Chapter 2: BLACK ISRAEL :The Unending Experiment.
THURSDAY 25TH DECEMBER 1969 19:30 HRS. GMT
It is night. The plebs drift merrily and aimlessly across the boulevard; the vermin, temporarily adrift in their self-appointed oblivion. But a place, they should have, where the "crème de la crème" apparently coruscate to conceal verminous characteristics. The Club Regalé? A brilliant sign announces, just above the impressive porch. Soft Congolese music oozes sneakily out into the street each time an imposing client walks into the posh interior, and "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing" suddenly belongs to the street. For the delectation of the hungry milieu.
A soul, hopelessly inebriate, wanders from across the street to amuse himself before this façade in his grimy overalls, and immediately becomes an excrescence the Club Regalé's doorman would scoff at. He extracts his flaccid member and pees on the coachwork of a gleaming blue Pontiac, a silly smile pasted on his face.
"Hey! You fool, what do you think you're doing?" The burly doorman yells and approach the drunk's position with obvious menace.
"What's your worry, man? It's Christmas…and I have me a new toy," he slurs, leaning to one side to appraise the doorman who glares balefully at him as he continually flips his penis almost with glee to clear his urethra of urine.
"You will play with it someplace else, not here", the doorman mutters to himself as he smacks the slob full across the mouth. The drunk crumbles like wrapping and falls to the ground in a pathetic pile to inadvertently mop his own urine, his member hanging out of his fly in a limp protest.
Then the doorman in his crinkly livery immediately finds occupation when a "special client" pulls up in a flashy Oldsmobile, he runs spritely to open the rear offside door and salutes smartly.
"Good evening, sir", he says pleasantly. A man steps out portraying opulence and cool elegance in a grey tuxedo and soon, to his elbow, a pretty, dark woman clings. He nods in response to the greeting. The young thickset individual walks into the club alongside his female companion with perfect aplomb in spite of her height advantage. Again, an interesting strain of the prominent string-section of the Congolese music wafts into the street where presently "Noel, Noel, born is the King" reigns supreme. Atop the colourful and luminous adornments of tall whispering pine trees.
The outside scene melts into the inside of the club where a live band plays to the delight of a crowded dance floor. A man with apparent suavity breaks out from the dance in a green safari suit to accost the VIP.
"Good evening, mister Koffigoh. This way please, we are decorating", he says sonorously as he leads the couple away from those on the razzle, through an archway with intricate sculptural work depicting what is assumedly a collection of Greek divinities plus several remarkable copies of works by the masters hanging on the walls.
The red thick-pile rug along the corridor perfectly muffles their footfalls until they finally pause before a red door which is prominent against the white wall. On it, the word; "Private" stands boldly in gold characters. The usher leans on the bell-push for a few seconds. The door opens and a huge ape-like man in a karate outfit stands squarely in the threshold.
"Oh, its you. Come in", he rumbles as he steps aside to allow entry. The trio progresses along a short passageway leaving the man-ape behind at the door. They enter a spacious lounge where a group of five girls promptly stop a game of Monopoly to appraise them. They giggle silently as if with a secret knowledge of the guests' private lives. The usher scowls at them and their faces freeze into a sudden expression of self-consciousness. The man opens a door and steps aside to let his guests continue into what appears to be a small casino, complete with gambling tables, roulettes, attendants in formal dresses, et cetera.
Koffigoh looks lingeringly at the female croupier who exhibits her full breasts above the low neckline of a black snazzy sheath as she rakes the chips of the players toward herself. She catches his libidinous stare and winks at him. Koffigoh's escort suddenly goes grey in the face, exposing creamy white dentition in a wicked sneer. Koffigoh soon occupies a vacant seat, looking at the others at the table with suspicion. The croupier snaps her fingers and an attendant brings several chips of different colours. He briefly consults with Koffigoh; money and chips swiftly change hands.
"Let's have them cards, Lucy. And bring me luck". Koffigoh smiles as he tosses his chips on the table with a flick of his hand. Lucy smiles and deals out the cards.
Koffigoh smiles secretly as he surveys the five cards. The others tender their cards and some look smug about it but their expectations disintegrate when Koffigoh displays a flush. A royal flush. He wins the hand and grins broadly. Koffigoh winks at the attractive croupier. Still, his date hides not her annoyance for she ridiculously contorts her features. Lucy shifts the chips towards Koffigoh and deals the cards.
Magic repeats itself. Koffigoh declares another healthy hand. The aces. Lucy deliberately flashes her bosom in his face.
"This is another lucky night, mister Koffigoh", she says, displaying her white teeth as the chips make their way towards Koffigoh. His date involuntarily clings to his arm. Her territory is in danger. Lucy discreetly shoots a baleful look at her.
"Yes, Lucy but I'm calling it a night at the table. I'm having a go at the roulette. Call me the check please", he says with a wistful smile. The croupier snaps her fingers stylishly and the attendant brings a cash-laden metal box and arranges a neat pile of crisp banknotes on the gleaming gambling table. Koffigoh shifts the plastic chips toward him and takes his leave of the table but leans toward the croupier, shielding his hand from his date with his massive shoulders as he sneaks a few banknotes deep into her cleavage. It was so neat and clever that the players barely noticed the manoeuvre. He moves to the spinning roulette wheel but as he sets about placing his bet the door opens, and every head turns toward a tall man, resplendent in an embroidered flowing satin robe with a floral design in pastel hues. Just like the sickeningly exaggerated depiction of a prosperous black African émigré you see in those American gangster movies. A round purple brimless hat with gold tassel complements the showy outfit.
"Ah, Henri, ages it has been. How's life with you? Business?" He asks affably, stretching his arms intending to embrace Koffigoh.
"Business is good, Bussa. Thank God for small mercies," Koffigoh returns.
"I would have said "Merry Christmas but that is for the street people, an opiate it is, Henri", Bussa says expansively. Koffigoh smiles his assent without bothering to introduce his date besides, Bussa appears to discountenance the dark, pretty girl.
"Henri, lets go smash a bottle of bubbly in my private room. But emhm…," he says and clears his throat sharply. Koffigoh looks at the girl and smiles apologetically.
"Saphirah, let Rawlins take you to the theatre, they should be opening just about now. I have business to discuss with my friend. You will keep it warm for me, won't you?" He winks at her and turns to meet Bussa's admiring glance for the handling of his affairs. The girl leaves their presence with an awful grimace. Without a word. The two friends walk through an archway, disturbing the beads hanging from strings across it. They took a left turn into a short passageway and stop before an antique door with elaborate carvings. Bussa smiles and nods at the ornateness of the door.
"The very mark of good taste, my friend". He taps on the wood for emphasis.
"It costs a fortune. I was lucky to get it off a fleeing Asian a fortnight ago. And it fits perfectly with the dimensions here. Not a chip was planed off." Koffigoh merely smiles. Bussa opens the door with a sharp twist of the onyx doorknob. They enter. Koffigoh pauses just inside the room, his jaws loose in awe.
"This is like something out of the Arabian Nights, Bussa. Seems like you bought a shipload. Such finery!" Koffigoh exclaims.
"You're the second guest this week and the reaction was the same. The embellishments are too rich for me but I hadn't much choice. They came with the door which is the pièce de résistance. All these are make-weight items," Bussa gestures toward the furniture, rugs, sculptures, tapestries and china which makes he large room a veritable antique dealer's showroom. The difference being the orderliness and harmonious blend of colours.
"The door is like when you say, 'open sesame!'" Koffigoh laughs.
"Te rappelles-tu monsieur Ali Baba et les quarante voleurs?" Koffigoh asks with exuberant mirth.
Bussa's brows furrow momentarily and he blinks. Then he suddenly bursts out with guffaw.
"Dear Henri, you rarely fail to bring literature into your affairs. Why, I have always admired your involvement in the theatre. That play of yours for instance," he says as he indicates the black and crimson tapestry of a couch. Koffigoh sinks into its richness and promptly begins a close appraisal of his surroundings.
Delicate crystal figurines in sundry nude depictions line the English bookcase. It looks like something out of the 18th century. Koffigoh stares lingeringly at the enchanting collection.
"Ah, Henri, I see you have an eye for my Sheraton bookcase," Bussa says as the cork of a Domaine Chandon goes pop into the air to ensconce itself within a crystal chandelier.
"That's aside, its your collection of crystals that fascinates me," Koffigoh says as he moves towards the case.
"Came with the door, Henri. To my Asian friend they are all bric-a-brac. Ranjit believes it's a special door, something concerning the ancient arts. I wonder what that means," Bussa says pouring the sparkling wine into cut-glass wine vessels.
Koffigoh carelessly caresses one of the tiny crystals.
"Smooth. Just like someone I once had," he says, his voice thick with longing.
"Come now, Henri. Lets drink to each other's health ….. and women, perhaps?" Bussa adds the last bit with a short laugh. Koffigoh goes back to his seat. The small china statue of a dancing shepherdess which serves as a centre-piece on the table immediately presents another diversion. He sips the white wine and nods appreciatively.
"Good, not dry like the piss you keep getting in the stores. From Ranjit, is it?" Koffigoh's eyes twinkle with mischief.
"Ah, my dear Henri. You minimize me indeed. I have several cases of those within this very premises." He points at the two bottles in the ice bucket.
"Let me have a case, Bussa," Koffigoh says in a beseeching tone of voice. Almost like the sickening plea of a junkie.
"Of course, Henri. What are friends for? After all, it is important to celebrate each other's good fortune." Bussa smiles.
"Yours or mine, Bussa?"
"Yours of course. That contract with the Ministry of Interior, or is it just rumour, Henri?" Bussa frowns slightly. Koffigoh smiles.
"It is still hush-hush, Bussa. How did you get that information?" Koffigoh asks with mild surprise.
"I've my contacts. Then, again, this plaudit they recently accorded that play of yours, the one les Directeur handled. All these sure calls for celebration." Bussa extends a hand to depress a red button just beneath the edge of the table.
An attendant in the club's uniform soon enters the room.
"Buketi, lets have a case of that new consignment of champagne. Make it snappy. Ah, better still, take it to my car," Bussa says, suppressing a belch. The attendant goes out.
"I will have to take you home since your mistress is with your car. Who's she anyway?"
Koffigoh turns down the corners of his thick mouth.
"I take it you don't approve of her," he states. Bussa shrugs dismissively.
"Its neither here nor there, Henri. We have varying tastes in such matters." His voice is emotionless.
"She's something I picked from the streets, really. Some romantic who believes President Nguoy has, with the aid of our departed colonial masters, pauperized the people. She is an actress who used to walk the streets for sustenance. Well…I saw that she has the talent and the radical fervour which is beneficial to my creative endeavour and had her on the payroll of Reuben's Cousins. Les Directeur has a high regard for her capabilities. She was type-cast in that play."
Bussa grunts.
"So, what does she do during off-seasons, or what do you theatre people call those long breaks between productions?"
"She writes. I have put her under the tutelage of les Directeur and Mrs. Temba. Saphirah has been making useful contributions to some of the scripts.'' Koffigoh looks at his friend as if earnestly seeking his approval. Bussa smiles secretly and fills his glass.
"I've known you quite long, Henri. Ten years as a matter of fact and not for one moment all this while did you reveal so much depth. Honour, you have exhibited beyond the capabilities of your kind of people. Their grab-and-snatch tactic robs them of such virtue. That reminds me of that friend of yours…Ochembe or what's his name? He is most unscrupulous and the bastard has been avoiding me for some time now. Guess I will have to send my men to him. He owes me a lot of money," Bussa sips his wine and smacks his fat lips. Koffigoh twists his features in a grimace.
"How much?" He enquires with a blend of curiosity and anxiety.
"Fifty million. Gambling debts of course; which I permitted for political reasons. If you know what I mean." Bussa forced a knowing smile.
"I wonder why. His business presently thrives, he's been moving shipments
up-country lately for the Defence Ministry." Koffigoh stretches his short legs.
"What kind of shipments?" Bussa asks casually without apparent interest.
"Arms", Koffigoh returns quickly.
"Do they still use the Mbasa mines route? I once made a bid, you know."
Bussa smiles like a lynx, picking his glass once again.
"I never knew you own a road haulage business, Bussa." Koffigoh frowns slightly, turning to stare at his friend.
"One of my several flits in the business world, Henri". He laughs.
"Ochembe prefers the longest route for reasons known only to himself. He uses the more isolated road near Mount Kikuyu. There are armed guards though. I talked to him last week, he said the last trip to the armoury would be this week. Tomorrow, I think".
Bussa turns down the corners of his mouth in a nonchalant gesture. "You just warn the scoundrel of my intention to send in my men", he says seriously.
The scene folds.
A more homely atmosphere prevails presently as a new scene unfurls,
"Look, Jomo, it is Homo.....Homo sapiens and so it says in the dictionary." Kwame riffles through the huge volume and lays a page open for his brother.
"See. Homo sapiens….. 'modern man regarded as….' Oh, why do I bother anyway? You're too young to understand"
"I can," Jomo yells as he wrests the book from him and it parts with several pages.
"Look at what you've done, you fool!" Kwamé screams as their mother comes into the dining area.
"Will you keep it down?" Bethune says furiously.
"Your father will soon be around with Mrs. Temba and I don't want you making a mess of the whole place. Okay?" She imposes on the kids.
"Mother, I've been trying to tell Jomo that Homo sapiens has no personal meaning for him alone. He prefers to say Jomo sapiens," Kwamé says irritably.
"And look at what he did to the dictionary." He waves a fragment of the book in the air.
Bethune smiles in spite of herself.
"You know something, Kwamé, you have the book sense while he has the cunning of a snake. Must be all those bedtime stories you keep reading to him. Don't worry, Les directeur will mend the book when he has the time. Okay?" She consoles her eldest child who appears to be going through a nadir. Presently.
"Just hold on, two of you, I'm going to check what's in the oven. I think I can hear footsteps up the stairs." Bethune swings her neat rear towards the kitchen.
The scene fades into …..The façade of the Club Regalé. It cuts to the interior. Bussa's private room.
Bussa stands behind the door appreciating the craftsmanship. The mahogany has a remarkable dark glow to it and the brightness of the lighting seem to lose its intensity as it washes subtly off the door but accentuates the elves and the naked pot-bearing Junoesque maiden.
Her breasts jut out enticingly between the cascading flow of hair and her wooden smile of seduction seems to captivate him. Bussa smiles and gingerly strokes a breast. A wooden breast. A one-inch protuberance.
"Do my breasts interest you, Ngongo?" A voice, apparently from within the dark veins of the mahogany door. Bussa sharply withdraws his hand emitting a soft gasp.
"What? Who said that?"
"You do want to steal the shipment, don't you?" A halo just above the head of the maiden reveals the source of the uncanny intrusion. Bussa shakes his head incredulously.
"Must be the champagne, or some aromatic quality in the wood," he mutters to
himself and walks to the gilt antique gramophone. He places a record on the turntable and cranks it. The opening passages of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony changes the eerie ambience of the room. He walks back rather slowly to an armchair and sits, settling himself deeply. He closes his eyes and swings his head slowly to the rhythm in order to rid himself of the unpleasant shock of moments earlier. Suddenly, a lyrical content comes into the composition to unsettle him. The words as much as their presence halts the movement of his head, and his eyes snap open betraying a medley of terror and grief. Master Beethoven with his virtuosity and imagination never would have put words to his music. The words come breezily and soft to enmesh with the basic movement of the piece but an antithesis all the same. A female voice singing. More or less a ditty, and it absolutely profanes the classical piece. They jeer at him.
"On the very night of Christmas,
Ngongo said to me;
What? Who said that?
And I answered back;
Do you want to steal
The shipment of the Army?
Must be the Champagne, he says,
Aromatic quality…
Yes, in the wood,
Not in my breast,
Not in my hair,
Not in the voiiiiccee,
But the elf
Who stole my panties.
Ha, ha, ha, ha…..". It laughs after a repetition. Then the needle freezes right on the second movement of the symphony, and with a grating squeak, the stylus jerks back to its stand as if impelled by an impatient hand.
"You will fail, Ngongo but I can help you," says the voice. Teasingly.
"I don't need your help", Bussa yells with rage and is immediately at the edge of the armchair, foaming slightly at the corners of his mouth.
"You will need my help, Ngongo", the voice whispers with an infuriating slowness.
"I don't need your help. I have been at it before they chopped you from your slimy Asiatic Jungle," Bussa splutters his spurious argument.
"I've been around longer than that, you know". It mocks. Mischievously meek.
Floating across the room.
"Really? How long?" Bussa leaps out of his seat like a bloody maniac.
"Before you were born, Ngongo. Several centuries before the conception of your great grandfathers".
Bussa reacts instinctively to the obvious insult. He grabs the dancing shepherdess and hauls it towards the general direction of the voice. The china statue goes sailing in the air toward an old but beautiful canvas, one depicting a sitting buxom Elizabethan wearing a white ballroom dress and an endearing smile. The smile disappears on impact, her face now a dark gash as the slivers and shards of china clatter against the bookcase.
"Oooh, look at you, Ngongo. See what you've done now. I'm sure Nora is annoyed, you have ruined her face," the voice jeers softly, teasingly at him.
"Get out of here," Bussa rants apparently at nothing, now beside himself with….
"Don't evade the issue." The voice is most irritating. Like an ice-cold finger crawling slowly down one's spine.
"You have ruined her face and she will punish you severely. You wait and see…See what I mean, see what …. look out, Ngongo! She's coming," the voice screams.
The 16th century canvas becomes blank all of a sudden. Blank in the sense that the model is no longer on the chaise longue but on the crimson oriental rug of the room. Headless and holding a black leather horsewhip, her organdie and lace dress billowing out dramatically teased by a frantic wind as if to proclaim her anger. Bussa stands rigidly on the spot showing signs of shock and unable to move as the first crack of the whip tears off the back of his festal garment. The pain causes him to scream in agony and lashes out with blind fury at the swishing anachronism. She ducks neatly beneath his flying arm and weaves so that she is now behind him enabling her to give him another violent crack across his back. A swift kick sends him hurtling across the room to bash his face hard against the bookcase.
A rain of crystals falls upon him, and the most fragile amongst them fragment and drop to the floor.
Bussa begins to whimper pitiably as he touched the bloody mush his nose has now become. Astonishment crosses his visage fleetingly.
"That's enough, Nora. He has learned his lesson," the voice pleads. And the apparition slowly folds the whip and walks back to assume her old position in the 16th century canvas just above the Sheraton bookcase. Floats, condenses and fixes itself in place. Just like that.
The audience explode into roars of laughter. In the wake of unbelief.
"Take hold of yourself, Ngongo. You're a man, a strong man and your boys would laugh themselves to death if they were to find you like this." The voice says
consolingly with a tinge of mockery.
"I don't want to believe this….," Bussa whines nasally gathering the remains of his erstwhile dignity and slowly returns to the chair.
"Don't be absurd. I'm for real". The voice snaps at him impatiently. Bussa shakes his head incredulously.
"No, no, no…..noooo," he wails abjectly.
"Shut up!" The voice barks at him with an uncanny authority.
"I'm hallucinating. This can't be…there is no voice…no…," he is saying then pauses with a frown as if to reassess his conviction.
"Aha, now you're thinking. Your torn garment and the pain you feel about now are real," the voice reasons; reading his mind. Assumedly.
Bussa sheds his robe to examine the damage. His precious and obviously expensive garment holds the irrefutable evidence of the assault. His face contorts with impotent rage and he realises the loss of his hat when he suddenly grabs his curly hair in frustration.
"Don't exert yourself again, Ngongo," the voice advises soothingly. Oily.
"You will be caught tomorrow, Ngongo, if you don't accept my offer of help. The army will be waiting for you. You will walk into a trap, I assure you."
"Don't use that name. I hate it," he says softly in a barely audible voice.
"You deceive yourself, whatever you are, and don't think I will change my plans. You hear me?" He raged silently barely able to suppress the natural burst of expression his anger demands.
"I pity you, Ngongo but still I will give you this warning. Look at that copy of Guardi's landscape and know what will happen tomorrow. Look at it, darling Ngongo," the voice cajoles in a tone that is most nauseating to him.
Grudgingly, Bussa slowly favours the opposite wall with a dispassionate stare. Just on time to afford him a clear view of the transformation taking place within
Monsieur Guardi's architectural composition. The perspective assumes a remarkable duality towards directions one and seven and a group of lorries travelling under convoy comes into view. In the distance is a huge landmass. A mountain, with the roseate hues of twilight in the brilliant sky around its summit. A close-up shows the grim faces of soldiers in an armour half-track which brings up the rear along the rough terrain. The scene draws closer to reveal the presence of several spiky metal balls gleaming with the remnant of the day's fading light. The silence of the scene within the 100cm x 50cm dimension of Guardi's canvas is rend suddenly by loud hisses from deflating tyres as they roll over the treacherous balls and the convoy draws to an embarrassing halt. Some of the soldiers within the lorries pull up the green tarpaulin from both sides of the trucks to ascertain the cause. Suspicion is in the air as they cautiously troop down ostensibly to stretch their limbs; fingers in the crook of the trigger casings. Just in case.
A rapid burst from a machine-gun dissuades several soldiers from pursuing their objective as they fall in bloody disarray by the flat tyres of the immobile trucks. Those within the half-track return the fire from the distant shrubbery with equal zeal as what seem a whole battalion fans out from the trucks to cover the terrain, giving the source of attack a wide berth but firing all along. The machine-gun coughs again but surprisingly from their rear to decimate several soldiers. Confusion is everywhere as the soldiers lose formation in a bid to appraise the dual face of the assault. Still, mortality increases. On the Army's side. A frantic activity within one of the trucks interests the camera.
A portable launcher peeks from behind the tarpaulin like a shy child peeking from behind his mama's skirt to produce great rocket explosions that silence the superior fire-power from the assaulting side. Someone yells in agony and orders a hasty retreat. The casualty zooms into focus and a grimy and pathetic version of Bussa grits his teeth trying to suppress a great pain as he waves a man away from him. The focus shifts to the deep mortal wounds in his chest and thighs, which
apparently cripples him. Seems like shrapnel wounds. The man persists in his efforts to drag him away but Bussa draws a pistol from his side-holster and threatens him.
"Get out, Tanoh or else. This instant!" He hisses weakly but with venom. Blood involuntarily dibbles down the arcs of a vicious mouth, hanging uncertainly on his chin for a few moments before evolving into the rapid diffusion on the fabric of his shirt. Tanoh dilly-dallies. I could almost hear his brain creak trying to articulate his thoughts in his present state of confusion, until he is impelled by the evil glint in the eyes of his comrade and slowly pulls away from him, tears in his eyes. And with one final look, the man sprints away amidst the thick covering of smoke and sporadic gunfire.
Bussa busies himself with the examination of his legs and is oblivious of a presence right behind him and gets hit with the butt of a pistol. He immediately slides into unconsciousness and a bloody trail indicates his shameful departure from the scene until a stray slug hits the loyal rescuer in the back. Tanoh
"Over there, Sir! I've got one of them," a Private shouts his glee.
The scene fades into…A garrison. Night. It cuts into a lit room. Bussa sits apparently under interrogation with a wide swathe of bloodstained bandage across his chest.
"You walked into a trap, Bussa. It wasn't set for you; you had turned up unexpectedly. We were expecting an ambush from the splinter rebel group from Thandika's NLF. They need the arms supplies and had been raiding the frontiers from the coast all the way to Katanga. Why do you need the arms, Bussa? To support a revolution? For the money?" A captain enquires almost politely of Bussa. He sits on a chair in what now appears a cell. Bussa smiles to reveal a gap in his teeth, blinking to ward off the effect of the harsh light from the ceiling.
"The bastard's owing me some money. A large sum. Fifty million," he says sibilantly. The lost tooth.
"Who is owing you?" The captain returns his smile.
"Ochembe," he says with obvious disgust.
"You don't like him a lot, that much I can see from your expression. Would you like to know that your enemy is right about now enjoying dinner with the commandant?" The captain pricks him with a barb. Bussa shrugs nonchalantly.
"Let the fat nepotist arses gorge themselves with smuggled long-grain rice and stolen beef, that's their business, not mine," he spits sneeringly. This elicits raucous laughter from other occupants but the captain looks on with a straight face. A hand suddenly shoots out to bash Bussa in the mouth. The laughter increases as Bussa spits another tooth on the table before him. The tooth rolls across the metal table in slow-motion as a dice would until it goes over the edge to fall on the captain's glossy boot. The captain feels the impact and pulls back his chair to look at his boot with disgust, his visage darkens gravely, his excitement tickles the nerve-endings in his scalp and his hair momentarily shifts backwards the way the fur on a cat's back would brittle. He crooks his index finger at Bussa and beckons him over.
"Kneel, and clean your mess," he shouts at him. Bussa looks at him morosely and hesitates a moment too long before the angry soldier. Someone comes from behind and smacks him down to his knees with the stock of a rifle. He winced with the pain.
"Now, wipe your mess with your shirt. Now!" The officer screams. Bussa slowly removes a handkerchief from the back pocket of his trousers and attempts to wipe the boot but receives a heavy blow on the back of his head. He falls face first to further stain the boot.
"Your shirt!" The captain barks maniacally. Bussa hacks and retch pitiably but receives no sympathy from the soldiers.
And the scene fades out to restore the primal intent of Monsieur Guardi; his architectural landscape.
Bussa presently sits at the edge of the chair, his bewilderment vividly on his face. A growing bead of perspiration rolls down his face from his right temple. His face soon becomes a study in fear and anticipated pain yet somewhere within lurks a certain incredulity.
"Would you relish a second loss of dignity and self-worth, Ngongo? Within one day? Just a matter of some hours from now." The voice again, more caustic and sarcastic. Forceful. Bussa wipes the sweat off his brows with an involuntary and timorous movement of his hand.
"That was an illusion," he sputters.
"Still, I wonder how you were able to bring Tanoh into the picture, he's never been to the club besides, I once met that captain during my brief stay at the Defence Academy several years ago. How come?" He sighs with the intimation of
resignation.
"That is your destiny, Ngongo. If you use the mountain road, you will walk into a trap. There will be no shipment of arms in those trucks but armed soldiers and you will end up being a prisoner at the armoury. I know the actual route to use," the voice dangles a bait.
"Do you? Then tell me," Bussa almost pleads.
"Not until you accept me. Just as Ranjit once did and I brought him a great fortune. You should know, you bought some of his property"
"Why did he sell the door then, if you were so valuable to him?" Bussa reasons, presently beginning to take hold of himself.
"Maybe I don't want to go back to that Asiatic jungle." The voice laughs sweetly, perhaps at the evasion.
"What route are they going to use?"
"Not until you accept me," the voice repeats firmly.
"How do I do that? I don't even know your name and I cannot see you," Bussa says, slowly coming to his feet as if to make a possible contact with the formless female oracular voice.
"Do you want to see me and know my name? You will, when you say, 'I accept you,' it is that simple," the voice returns teasingly.
Bussa ponders over the problem and scratches his head absently for several moments. Reminds me suddenly of a mischievous cartoony character.
"What are your needs, Ngongo? They are yours if you accept me. All of them would be met. All of them, even the most impossible," the voice assures dripping with cajolery.
"And what is the price? What will be your reward?" Bussa is incredulous.
"A very simple and easy price, Ngongo," the voice croons.
"Give me a hint and I will accept you if it is feasible and acceptable," Bussa stalls. The voice laughs; merrily and certain of a victory.
"Well…you're a man, and I am a woman. You're not so dumb, you should know what I mean," the voice says silently with the breath of seduction. It is Bussa's turn to laugh.
"For all I know, you are just a voice that's trying to drive me insane and at best a mere tree-dwelling spirit".
"Accept, and you'll have a different notion about me," the voice assures.
"All right. I accept, if only to get you out of my head," Bussa says rather recklessly.
"Do you really accept, Ngongo?" The voice teases.
"Yes. I guess this is what Ranjit meant when he said the door has something to do with the ancient arts!" Bussa breathes with trepidation though his features reveal his excitement.
"I am Diana, the goddess of hunting. You wield the gun and I esteem you a hunter. It matters not if you kill humans. Ranjit was a smuggler and you would have marvelled at the number of men he had killed during all those ivory and hide raids…They will use the Mbassa mines route, Ngongo. The trucks, six of them will leave Port Victoria exactly 7 o'clock in the morning with twenty-five armed soldiers. You and your men are to wait for the convoy just at the end of the tarmac and prevent them from turning into the dirt road that goes out of Lake County. It is not far from where you have your warehouse. Seize the trucks and drive them into your warehouse. Leave no trails, no clues for the police to work on," the voice instructs rather seriously without the previous jocular tone.
"And how about the price, Diana?"
"This is how I claim it.... physically," the voice says mysteriously as a fog-like form appears and gradually begins to solidify with the human skeletal framework apparent. Bussa involuntarily cringes from the revulsive sight as blood vessels, internal organs, fluids and muscles make a sickening, squelching and slopping noise as they effect a magical assemblage.
"Why do you shy away from your lover, Ngongo?" The voice asks in a grave tone.
Eventually, before Bussa's very eyes, stands the living copy of the naked maiden on the mahogany door with the dark hair reaching down to her waist.
"Do you like what you now see? I'm yours to love and to hold, Ngongo but let's be more decent and cultured." And with this, an elfin man materializes and with a bow, presents the beautiful goddess with a white gown, complete with a set of underwear.
The audience hoots as the dwarf obsequiously struggles to help her into her frilly bra and panties. The dwarf disappears as Diana stands before Bussa in her pristine white gown. The camera frames the Grammy as the stylus picks itself and the Fifth Symphony comes on again to fill the room.
"Let's dance, Ngongo," she says brightly, stretching her arms out to touch him. Awkwardly at first, they shuffle and glide across the room but a definite and rhythmic movement soon evolves largely through Diana's inspiration, both seeming to glide and float across the room.
The dance, as it progresses, witnesses the gradual transformation of Bussa's features. His nose and rubescent lips appear to heal and resume erstwhile normality.
"Now, you look handsome, darling." She kisses him and Bussa responds in spite of himself.
And the scene expires. Interesting. Momma won't believe this.
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
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