Facing the Son, A Novel of Africa

by M L Rudolph

  There’s a lot here to discover and even admire. Ouagadougou is so far off the beaten path it’s easy to ignore. People suffer here. Don’t get me wrong. I see it every day. Their lives are simple and basic. The leaders are corrupt. The education level is low. But people also celebrate the same life milestones we celebrate. They have traditions and culture that stretch back centuries. Culture that’s unique to this place and these people.

  The outside world could destroy itself tomorrow and everyone out in the field where I work would hardly notice. At the subsistence level where clean water is a luxury, world trade and high finance don’t count for much. Wealth accumulates in other places and the standard of living here remains about the same as it’s always been.

  But there I go again, wagging my finger at my American-middle-class-suburban self. I did that a lot when I first came. Then I noticed how all the new guys do the same thing and I tried to stop. It takes a while to learn to accept Africa, rather Mali, or Upper Volta, on its own terms. Can’t do that on a quick fact-finding mission. Takes a little more time than that.

  That’s why I’m sorry for what you went through. You come for a long week and get robbed right off the plane, and then you think that’s the way it is here. Dangerous and corrupt. Well, it actually can be dangerous and it is corrupt, but that’s not the only story. Those are the weaknesses. By staying longer, I get to see the strengths, the endurance of the people, the vibrancy of their culture. Maybe sometime you’ll get another chance to can see what I mean for yourself.

  You’re probably flying out today or tomorrow. I wasn’t sure. I’m sending this letter to Fort Wayne about the same time I expect you’re taking off from Abidjan. You can see firsthand what a challenge it is to correspond with anyone from here, how long it takes for a simple letter to arrive. Even with all the detours you took to find me, you probably got Mom’s letter to me faster than if you mailed it. If we’re lucky, you’ll get this letter sometime before the paper turns yellow.

  I want to tell you again how much it means to me that you brought Mom’s letter. I know it was a difficult trip, even without your “adventures.” But I know it was important to you to honor Mom’s last request. And obviously, nothing—no mugging, no sleazy local crook, no cow in the middle of the road during a storm—was going to deter you from your appointed round.

  I always knew you were tough, but I never imagined you were an explorer. You said you could never do what I’m doing over here, but that’s not true. You did exactly what I did. You showed up completely unprepared and figured it out as you went along. That’s all I’m doing. Still. I’m learning as I go.

  I used to think adults were the keepers of the big secret of life, and one day, when I became an adult, I’d be initiated, be let into that big secret. But I found out, (slap my forehead in disbelief), that there was no secret. Adults are nothing special—just bigger kids, struggling with the same old problems. Figuring it out as they go along.

  It feels odd to write you another letter. Like I’m a kid again sitting at the kitchen table using lined paper, number two pencils, and rubber erasers. But it also feels oddly comfortable, and right.

  Sometimes writing a letter is just writing a letter, and that’s the way it feels this time. I want to tell you what’s happened since you left, and how your visit changed my plans.

  After you and I drove out with Jean-Louis to see the old man, Madaadi, I asked our hydro-geologist to look into the area. He checked the water tables and the topographic maps and after some arm-wrestling he and I were able to add the old man’s village to our ’79 plan without having to drop anyone else. We kind of slipped it into the schedule with a wink and a nod, as our British mate likes to say. So thanks to you, one more village will wake someday soon with access to clean water. (Next Halloween when UNICEF comes calling, slip them a few bucks and we’ll call it even. Wink. Nod.)

  I’m glad you came, Dad. You’re an entirely different person over here. It was great to spend that afternoon just talking. All my memories of you are either in the old house or at Harrison High. You were always the stern figure everyone was scared of. The guy with the paddle. The teacher with the red pen. If you’d marked up my old letters and sent them back to me, I probably would have recopied them making corrections and sent them back to you hoping for an improved grade. That’s how much in awe I was of you.

  The day you told me about the divorce is still tattooed on my heart. Every so often I still dream about that morning. That’s when I stopped trusting anyone. If you could walk out on me then so could anybody. Friends. Girlfriends. Even Mom. Everything and everybody became temporary after that.

  If everything was temporary, then why bother with anything? What mattered?

  That’s why I came here.

  I wanted to see what it was like to live outside the US culture. What if I took a break from the giant megaphone of US media telling me what to do? What if I thought for myself for a change?

  How many times have you settled in to watch some new TV show because that’s all you’ve heard about for the past month—how great it is—only to find out it’s a piece of shit—a total waste of time? Or worse, paid to see a movie after all the ads, then after two minutes wanted to leave but you sat through the lousy thing anyway just because you paid your money? You know you’re being played the fool.

  I’m trying a different approach. I’m out of range over here. And I’m pretty sure I’m not missing much. I got a different focus now.

  You know, a Muslim guy I work with won’t listen to the radio. It takes him away from thinking about Allah. I thought that was pretty backward when I came, but I’ve gradually begun to get it. I see his point. If other people drill their stuff into your head all the time, your own thoughts are deadened. The megaphone wins. It’s louder. More powerful. Never stops.

  I feel more in tune with humanity here. Humanity as it’s been for thousands of years. Not as it’s become over the past fifty or so. I like getting to know myself. I like getting to know another culture. After the end of my current contract, I’ll probably try out some other country, some other culture.

  The way I figure it, time may be infinite, but life is short. The world’s a big place. There’s a lot to discover.

  I’m glad we’re talking again. Maybe this time you’ll write back. Doesn’t have to be much. Doesn’t have to be often. Just tell me what’s up with you.

  I’d like that.

  By the way, I’m proud of you, too.

  Love,

  Karl

  June 17, 1979

  Fort Wayne, Indiana

  Karl Reiser

  Project Coordinator UNDP

  Ouagadougou, Upper Volta

  Dear Karl,

  Well, I just finished mowing the grass on a beautifully green summer afternoon. I’m sipping a glass of ice water at my desk. A nice tall glass of ice water. I never gave a glass of water much thought. How we take some things for granted, huh?

  I got back the day before the funeral, as planned. Annie and Dan Perry couldn’t have been better friends the way they looked after so many details until I could take over. I gave your respects during my eulogy. I wish you’d been here, but as I told you, I accept your decision. I can’t say I understand it, but I accept it. I only hope someday you don’t regret it.

  Your mother missed you more than anything, Karl. Even more than me I came to realize. She never forgave me for walking out on the two of you, and her strongest desire to the very end of her life remained that I find you, that you and I reunite. That’s why she sent me off to find you.

  She knew I’d do anything to get her back. And she also knew it would never occur to me to come after you on my own since I always “gave you space” to become your own person. She just couldn’t wait any more for her two boys to come to their senses.

  The old house is on the market. Your mom left behind a pretty gigantic void. I still walk in and think she’s going to come at me with a list of things to do. I wish I had that list. It would ma
ke getting the house ready for sale a whole lot easier.

  I’m settled back into my routine. Except it isn’t much of a routine now that school’s out for summer. I turned over summer practice to one of the assistant coaches and applied to teach a summer class instead. Just for a change of pace. Thinking about getting a dog. What do you think about border collies?

  The trip back was a lot easier than the trip over. Not having any luggage made customs a breeze. Sat in Paris airport for a couple hours to make the connection. Then New York. Chicago. O’Hare. At a diner, I ordered pancakes and eggs and hash browns and orange juice and coffee and that’s when I knew I was back. When I got exactly what I asked for and didn’t have to worry about getting a bad stomach. Probably sounds boring to you. But it hit the spot for this sorry traveler.

  I’m still amazed at what you do. People I tell are astonished. Seeing where you work, how you manage the equipment and plan the projects. That was all pretty eye-popping for this old coach. How you find the water. Dig the wells. I’ve read about it, but never seen how all the parts come together. You’re right, once the well is dug, no one can take it away. Real progress, right before your eyes.

  Abidjan was just like I left it, but the second time I saw the city with different eyes. Jean-Louis insisted I stay with him in his—I guess I’d call it a bungalow—in Treichville, the district south of the city (where I was robbed). It was pretty basic. But it beat the grass mats in the old man’s hut. (By the way, were you able to arrange the well for his village?) Anyway, I slept on blankets on a sitting room sofa.

  Sally, who I told you about, was back. She and Jean-Louis’s nephew, Jacques, brought back Pete Kolarik, the guy from Ohio who had the accident. Kolarik flew straight out before I got a chance to see him. Apparently he didn’t want to take a chance with the local hospital.

  Sally looked much better. She was pretty banged up. But she’s tough, I tell you. Tough as I’ve seen. She’s more determined than ever to go to medical school. Insists she’s going to be a doctor. “Not a nurse!” Which Jean-Louis suggested in front of me. “A doctor!” she shouted and nearly took his head off. “Not a nurse! A doctor!”

  Jean-Louis said it’ll be tough for her. But if anyone can do it, she can.

  Jean-Louis had it tough after we got back. The hotel manager at his former hotel wouldn’t even meet with him after he disappeared without notice.

  The day before I left for Paris, I went with Jean-Louis to see this guy he calls Le Croc. (Great name, huh? Rumor is he got the nickname after he fed a rival to the crocodiles.) He’s the cheap thug behind the airport gang that mugged me. You can imagine how excited I was to meet that jackass.

  Le Croc runs his business from a stand in the middle of this huge marketplace in Treichville. Sells jewelry. Used clothes. Cassette tapes. Probably all stolen. Amazing he can just sit in the open like that. A sullen teenage punk in a good pair of jeans and new Reeboks walked us back to see him.

  Le Croc met us like the pugnacious asshole he is. All attitude and cigarettes. Smoked constantly. Didn’t speak English. Didn’t even try. Looked at me like he was wondering if my clothes would fit him. I wore a smart navy suit I bought off the rack from a men’s store where Jean-Louis knew the owner.

  Jean-Louis was also dressed up in a light-gray suit. He said he had to settle up with Le Croc. Wanted me there as witness. We also took Jacques, who acts as his driver, or rather used to, when they had the Mercedes that you probably still have at your depot.

  Jean-Louis told me not to say a word which was easy because they only spoke French. I was supposed to look like I had big things on my mind. I acted serious, like I had powerful friends in high places and knew all about Le Croc.

  Not sure if I pulled it off. I just stood there and didn’t understand a thing until he told me all this later.

  Le Croc stayed seated on a broad-backed wooden chair with padded armrests. He dressed in dark clothes with a shiny silver belt around his flimsy gut. Looked maybe forties. An ageing punk. His face was shiny from the humidity. His nose looked like it had been smashed and never set. He had big powerful hands which he kept in motion while he spoke. He stunk of garlic and BO.

  We spent all-in-all about ten minutes with the creep. Jean-Louis said he wanted to make it absolutely clear that he wasn’t working for Le Croc anymore. He left the concièrge business for good and he and Jacques were starting a livery service. They already had a contract with a French trading company with strong ties to Le Président Houphouët-Boigny. Which I don’t think was true but that’s what Jean-Louis said. Plus he had connections with an American bank funding some of the construction work in Yakro. I was supposed to nod when I heard him say Yakro.

  Le Croc looked unimpressed. Acted indifferent. Spread his huge hands like, What’s this got to do with me?

  Jean-Louis said he was just telling him. That’s all. And Sally was back at the university. If Robert touched her again he’d kill Le Croc in his sleep. It would be easy, he said, just like breaking into his warehouse and taking the passports was easy.

  I didn’t understand Jean-Louis when he delivered his threat. All I saw was a look of bemusement on Le Croc’s ugly face. And once again his huge hands out to the side like, What’s this got to do with me?

  When later he told me that he threatened to kill him, my eyes nearly jumped out of my head.

  Jean-Louis said his main worry had always been for his position at Le Grande Hôtel. If they learned that he did jobs for the gang, he’d have been fired and wouldn’t have been able to send money to his Bamako family farm. Now that he lost that job, the worst had happened and Le Croc no longer had anything on him.

  “I thought you were scared of him?” I said.

  “Not anymore,” he said. He realized Le Croc only ever came after people who won’t fight back.

  “People like me who are dumb enough to get into one of his cars?” I said.

  “He runs a small criminal business,” Jean-Louis explained. “He can’t afford trouble. His son Robert is stupid and causes him nothing but trouble. Someday he will cause trouble with the men who have real power and that will be the end of Le Croc. His son is his weakness.”

  Jean-Louis took me to the airport the next day. He was as happy as I’d seen him. I was his first customer for his new limo business, he told me. And my ride was gratuit.

  He parked the borrowed Mercedes at the airport not far from where I started my African journey and walked me inside the terminal. He stayed with me until I flashed my new passport—that’s another story—and said he’d wait until he saw my plane take off, just in case, for any reason, I might need a ride back into Abidjan.

  I hope this letter finds you, and you receive it with all my love and pride. Know that I’m here when you’re ready to write.

  My son is my strength.

  Love,

  Dad

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to thank Don Nay for his knowledge of US embassies especially in the area and at the time of this story.

  And Kim Rudolph-Lund for knowing how to drill for water in regions like the Sahel.

  And the old International Harvester Company, before it fell into bankruptcy, for sending me to those places Matt visited from Abidjan through to Ouagadougou.

  I also wish to thank my most thorough and helpful readers Tom Gething, Ken Jautz, Rich and Chris Goetz, Jesse Katz, J. P. Wearing, Don Nay, Patric Hale, Bill Neal, Cindy Rinaldi, and Hanne Rudolph.

  And many thanks to my son, Kris Rudolph, for his terrific cover art. See his other creative work at http://www.a.bbtdesigns.com

  My thanks to everybody!

  About the Author

  M L Rudolph has worked around the world for CNN among other American and British television companies. He has written for general interest and trade publications. Rudolph is a dual US/UK national and lives in Pasadena, CA. His first job involved extensive travel in West Africa. This novel is just the beginning…

  Watch for

  Pasadena
Payback

  by

  M L Rudolph

  Coming in 2012