The Fish's Belly

by Craig R. Kirkby

  “Cast all your care upon Him, for He cares for you.”

  “Thank you, Dembe. You’re amazing, a true God-sent. Perhaps we should go find a place to sleep for the night.”

  “Not yet,” replied Dembe. “I’ve got an idea. We’ve got time on our hands.”

  “What?” asked Harry, as he scratched his itchy grey-haired head, unsure what his new friend had up his sleeve.

  “Part of our strategy. Come with me, and then afterwards we can check your emails one more time. The internet café is open until late.”

  “After what?”

  “No more questions. Come,” he beckoned.

  ***

  “Good news,” Mac returned to their concealed table at the rear of the restaurant.

  “Yes?” asked Donald hopefully.

  “Roger Johnson replied to my email. He said he had heard from Harry and had passed on our location. Now it just depends on whether Harry is able to check his emails again.”

  “Obviously no reply from Harry then?” asked Rachel.

  “No,” answered Mac. “I’m sure he’ll just head over here once he gets the news.”

  “I’m still holding my breath,” said Donald. “Until I see him alive, safe and with us…” He stopped as his bottom lip began to quiver.

  Mac put a consoling hand on Donald’s shoulder and squeezed gently. Then turning to Daniel, “Danny, see if you can get us a pot of coffee. I see the kitchen’s still open.”

  “Okay,” said Daniel as he got up and skipped out the room.

  ***

  Another two hours dragged by. The coffee had helped kill the first twenty minutes, but the next hour and forty minutes were agonising.

  Rachel picked at her nails.

  Daniel dug in the sugar jar with a spoon.

  Donald stared at a spot on the restaurant table.

  Realising that they were all exhausted as the clock ticked past ten o’clock, Mac was about to suggest that Rachel and Daniel consider going to sleep. He knew Donald wouldn’t, but it had been a very long day preceded by a terribly long trip at the end of an extremely long week.

  “Dad!” gasped Rachel.

  “What?” Daniel got a fright.

  “Someone’s hovering around at the front entrance, and it’s not Harry.”

  Mac was on his feet in a shot. A barrage of questions sprung to mind:

  Had Marco found them?

  If so, how?

  What now?

  How many soldiers were there?

  Was there a back door to this inn?

  “It’s a Ugandan man. He’s coming over here now?” Also on his feet, Donald stated what they all saw.

  “Dad?” Rachel asked fretfully.

  In the dim light, the man appeared alone but was definitely making his way straight to their spot in the restaurant. They were the only patrons left in the large room.

  “Easy now,” said Mac trying to calm the rising anxiety they all felt. One man was manageable; still he was trying to figure out an escape plan.

  Then from behind the intruder, hidden in his shadow, stepped out a second man … a clean-shaven man with dark hair.

  17

  He could hear the phone ring. It rang and rang and rang.

  He tried again.

  He added the international dialling code and then the long phone number.

  The phone rang again; the line seemed better this time.

  “What?” a high-pitched voice answered, clearly annoyed by the call.

  “Just reporting in sir,” Marco’s voice was riddled with nerves.

  “What? Tell me,” barked the shrill voice with a distinct east European accent.

  “Uh, sir,” Marco cleared his throat. “They, um, they got away…”

  “What?!”

  “Yes, I tried to lure them away from the police station as planned—”

  “What went wrong?”

  “Mac. Um, Dr. McArthur didn’t fall for it.”

  “McArthur!” The General’s high-pitched, shrill voice pierced Marco’s ears. “Was he alone?

  “No, the children were with him.”

  “And they all got away?”

  “Yes, they’re a formidable team.”

  “They’re kids, Marco, kids! How did you botch this up?”

  “Sir, I’m sorry. We gave chase, but they beat up three of our soldiers—”

  “Useless! All of you. Now what?”

  “Umm,” trembled Marco. “I’ll put the word out on the street; offer a reward. Maybe someone will turn them in.”

  “You’d better do something. What of the old doctor, what’s his name…”

  “Harry?”

  “Yes, Harry…”

  “Um, uh, we still have him captive,” lied Marco. He couldn’t bring himself to give the General more bad news.

  “Kill him!”

  “What?”

  “Kill him. I’ve had enough. McArthur must pay. Kill the old man, and hunt down the McArthurs. They won’t leave Kampala as long as Harry’s missing.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “I’m arriving on Monday as planned on the cargo plane with some of my babies of destruction,” the General snickered, referring to the new weapons he was bringing into Africa. “I’m so close to sparking another wave of war,” he boasted. “You better have found the McArthurs by then.”

  And with that the phone went dead.

  On the one hand, Marco was partly relieved. He didn’t have to explain Harry’s disappearance. He was surely dead anyway; either the crocodiles or the many other dangers of river must have taken care of the old timer.

  On the other hand, he was worried … extremely worried. How could he weed out the McArthurs in this city of 1.4 million people in little over a weekend?

  His boss didn’t tolerate failure.

  He knew what the General did to those who failed him.

  ***

  Mac took a step forward, putting out his hand to shield those behind him. The man looked familiar, but his dark hair and the shadow over his clean-shaven face masked his appearance.

  “It’s me! Do I look that different?”

  His voice was immediately recognisable.

  “Father!” gasped Donald, his eyes wide.

  Harry stepped forward, the light now illuminating a face streaming with tears of joy.

  “Harry!” blurted out Mac. “Your hair?”

  Donald ran to his father. Mac, Rachel and Daniel followed.

  From Harry’s side, the sight of his dear son Donald and his close friends, brought a surge of relief that overwhelmed him—even overcoming the pain in his tired body and the stiffness in his knee. He bounded towards them, threw his arms around Donald, pulling Mac, Rachel and Daniel into a royal-size family hug.

  “I thought I’d never see you all again,” Harry sobbed, his whole body racked with emotion.

  The joy of seeing Harry overcame their initial shock at how different he looked. His dyed hair made him look younger, but his shaved off moustache changed his entire appearance.

  “Harry: Version 4.0,” cheered Mac.

  They all laughed heartily and they all wept freely.

  Mac then managed to express the gratitude they all felt: “Thank You Father for bringing Harry back to us. Thank You for Your amazing, incredible, unbelievable faithfulness!”

  Daniel couldn’t resist, “And the hair?”

  “And the moustache?” Donald jumped in.

  “Dembe,” explained Harry. “It was all Dembe’s idea…”

  Only now did Harry remember his new friend, still standing in the shadows.

  Breaking from the huddle, he turned to Dembe and apologised, “Oh dear, where are my manners? Sorry. Dembe, these are my friends, my family … Everyone, this is Dembe, the man to whom I owe my life. Without him, I would not have escaped.”

  “Dembe,” greeted Mac, offering his hand to shake as Dembe stepped into the light. “Great to meet you.” Mac couldn’t wait to hear the tale, eager to meet Harry’s rescuer.
And just as eager to discover any information that may assist in dealing with the General.

  “Hello,” replied Dembe acknowledging Mac, with easily the widest and most generous smile any of them had ever seen. He then shook Rachel’s hand and Daniel’s, giving each of them a warm, munificent ear-to-ear grin—an expression that Mac, for a second, thought looked a little familiar.

  But when Dembe’s eyes locked onto Donald, he froze, and his smile gave way to a puzzled, bemused look … a look of one digging deep into some past, forgotten perhaps, memory.

  “Kato?” Dembe asked Donald.

  “Pardon?” asked a perplexed-looking Donald.

  “Kato…”

  “No, I’m Donald. My name is Donald.”

  “Kato?” Dembe’s face now contorted as if almost in pain.

  “What?” asked a befuddled Rachel summing up the confusion they all felt.

  “Kato…” persisted Dembe, “…son?”

  “What?!” asked Donald, and turning to Harry, “Father, who…”

  “Dembe,” interrupted Harry, feeling a little uneasy in Dembe’s presence for the first time. “Um, this is Donald. The one I told you about. My son … my adopted son.”

  Dembe looked at Harry and back at Donald, and then back at Harry again. His face softened once again, the contorted expression of pain giving way to relief, profound relief … peace.

  “Dear friends,” he said warmly and assuredly to them all. “I’m sorry if I scared you. Yes Harry, your adopted son Donald is also … Kato … my son. Praise the Lord!”

  “What’s going on?” Daniel couldn’t take the suspense any more.

  “Dembe ,” Donald swallowed with difficulty. “My name is Donald. I think you have me mistaken…”

  Dembe stepped forward; he was unthreatening and the big-hearted smile on his kind face was endearing, even appealing. He had them all hanging on his every word.

  Harry’s momentary unease had now given way to excitement … expectancy … daring to believe the remote possibility that…

  “Kat … Donald,” Dembe corrected himself, an affable smile still etched on his face. “A parent never forgets their child. You have a birthmark behind your right shoulder, no? In the shape of a fish. A fish with a bloated belly…”

  Donald looked at Harry in disbelief. Harry responded with a beaming smile of his own—the smile of one who had suddenly come into the knowledge of a delicious secret; even better, the joy of one recognising a holy moment.

  It all clicked for Mac, too … Dembe’s face was familiar. He had seen his smile many, many times … on Donald’s face.

  “Does he?” asked Rachel riveted by the unfolding drama in front of them. “Do you have a birthmark like that Don?”

  Donald nodded, still unable to fully comprehend the moment, struggling to put the fragmented pieces of his childhood together.

  “Yes, he does,” confirmed Harry. “I’ve never thought of it like that, but it does look like...”

  “You’re kidding,” gasped Daniel. “A fish with a bloated belly?”

  “But … but …,” mouthed Donald.

  Harry hugged Donald and then turned to Dembe, “Donald doesn’t remember much from his childhood. He only remembers his family being killed.” Then he turned to the others: “Dembe explained to me how his village was attacked by renegade soldiers, and he was shot trying to keep the soldiers away from the women and children. He was left for dead … and the children were taken as prisoners…”

  “You’re my father?” gasped Donald. Harry’s assuring attitude and explanation gave him the chance to grasp the truth. “My father is alive. BaBa, it’s you, it’s really you?”—BaBa is the Swahili word for “father.”

  “Yes Kato,” sniffed Dembe. “It is me…”

  Harry stepped aside and gently nudged Donald toward Dembe. “Yes, Dembe really is your BaBa.”

  Dembe put out his arms and Donald leapt into his embrace.

  “Thank You, Father God,” prayed Dembe as he felt his son in his arms, “You have spared my life and worked Your miracles to bring me to this day.”

  Mac grabbed Harry and hugged the old man, offering support to his friend in what was a vulnerable moment. “Are you okay my friend?” he whispered in Harry’s ears.

  “Yes I am, really I am,” replied the brave old man. “Dembe is a gift from God.”

  Holding on to Dembe, Donald turned and grabbed Harry, pulling him and Mac, and in turn Daniel and Rachel, into the king of all family hugs. Daniel often called their family hugs a f-ug, but there were no words to explain this one.

  “How blessed am I,” Donald was beaming. “I have two fathers: a Dad and a BaBa! Our heavenly Father is so merciful!”

  “Amen!”

  “Hallelujah!”

  The joy was uncontained, unspeakable and full of glory. A little bit of heaven on earth.

  Dembe looked deep into Harry’s tear-filled eyes, and spoke with love and understanding, “Harry, thank you for raising my son … our son. I ask your permission to be back in Donald’s life, but please know, for me, this does not change the special bond you share with him.”

  “Oh, Dembe,” sobbed Harry in gratitude, “Of course! Welcome to the family my brother. You said we were connected in so many ways. We could not have anticipated this!”

  “So true,” chuckled Dembe. “So true, dear friend.”

  Joy and laughter and barrel-loads of happy-tears later, Daniel piped out, “There is of course only one problem here. Don, what’s it going to be? Donald or Kato?”

  Although Daniel meant it as a joke, Donald looked at Harry and then Dembe, unsure what to say.

  “He is Donald of course,” interjected Dembe.

  “Yes, Donald I am,” said a relieved and elated young man.

  “There is still another problem,” added Mac.

  “What?” said everyone.

  “The hair,” grinned Mac. “Harry, you’ve got to explain the hair thing.”

  18

  It was after 2:00am when they finally went to bed. Swapping stories, the hours simply flew by.

  During those four hours, Donald felt he got to know his BaBa inside and out.

  Firstly, Harry’s open and sincere admiration for the man who had rescued him, and who had literally carried him on his own back several kilometres, highlighted Dembe’s selfless courage. Secondly, Dembe’s own humility and wisdom was evident through everything he said and did.

  For Donald, those four hours redeemed the years that he had lost.

  Dembe told a captive audience of his on-going investigation of the gun-running trade, and his suspicions that the war-mongering general he was tracking … was, in fact, the same General on a revenge-and-destroy vendetta against Mac.

  “It’s a small, small world after all,” Rachel mused out loud.

  “Where is the General? Harry, do you have any idea?” asked Mac.

  “Marco said that he’s arriving on Monday. Where and when I have no idea,” replied Harry.

  “If he’s flying in from overseas, then there is a good chance he’s arriving with a plane full of weapons,” said Dembe.

  “And Agent Smith is arriving on Monday from the Philippines. His plane is scheduled for a 9:00am arrival…”

  “Agent Smith?” asked Dembe.

  “International police,” explained Harry. “When we uncovered the General’s secret base in Zimbabwe, Agent Smith was the man who led the investigation. We got to know him relatively well.”

  “He’s coming. Just him?” Dembe looked puzzled.

  “Yes,” replied Mac. “He’s a sharp man, and all he needs is proof that the General is here and he’ll call for back-up. If there’s a plane full of illegal arms arriving, well, we’re in business…”

  “And then, the General will be out of business. For good,” beamed Dembe.

  “Okay Dembe, now to serious business,” joked Mac. “Tell us about Harry’s hair and shave.”

  Dembe chuckled, “Come now. Mzee looks twenty years younger!
Do you need another reason?” They all knew Mzee was a Swahili term of respect for an older person.

  Harry gave his best modelling impression as everyone laughed.

  “Serious?” Dembe continued, “Okay. Harry is easily recognisable with his white hair and moustache. Hiding in the bush, there was no need for a change. But if we were going to look for you in the city, we needed to change his appearance. Harry, you were very brave when I took you to the barber shop.”

  Harry nodded jokingly, “First I took on the terrorists, then the dogs, then the crocs … but the barber shop was the worst…”

  Again, they all chuckled.

  “Tomorrow,” smiled Dembe. “It’s your turn.”

  “What? Me?” Rachel wasn’t sure if Dembe was looking at her.

  “Yes … and you,” he now looked at Daniel.

  “Me?”

  “Yes … and you, Daddy,” he smiled at Mac.

  Now it was Harry’s turn to have a good laugh.

  “Tomorrow morning,” continued Dembe. “I’ll go to the pharmacy and buy some hair dye. The men who want you dead are looking for three blonde-haired white people. We can’t change your skin colour, but we can change your hair.”

  “You’re right, Dembe,” smiled Mac. “A change of appearance is the least we can do to avoid sticking out so obviously. We’ve got a long weekend to get through.”

  Daniel looked at Rachel; wide-eyed, he looked like a rabbit caught in truck headlights.

  “I guess we gotta do what we gotta do, sis,” chuckled Daniel.

  “My hair,” joked Rachel. “Feed me to the crocs before you change my hair!”

  Harry laughed and then smiled at Dembe, “You’re amazing! As cool and as convincing as anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “Yes,” added Mac. “If we gave you three minutes with the General, you might talk him out of running weapons!”

  ***

  They all slept in late, except Dembe. He was up early as usual and had managed to work his way into Suzie’s heart.

  When the McArthurs and Donald came down for breakfast, they found Dembe helping Suzie around the restaurant area, the two chatting away in Swahili. She put a few hand-scrawled menus on the table and left, giving them all some privacy.

  “Morning, BaBa,” said Donald as he hugged his father.

  “My son,” Dembe squeezed him back. “Morning.” He held on to Donald for a second hug, enjoying the fulfilment of a dream he thought was long dead.