The Story of Michael

by Damien Dsoul

  Title Page

  THE STORY OF MICHAEL

  The Makings of a Boi-Slave

  By

  Damien Dsoul

  Publisher Information

  The Story Of Michael Published in 2012 by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Copyright © Damien Dsoul 2012

  The right of Damien Dsoul to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Part One

  All I’m going to tell you happened exactly as I’m about to tell it. There might be some details I left out. Trust me, it’s for your own good. The least you know, the better you are.

  ***

  GIRLFRIEND MISSING

  I opened the front door of my home and there were two men in suits standing there at my parent’s front porch. Their suits were grey; there was a car parked beside our driveway. They looked official. One of them enquired if I was Michael Paymer; I replied yes I was. As if knowing what my next question would be, both of them reached into their jacket and whipped out their badges. They were security officials from the State Department. They asked if they could come inside for a minute and speak with him. I was curious whatever it was they wanted to speak to me about but a minute later they mentioned my girlfriend’s name and then I knew they weren’t kidding.

  The men’s names were Arnoldson and Clarence. Arnoldson, the one who’d shown me his badge, was older with grey hair, somewhere in his fifties, with a voice that made him sound like someone from Texas or down south; Clarence appeared to be in his early thirties, black and a mid-westerner. I was the only one at home and I was glad for that; my parents would have been unsettled and stirred some reaction had they been there to hear them tell me everything I needed to know about the last whereabouts of my girlfriend Catherine and her parents.

  It had been four days since last time I saw Catherine; her and her parents had left the country heading to Nigeria. She hadn’t wanted to go and she’d complained to me about it and I’d sympathize with her, knowing it would upset her parents if she declined to go. I’d expected her to call me once she arrived but so far not a word. I knew the flight was a long one though I hadn’t heard from her since. I would have called had I known what hotel she and her parents had checked into and it was the early part of summer I knew they wouldn’t be back till month’s end ... if not more. Not something I was happy about, but I could wait. I knew she would return to me.

  But this was something I wasn’t expecting to hear. My girlfriend and her parents missing, presumed kidnapped. It really took the wind out of my sails.

  “When was the last time you saw her?” the older one, Arnoldson asked me the question and I told him the last time I’d seen Catherine.

  “Have your received any phone call from her since last time you saw her?”

  I answered no, I haven’t. I didn’t even know where they were staying except the city they’d gone to - Abuja, it was called.

  Clarence took out an envelope from his jacket and poured out some photos and presented them to me. There were faces of other Americans who were as well declared missing, he explained. All of them had one time or another being spending quality time and holiday in West Africa but had suddenly upped and vanished without so much as a trace. I picked up the snapshot of Catherine from amongst the pictures there. My heart was aching; I felt like crying. Once again I looked at them to make sure this wasn’t some silly prank being played on me and the grave look on their faces reminded me again that it wasn’t.

  The older detective, Arnoldson, was saying something but I wasn’t listening. Finally he snapped his finger and that made me raise my head.

  “Were you paying attention, Mr. Paymer?” he asked me.

  “Yes ... yes, sir, I was. You mentioned that all this happened down in West Africa?”

  “Specifically between Nigeria and Ghana,” Clarence answered. “Though there’ve been happenings in other African countries as well as in Asia, but this one has gotten quite a spike.”

  “My God. I never knew. What do you think will happen to Catherine and her parents?”

  Both men exchanged glances with each other, fidgeting, not knowing whether to answer my question or not. I think Clarence wanted to but didn’t wish to break protocol. It was Arnoldson who answered.

  “We’re still working on getting them back. This white slavery racket is much too technical for me to explain our efforts right now. What we’d like you to do is maintain silence about this. So far you’re the only one we’ve contacted about this and we’d like for it to remain that way. Also, should in case any of the victims - your girlfriend - should manage to contact you, I’d advice you contact us right away about this.” He reached into his front pocket and took out a card and gave it to me and told me to reach him anytime.

  They left me with Catherine’s photos, once again apologised for my trouble and then left. I stood by the doorway and watched them enter their car and drive off. Everything was back to normal again, except nothing was. I felt so lost I didn’t know what next to do, or how to get my head around all what had just being said to me. My girlfriend Catherine and her parents and several others kidnapped in Africa ... I could feel the onset of a migraine coming on to me. I shut the door and ran upstairs to fetch the migraine pills from my medicine cabinet and popped one into my mouth. I was panting like I’d just ran a race. I fell to the floor holding the photo of Catherine to my face. I was crying even before I realised it.

  My parents returned home hours later. I was up in my bedroom and didn’t realize when they’re arrived until I heard a knock on my door and my Mom opened my door and stuck into my room to know if I was out at the gym already. I told her my sparring partner had called earlier saying he had a flu and wouldn’t make it. The truth was I was combing through the net searching out more of the subject regarding kidnapping of foreigners in Africa, focusing my attention on Nigeria which was where Catherine and her parents had journeyed to. There was a wealth of information to be found regarding the subject, and my only problem was having time sifting through everything that was written about it in numerous foreign newspapers as well as those in Nigerian press papers; little of it was found in American editions. I was being mechanical in my search. I didn’t want something that would take me the entire week or more to read through. I selected the important ones and printed them out and lay on my bed perusing them. I read of how the alleged history of the nefarious activity, dating as far back as the early twentieth century, and how with time it had depreciated and then gotten a resurgence during the period the country had ditched its military lifestyle and accepted Democratic leadership which had done little to curtail the corrupt malignance occurring in the country’s underbelly. The activity had assumed the form of a cancerous cell, spreading its tentacles as well as getting bolder in its works and yet somehow it had continued to remain one of the world’s best kept secret. It was seldom being debated in the U.N. even here in the U.S., much of the talk was about the war in Afghanistan and the ongoing tragedy happening in the Middle East; Africa was taking a backseat in the world’s eyes. The African governments themselves were at a loss at how to tackle the subject. A lot of the reasons why, I came to realize the more I read, came down to greed, corrupt
ion, rebel-militant groups, and inefficient executive policies to combat the crime wave.

  I got thirsty and went downstairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water and made myself a sandwich and went back to my room to continue with my reading. Done with whatever I’d read, I returned to my computer and searched out some more editorials and printed them out. I wondered if by any chance the two State Department fellows knew as much about this subject as I was finding out. Obviously they must have - this was too big for anyone not to be aware of, especially since it now involved Americans. They should know ... right?

  The hours seemed to pass by without my noticing. When I looked up out my window I wasn’t surprised to see it had become dark outside. With some reluctance I threw the papers on the floor and changed into my night clothes and went to bed; I slept with Catherine’s photograph lying next to my face.

  The following day I resumed my reading. I didn’t go out and that was so unlike me - it was summer, and there’s always somewhere to go or something to do around now, but my mind was all focused on Catherine. The more I read about the white slavery kidnapping the more I felt it drew me closer to wherever she might be. I got a sense of whatever hurt she might be passing through right at that moment. A moment came and I stood up and cried out. It felt like I was getting mad or something, and in a way I was. My girlfriend and her parents were out there down in Nigeria, lost and afraid, kidnapped by people who meant to do them harm, and here I was feeling hopeless and unable to come to their aid. I was getting weary of the reading I was doing. I took a break and using my cell phone I got out Arnoldson’s card and called his number. He picked up the phone and asked how things were going with the investigation.

  “Pretty slow right now,” he answered. “But we’re still on top of it. Have you received any call, by any chance?”

  “NO, no sir, I haven’t.”

  That didn’t seem to make him happy; it didn’t make me happy either. We said goodbye and then hung up. I had Catherine’s picture in my hand, staring at her smiling feature; I’d never felt so depressed as I was that evening.

  Everything was just too big for me alone to handle. What I needed was someone who was more into this type of investigative work than me. I knew little about Africa and never once had I cared to know little or nothing about the continent until now. I wasn’t all that naive about what happened there though. I, just like almost every other American, only heard about what happened over there based on what I sometimes saw on CNN and from much of what I remember I knew it wasn’t the sort of place I would want to spend my summer vacation and can’t wonder for the likes of me what Catherine’s parents’ reasons might have been to go there and end up like this.

  It got too hard for me to think and I changed my clothes and decided to go out for a walk.

  I must have walked three blocks but my head was still raging with inability to do anything. I was trying to piece together all what I’d read into one concise folder and merge it with how much it concerned my girlfriend and her parents. I couldn’t shake out the thoughts of them being overpowered and held captive by some bunch of savages. The State Department fellow Arnoldson said they were on top of it, but I kind of doubted that. Even if they were, I didn’t want to go by how they were doing it. What I needed was some type of help ... or at least someone who could point me in the right direction to what I need to do.

  The streets were somewhat crowded. I remembered then that there was a local band performing at the park not far from where I was; that seemed to be where everyone was going. Three of my friends spotted me from his car and yelled at me to join them but I went a different direction. I wasn’t in a happy mood and didn’t feel like sharing in any type of merriment, not when my love was out in the world lost to me.

  I was walking past a book shop when I stopped. Something caught my attention and it was a book on the front display glass: I came closer and read the name. ‘THADDEUS BLACK - The Devil Owns the Night’, and it had a ‘bestseller’ tag slapped on its cover jacket. It sounded like something a mystery detective would write and curiosity got the better of me as I went into the shop and flipped through its front page and made up my mind right away to purchase it. I looked at the author’s name. ‘Damien Dsoul’, it said. I’d never heard of him before. I returned home with the book in hand feeling that I’d done something good at least for today.

  It took me two days to read the novel from beginning to end; I neglected reading any more of the white slavery stuff. It was an erotic novel, although a good one too, and it read more like a thriller about this private-eye detective who seemed to have an incorrigible fetish for white women investigating the case of a white teenager who’d being kidnapped while he was with her. Done with the book I went online and tried to find out much of what I could about the writer.

  Turns out he was a Nigerian and at the moment residing in Washington D.C. I went to his website and even subscribed to his erotic blog and perused some of the stuff he’d written regarding married white women wanting black men as lovers. It was crazy and controversial and I could only imagine what type of people would be attracted to such articles. I clicked on his profile page and got his phone number and other information as to how to contact him and I wrote down his number and went outside and dialled it. My first thought was that it was a fake number, some sort of gimmick his publishers had put up to stonewall nosy fans from reaching out at him, but to my amazement the number did actually ring and a man’s voice did answer the phone, leaving me speechless for a moment.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, excuse me, am I speaking with the writer known as Damien Dsoul?”

  “Yeah, this is him. Who’re you and what’re you calling about?”

  I told him my name and where I lived and about me reading his book and enjoying it. It was really brilliant. What I really wanted to ask him, which I did, was how much of what he wrote was actually real. He grapple with my words before he gave me an answer.

  “Real? The hell are you talking about real? If you want stuff that’s real, go read someone’s biography and quit wasting my time.”

  “No, sir, please ... I apologize for that. What I meant to say is ... the whole detective-type of thing you wrote about, it felt so real and I was wondering who or what inspired you to really tell a story like that?”

  “A lot of things got me inspired. Look, be honest with me and tell me what’s really on your mind.”

  I bit down on my tongue, thought about the consequences of what I was about to do, then did it anyway. “Okay sir, I’m going to level with you. I have a girlfriend named Catherine and she and her parents traveled to Nigeria more than a week ago. Two days ago, two men paid me a visit saying they were from the State Department and they told me my girlfriend and her parents are missing. I know this might sound like a lie, but it’s the God-honest truth and I’m trying to think of whatever means I can help.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Michael. You’ve got my sympathies and whatever else, but I still don’t know what you’d want me to do or how to help you out.”

  I was pacing up and down without even realizing it. My body seemed wired for no reason. I looked at my house wanting to make sure neither my parents was watching me. I good thing I wasn’t standing behind the back or out in the front for them to see how excited I was.

  “Well, sir, I think you just might. Your writing ... I couldn’t help but wonder if you might know of real-life detectives out there. Someone who could sort of ... I’m paraphrasing here ... tell me how to go about finding a means of rescuing my girlfriend and her parents.”

  He laughed into my ear. “You’re not serious, are you?”

  I stopped, feeling a little anger crawl into my voice. “Yes ... yes sir, I am very serious. This is my girlfriend we’re talking about.”

  “And I’m shaken by it, but what you’re asking me ... I still don’t get what you want. You want me
to link you to some detective or another whom I worked with who could put you through to what you want to do about getting your girl back. Is that what you’re asking me? Am I getting you straight, or am I wrong?”

  I inhaled deeply. “Yes sir, that’s what I’m asking about. Can you help me, please?”

  I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I heard him say: “Okay, sure, I’ll help you.”

  Then I let loose my breath. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you very much.”

  “But what I’m going to tell you must remain strictly between me and you. Never are you to mention it to anyone. I’ll be really mad if I get a similar call from some other guy wanting my help or another, you understand me?”

  “Yes sir, I do.”

  He told me to send him via text my contact information: phone number, email address and home address. I asked him why and he said it was for insurance and that I shouldn’t worry that he wasn’t going to use it at all. I ended our phone conversation and quickly texted him the information he wanted and he replied to me and said someone would be in touch with me soon.

  I couldn’t believe the call I’d just made. The whole thing felt so strange that I’d actually just spoken with a writer and asked him for assistance on something and he too had decided to help me ... it wasn’t the sort of thing most people often bragged about. Nothing else to do, feeling elated by what I just did, I returned to the house went upstairs to my bedroom and took out Catherine’s picture and lay on the bed staring at her smiling eyes. She was my angel. We have talked about getting married once we were done with school; I even tattooed her initials on my biceps some weeks back. I doubt if I could live well without her in my life.

  I must have slept off because when my eyes came awake there was the sound of my phone vibrating and ringing next to my ear. I looked at it too dazed to be sure if it was actually ringing, and then the line went dead. Sleep went off my eyes and I sat up and looked at the number. It was an unknown. I dialed the number and waited for whoever it was to pick up.