin to unravel the mystery. It appears that the big boss was in fact, apprehended after his plane from Stockholm landed in Berlin, and he was trying to make his way by train to Munich, arrested by the Geheime Staatspolizei, otherwise known as the Nazi Germany Secret Police, the Gestapo, on charges of money laundering one hour after their last phone conversation. Even more disturbing is the information coming from his very reliable sources, that before Fourie Botha could be interrogated, he was assassinated by a skillful sniper, an unknown operative who could be from a different group of mercenaries often used by the company under the directive of Fourie Botha's cousin, a man so shrouded in enigma that not even his name or facial identity is known. Usurping the leadership of the company, boss man 'X' is said to have unalived his dear cousin out of fear that he would spill company secrets to the Gestapo, and so he thus considered family in family business was bad for business. Kweku and his mercenaries are not familiar with, nor have they ever met boss man 'X,' indeed, one wonders, who has? The guy does not care about Kweku's unbeatable record of twenty years meritorious service, his unflinching loyalty, nor the many lives lost for his long overdue fees, his twenty million dollars.
This is shocking news to kweku, he sits in his office thinking of a plan of action even as more news breaks out. Kweku's North African team have successfully hacked into a telephone conversation between someone who they believe to be boss 'X' and a man with a Darija or Moroccan accent, about planning a vacation to a West African country with some of his close friends and family, boss 'X' wanted a nice, secluded hotel to lodge his special guests and family members. With this latest information Kweku begins to see an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, a small window of possibility that he can use to his advantage. The very extreme measure he pictures in his mind's eye requires s special someone who can make it happen. Kweku has women in his fold, but none as cunning, as egregious, as his result oriented West African henchwoman; the female leader of the Ivorian sect, Cynthia Naminata Maimuna Cho. He makes a call to her private line even as the sinister details of his drastic event continues to unfold in his mind,
"Citizen Kweku. I am always at your service."
"Cynthia. We need a hostage situation in a hotel in my home country!"
"Ghana. Accra?"
"Yes. I want that area to be secluded, an environment that I can control."
"Any specifics for the hotel? Camera Surveillance? Dance Hall? Integrated Automated Systems? Swimming Pool?"
"Helipad on the roof. Two bunkers underground. No Surveillance feeds."
"Anything else?"
"You will contact our best hacker to provide an immediate change in the most recent company travel arrangements, for top level executives. Made within the last seven days. I need three things from you, as always, your loyalty, your best game and your personal on site supervision." Kweku adds, "Speed is crucial." Cynthia tells him to consider it done. And it is done. Things are set in motion...