The Fish's Belly

by Craig R. Kirkby

  The soldier delighted, slackened his pace, preparing to pounce on his prey.

  Not sure if he was close enough, Mac launched himself into the air, his eyes fixed on the imaginary target on the soldier’s back.

  Mac’s eighty-five kilogram body sailed through the air, driven by a father’s desire to protect his child. Smashing into the soldier, Mac’s right shoulder hit the middle of his back, his arms clasping around the soldier’s midriff.

  Twisting slightly in the air, Mac had aimed his trajectory to line up with a street side information pole.

  The startled soldier’s head snapped back as the brute force of Mac’s momentum crunched into his back, and before he knew it, he collided face first with the steel pole.

  CRRAAAAACCKKKKK!

  The soldier buckled in contact with the pole.

  The pole itself bent under the enormous impact.

  Mac rolled off the soldier’s crumpled body, slightly dazed.

  The soldier’s knife had flung from his hand and now bounced just behind Rachel, who saw the deadly weapon for the first time.

  Everything had happened so quickly. She hadn’t known what her father was up to. Now he lay on the street sidewalk moving but clearly in pain.

  “Daddy!” she cried, lifting herself off the floor, running to his side.

  “Rachel!” gasped Mac, grateful for her help as he staggered to his feet. “Hope he’s not dead,” Mac muttered as he felt for the man’s pulse. “He’s got a pulse, but he’s in a bad way.” Turning to the many onlookers who had stopped, now slowly forming a circle around the scene, “Police! Call the police. Call an ambulance, please!”

  The growing audience looked confused, most not wanting to get involved, but all intrigued, curious.

  Then focusing on a well-dressed Ugandan—most of the audience were evidently very poor, and Mac was unsure if they understood English or his accent.

  “Sir! Do you speak English?”

  “Ah, yes,” replied the man.

  “Please call an ambulance. This man was trying to attack us, but he’s not in a good way now. He needs help. Please get help!”

  “Yes, yes. Okay.”

  Mac grabbed Rachel’s hand, “Come let’s get out of here.”

  ***

  Returning to The Fish’s Belly, Mac was relieved beyond words to find Daniel already there. The reunion was intense but short. Mac was anxious to know where Donald was.

  Daniel explained what had happened.

  “Brave Donald,” said Mac. “Smart, brave Donald. It seems Marco’s down three soldiers now. Let’s hope Donald can find out where he’s staying. Otherwise, we don’t have a single lead to go on.”

  Rachel suggested they pray, and after spending some time asking Father God to protect and guide Donald, they decided to shower and put on a clean change of clothes. Rachel had torn her pants and Mac had ripped his shirt. Both were nursing cuts and scratches. Mac’s neck felt stiff, the muscles obviously bruised from the collision. Daniel’s shoulder felt bruised, but he was certainly the best off of the three.

  After a shower, Mac paid for internet usage—grateful that the inn had the service. He was pretty sure they wouldn’t. He turned on the slow dial-up connection, opened his new email browser, signed in his new secure details.

  Three sets of eyes were glued to the screen. Rachel and Daniel, with nothing else do, were as eager as he was to hear some news.

  15

  Six eyeballs watched Mac’s new email browser open.

  You have (1) emails.

  From: Roger Johnson

  Subject: How are you?

  Roger was simply inquiring on the progress Mac was making.

  He logged out and closed the email browser down. Then he opened his old email browser and signed into his hacked account.

  The internet connection was agonisingly slow.

  You have (4) emails.

  Three pairs of eyes impatiently scanned the details of the four emails.

  One was from Harry!

  “What?!” they all gasped as they read his email.

  “He’s escaped!” gasped Rachel.

  “And somewhere in Kampala!” added Daniel.

  “Well done my friend,” whistled Mac. “We’ve wrestled back the advantage. Thank You Father!”

  “Can I be the one to give Don the great news when he gets back?” asked Rachel.

  “Sure sweetie.”

  “What now, Dad?” asked Daniel.

  “Yes, we need to be smart from here. First, I’ll email Harry and tell him to contact Roger at HQ. He also knows Roger’s secure line, it’s part of our contingency plans at WCI. Then I’ll email Roger, and give him our physical address here at The Fish’s Belly to pass on to Harry.”

  “Great idea.” Rachel breathed out deeply. “Then we can all get out of here.”

  Daniel saw his father’s face grimace as he tapped away at the keyboard.

  “We’re not leaving, are we, Dad?”

  “What?” Rachel was confused.

  “We’re not going to leave Kampala, are we?”

  “Of course we are. In a hurry,” blurted Rachel.

  “You are,” Mac replied opening his secure mail again to email Roger Johnson. “You’ll go back to Zimbabwe with Harry and Don. I’ve got to finish this.”

  “Finish what, Dad?” Rachel was trembling.

  “The General won’t just suddenly drop this, sweetie. How many times can we keep dodging his revenge attempts? Somehow, I’ve got to finish this.”

  “But how?” Daniel asked.

  “Agent Smith arrives on Monday,” continued Mac, tapping away at the keyboard with more force this time. “If I can find the General and his hideout; maybe we can catch him this time.”

  “Just the two of you?” asked Daniel.

  “Well, having you around will only…” Mac didn’t finish the sentence. “Danny, if anything happened to you or Rachel…”

  “But what if something happens to you, Daddy? Then what?” Tears streaked down Rachel’s pretty face.

  “Dad, we’re not going. I don’t know what we can do to help, perhaps nothing. But being close, praying, we can do that. We’re not leaving Kampala without you,” said Daniel. Fighting off tears of his own, Daniel was not being defiant or disrespectful to his father. He was merely expressing his desire to help, and his concern. Losing one parent so young was a burden no one should bear. Mac knew how he felt; it was the reason he hadn’t sent them to Tanzania when he had the chance.

  “Okay, Danny,” he spoke softly. “I hear you. You’re the best kids in the world, do you know that? I love you so much it hurts.”

  Rachel threw herself into his arms. Daniel joined the hug as they all wept together.

  ***

  Donald returned two hours later just when the McArthurs were starting to get nervous.

  They traded stories before Donald explained that he had watched Dr. Marco pace around the police station for almost an hour. Then he had followed him to a hotel called the Blue Angus, just around the corner from the station.

  Dr. Marco had paced in front of the hotel for another hour, looking increasingly frustrated. He had even kicked over a dustbin and tortured some insect that had flown into his face.

  He was also on the phone frequently, evidently without success—presumably trying to get hold of the soldiers that had chased them.

  Eventually, the two soldiers who had pursued Donald and Daniel returned, hobbling and in some discomfort. Dr. Marco had slapped the one soldier, and yelled for at least three minutes straight while pointing a finger in the face of the other. What he said, Donald wasn’t sure. He had been too far away to hear a word.

  “Just as well,” joked Rachel.

  Mac didn’t ask about the soldier who had chased them; sure he would be spending the night in a hospital somewhere.

  Dr. Marco and the two soldiers had disappeared inside the hotel and when they didn’t come out for another hour, Donald had found his way back to the inn.


  Finishing his account, Donald became subdued.

  “Now what?” he shook his head. “We don’t know where my father is?”

  Only then did the McArthurs remember that they hadn’t told Donald the good news.

  Donald couldn’t contain his joy when Rachel explained the email they’d received from Harry.

  He danced and twirled and praised and sang … and danced some more around the hotel room.

  ***

  Dembe and Harry shared a small meal at a tiny bistro next to the internet café. Harry of course didn’t have a cent on him, but even if he did, Dembe would have insisted on paying for his guest.

  “Mzee, you’re in my country. It is my treat.”

  Harry so enjoyed Dembe’s company, and although he was anxious to check his emails again soon, he knew that it could be a long time before he received a reply. They had decided to hang around the internet café for the evening before staying at a hotel close by if they needed to.

  Even though Dembe usually lived off the land—the fish he caught, small animals he hunted and the fruit and vegetables he grew—he had a fair bit of money on hand. He explained that he came into the city every so often to continue his research on the gun-running trade.

  Whenever he did, he would pick up a few odd jobs here and there to pay his way and save … save for just such an eventuality that they now faced.

  “Dembe, tell me what you’ve discovered so far?”

  “Well, as you might know, Lake Victoria is home to the Nile Perch, a large fish introduced to the river in the 1950s…”

  “Introduced? So it’s not indigenous to the lake?”

  “No, it’s not. In fact, the Perch is a predator and has destroyed many of the fish species who were native to the lake. It is a real monster; now the Nile Perch has turned cannibalistic, feeding on each other…”

  “That’s terrible…”

  “Yes, but the fish has become a central part of the fishing industry around Lake Victoria. The problem is that it’s largely exported overseas to the expensive Western markets, when so many in our country are poor and starving.”

  Harry was saddened by this news, unaware that it seemed completely disconnected from the question of gun-running he had asked. His compassion for the underprivileged was the driving force of his life.

  “From there the problem takes on epic proportions,” continued Dembe. “You see, the very cargo planes that export our fish to the Western markets, first bring in illegal weapons into our country.”

  “Are you sure, Dembe? Is that not just a rumour?”

  “Harry, I’ve seen it.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “Yes, there is a notorious gun-runner in these parts. His planes leave Entebbe in the name of exporting Perch to the world. But his planes arrive full of weapons. When I first arrived in Kampala, I took a part time job at the airport. As part of the cleaning staff. I was able to peak around at the activities happening down on a ‘private’ airstrip outside the grounds of the airport. I saw soldiers unpacking boxes of weapons with my own eyes…”

  “What? What did you do?”

  “I tried to report it to the airport officials and lost my job on the spot. My life was threatened. It was then that I realised I had to do my own research, disappear from sight, live off the land … and wait for God’s timing.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Nearly five years ago.”

  “Five years, wow! It’s been going on for five years?”

  “A lot longer than that Harry, but the current warlord took over the operation about four years ago. From what I’ve been able to work out, he killed the previous general, and took over the enterprise.”

  “Did you say, the previous general? Like the title stays, but the leader himself may change?”

  “Yes, Mzee. In that way, the General’s reputation grows even though leadership changes.”

  “So,” Harry’s eyebrows tightened. “How do you think the General that is after us is connected?”

  “Hmmm,” mused Dembe. “I think your General and this new general may be the same man. The monster that’s trying to kill your family is the monster I’ve been tracking.”

  Harry was speechless.

  Dembe’s eyes sparkled. “We’re connected Harry, in this and other ways, I feel we’re connected.”

  16

  The McArthurs and Donald had dinner at the inn; huddled in the concealed part of restaurant they had made their own.

  The only thing on the menu was fish or hamburgers.

  “Lake Victoria is known for its Nile Perch, a massive predator fish that can grow up to six feet long,” explained Donald.

  “Six feet!” gasped Rachel. “That’s as tall as you are Dad.”

  “Yes, but don’t worry Rache, you don’t have to eat a six-footed Perch,” smiled Mac.

  They all laughed, Rachel’s laughter drowning out the others.

  Besides the fact that they were anxiously waiting for some word from Harry or Roger Johnson, and remained on the “most wanted” list of a notorious, war-mongering General, they could have easily been mistaken for tourists on holiday. And despite the inn-keeper’s grumpiness, and the dingy restaurant they occupied, the mood was relaxed and charged with a sense of hope.

  Harry was safe. That was the best news.

  The General was evidently not around at this point and Julius Marco clearly had no idea where they were.

  They could unwind and catch up with themselves … at least for now.

  They all ordered the fish. Donald cautioned them against the hamburger, mentioning “the meat may be, well, let’s just say, a little suspect.” Just offshore of Lake Victoria, the fish was sure to be fresh.

  And it was … fresh and delicious.

  The hungry foursome ate with relish.

  “I’ve never eaten Perch before,” explained Donald.

  “What?” asked Daniel. “You’ve never eaten Perch in your own country?”

  “Yes, Perch is not really available to the poor. It’s very expensive, sold overseas and to tourists and the rich.”

  “Well, eat up then my friend,” smiled Mac. “There’s plenty here. You can make up for the many years you went without.”

  “Thank you, Mac,” said Donald as he guzzled on another piece of fish. Then turning to Rachel, “Rache, what’s a group of fish called? A shoal or a school?”

  Rachel loved collecting collective nouns, and was a verifiable master on the subject.

  “Both,” she replied without batting an eyelid. “A group of fish can be called a school, a shoal, a run, a haul or a catch.”

  “And dolphins?” asked Daniel, more to test her knowledge than anything else.

  “A pod of dolphins,” she replied. “A group of whales can also be a pod, or a school or a gam.”

  “A gam of whales?” asked Donald as his left eyebrow arched.

  “Yes…”

  “If I had a dollar for every collective noun you knew,” joked Daniel. “Ha! I bet you don’t know what a group of coins is called?”

  “A rouleau of coins,” replied Rachel triumphantly.

  “You’re kidding,” Daniel pretended to be vexed.

  “No, it’s the French word for roll. A roll of coins.”

  “Admit defeat, Danny,” teased Mac. “It’s not advice I usually give—except in this instance. Your sister has bested you!”

  “Yes,” chuckled Donald, “as the saying goes, one should never rub bottoms with a porcupine…”

  Mac and Daniel burst into laughter.

  “Hey!” squealed Rachel in mock indignation, trying hard to hide her smile. “Did you just call me prickly?!”

  “Oops!” gasped Donald, trying to hide a grin of his own. “No, no. I only meant Daniel doesn’t stand a chance…”

  “Rachel … Miss Porcupine,” chuckled Mac, “has got you both at her mercy now!”

  “Okay, okay. You win!” smiled Daniel, holding his hands up in surrender.

  “I s
urrender too,” grinned Donald.

  “Incidentally,” smiled Rachel, feeling king-of-the-castle, “that proverb of yours Donald was delightful.”

  “Yes,” replied Donald, his grin bigger still. “I must just work on my timing.”

  ***

  Suzie, the inn-keeper, worked hard and was supported by just one other, the kitchen chef. While there were very few people staying at the hotel, Suzie had her hands full. The kindness, patience and helpfulness shown by the McArthurs and Donald seemed to be slowly winning her over.

  After coming to clear their table after dinner, she found the table already cleared. She also found the only two other tables used that night, by guests who had now left, also cleared and cleaned.

  Although she didn’t say thank you—and nor did they expect her to—she mumbled something to Donald in Swahili as she left the room.

  “What did she say?” asked Rachel.

  He smiled. “She said: nice white people; didn’t know there were any.”

  “She’s had a hard life,” said Mac. “It’s clear; she’s known cruelty in her life.”

  “You’ve made an impression. She is a hard, tough lady that one,” agreed Donald.

  “Listen, I’m going to check my emails again. Let’s hope we hear something.”

  “We’ll stay here in the restaurant,” said Daniel. “It’s only just after 8:00pm. Way too early to hit the sack.”

  “Yes, hopefully Harry arrives before we go to sleep.” Rachel expressed their collective wish.

  Donald couldn’t express his hope in words.

  ***

  “Any news?” asked Dembe.

  “Still not,” said Harry, he’s shoulders were hunched, and despair was written all across his face. In the dull light, his bushy broom-like moustache looked way too big for him.

  Harry had checked his email three times and still had received no word from Mac.

  Was he okay? Were the children okay?

  Or were they….?

  “Mzee,” Dembe spoke softly, “Remember, He … our God … He does carry the weight of the world on His shoulders. You don’t have to.”

  Dembe’s words were fortified by a rock-solid confidence in God’s faithfulness. There was no trace of glibness in his words. This wasn’t a shallow answer to a complex problem. He then quoted 1 Peter 5:7, and despite the reality of Harry’s predicament, the words were not pat or clichéd. They imparted fresh faith into Harry’s despondent soul: