The Hangman's Replacement: Sprout of Disruption (BOOK 1)

by Taona Dumisani Chiveneko

  Vaida composed herself.

  “But can this Rhesus be trusted? Maybe he exaggerated the story to make it more scandalous. For all he knows, Kristabelle could have been ‘vocalizing’ because Abel was thrashing the mascara out of her armpit hairs. My man can spot a dung nugget from a mile away. He is more likely to trash it than fornicate with it.”

  Anala sighed.

  “I wish that was the case. However, another source confirmed that Kristabelle was unusually happy for the rest of the week.”

  “Maybe she was pretending. Kristabelle loves attention. That woman breathes the envy of others. What better way to boost her self-esteem than by wearing her ‘I am having great sex!’ face?”

  “Listen, Vaida. She had …. Kristabelle had ‘The Glow’.”

  Vaida bit her lip. Her denial pled ignorance of the term.

  “The Glow? … ”

  “Yes, Vaida. The Glow.”

  Vaida blinked in confusion. Anala repositioned herself to counsel her friend from the depths of denial.

  “We both know that this world is full of uninspired lovers. Sadly, we women are often forced to settle for what we get. With time, we accept the lackadaisical loving. It becomes the norm. The pleasurable mediocrity. We resign ourselves to never finding that transformative sexual experience. The creature is as real as a four-dimensional object: interesting but inconceivable to most of us who have three dimensional desires.

  “So it doesn’t matter how hard we try. No woman can fake the glow of an experience that’s as accessible as theoretical physics. The Glow cannot be conjured with makeup. Neither can it be reproduced by a vivacious personality. Even a night with a great lover will only produce ‘The Sheen’: a skin-deep glaze that fades within the hour. But The Glow? It lasts for at least a week. It releases its heat steadily from your core … like a boulder that’s been baked in a giant furnace.”

  Anala put both arms on Vaida’s shoulder and looked her straight in the eyes.

  “Vaida, a starving man still looks malnourished even if he convinces himself that he’s well fed. A prisoner behind bars will always look like a captive, even if he smiles and revels in the freedom of his own mind. So just like food and freedom, The Glow is the very expression of liberty itself. It cannot be faked by an artful performance. Not even by the likes of Kristabelle. Only the night-long diligence of an able lover can produce it. A lover who can execute manoeuvres which can reach into your body and unravel The Glow from the blueprint of your scepticism. The prison bars are lifted. The spirit is fed. When you have The Glow, it means you have been touched by more than the prints on your lover hands. It means you have found freedom … I had it once …”

  Anala closed her eyes. When the torment of retrospect released her, she refocused on Vaida.

  “Kristabelle has had many lovers over the years. If those experiences were memorable for her, their impact was only strong enough to produce The Sheen. But after Abel Muranda spent the night at her home, she had The Glow for the entire week.”

  Vaida’s head was spinning. Her vision was blurred. Objects in the room were flying all over the place. The nausea failed to overwhelm her, but her war against it was ferocious.

  “Why did you tell me all this, Anala?”

  “I think you know, Vaida. Kristabelle is a cunning little hyena. She didn’t ask Rhesus to stay because she needed a get-away driver for Abel. She wanted a witness to confirm what happened. Preferably, a witness without discretion. Kristabelle must have known that Rhesus would not keep his mouth shut. He is trying to make a name for himself in the Gondo network so he is likely to pass on interesting information to a senior member. I am the natural choice. Rhesus owes me. I got him out of Mazambuko three years before the end of his sentence. His loyalty to me is widely known.”

  “Are you saying that Kristabelle knew I would come to see you after fifteen years?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she wanted me to learn this … news … through you?”

  “Yes, Vaida. Your decision to visit me was anticipated by many people before you even telegraphed your intention to drive out here. This may surprise you, but your emotional reaction to Abel Muranda blunted your survival instincts. You thought you were stripping your clothes to trap him. Unfortunately, the act only stripped away the camouflage that was keeping you safe in a jungle full of predators. Everyone noticed, including Kristabelle and the people who want Abel Muranda to become the hangman’s replacement. Luckily, I convinced Moses to defend you from the latter. The best defence against the former is to – ”

  “Yes, I know, Anala. I should ignore both her and Abel Muranda.”

  Vaida shook her head.

  “The bitch …”

  “Yes, the bitch noticed you stripping too. Kristabelle fed her lust for Abel and spite towards you through the same act. But she won’t get any satisfaction if she can’t provoke you with it. If you allow her, she will torture you relentlessly. Kristabelle will find creative ways to do so. Her unusual method of notifying you of her night with Abel is just a start. She hedged her bets. She knew that the assassins had been sent to kill you. If they had captured you, they would have told you about Kristabelle’s debauchery before murdering you. Because of Moses, she had to settle for the second means of notification. Me.”

  “Is she colluding with the people who want to kill me?”

  “No. She just learned of the contract on your head and made an ‘adjunct request’ to the assassins. Many of these killers are willing to take bonuses for adding special requests to pre-existing jobs. Usually, the primary client just wants the result and is unconcerned by the methods. If a secondary request can be honoured without conflicting with the terms of the primary contract, the assassins are happy to recover twice for the same job.”

  “These people have really thought things through. What a world.”

  “You have no idea, Vaida. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about Kristabelle. Apart from her spiteful plot to hurt you emotionally, she poses no additional danger. Ignore her. Some fights are won by refusing to fight.”

  Vaida crossed her hands at her chest. Her eyes were vacant.

  “I am sorry,” said Anala.

  “Don’t be,” replied Vaida. “I am glad I came here. I am glad you told me all this. I now know what I am up against.”

  “You plan to fight?”

  “On all fronts.”

  Anala shook her head.

  “My girl won’t quit.”

  “Never.”

  “So be it.”

  Anala smiled briefly before a sombre expression reclaimed her face.

  “In that case, there are things you need to know before Edith wakes up. I told you that I don’t know much about Abel Muranda. However, I have heard things which concern him. Things that may be useful for your foolish efforts on his behalf.”

  “My foolish efforts will appreciate any information that could make me less foolish.”

  “Of course. Before I start, I must warn you that the injection I gave you can mess with your brain. It can disrupt your ability to distinguish between what is realistic from what is incredible. This side effect can last a few hours. However, it will be to your advantage. A rational mind would find it difficult to digest what I am about to share.”

  “I am prepared. If I were thinking rationally, I would not have broken a fifteen-year silence by endangering a friend for a selfish purpose.”

  “Your purpose is not selfish. In fact, it’s foolish because it’s selfless. The real problem is that you picked the wrong battle to express your altruism.”

  Anala shrugged.

  “Now, Vaida, keep in mind that I have not verified all this information. Neither can I tell you how all the pieces are connected. I’ll share my assessments, but they will not be better informed than your own. Let me make you another cup of tea. Don’t let this one go cold.”

  * * *

  The Man With Sunken Eyes

  “Vaida. Do you remember the client with the sunken eyes? The
awkward British man whom Tongai Gejo brought to the house one evening?”

  “How could I forget a white foreigner who spoke fluent Shona? That caught me off guard.”

  “Tell me how you serviced him.”

  “Wait a minute, Anala. Am I mistaken or are you asking me to defrost your loins after more than fifteen years? I didn’t know that sort of thing excited you.”

  “Defrost? Don’t be silly Vaida. The thought of any sexual contact with that man is upsetting. The very suggestion has plunged my loins into an ice age. I have other reasons for asking. At the time, you only spoke of the visit in passing. I did not ask for the details because the incident meant nothing to me back then. After all, clients often made strange requests. But since then, I have learned of other things that shine a new light on that man’s visit. Just tell me what happened. You will soon know why the story is important.”

  “Well, as you said, Tongai brought the man to the house one evening. I took him straight to my room. He had an air of urgency about him so I got down to business right away. I changed into my colourful ‘jungle queen’ outfit. I figured that if the man had endured a twelve-hour flight to get laid in Zimbabwe, he must have been looking for the ‘African touch’.”

  “Didn’t you find that stereotype offensive?”

  “Of course not. The stereotype is the father of the exotic. The exotic is profitable. Why would I undermine my business by staining my client’s fantasies with facts? If some idiot wants to pay a generous fee to live out an exotic dream, who am I to stop him? As long as the fantasy does not involve pain or injury on my part, I won’t turn my back to a pregnant wallet. I will play the supportive midwife.”

  Anala shook her head. Vaida placed her hand on her shoulder.

  “But I know that you never bought into the ‘customer service’ view of the business, Anala. For you, the customers were always right if they adjusted their needs to suit your worldview about sexuality. They could never be too imaginative.”

  “That is why I worked as little as possible. Just enough to earn my keep. The business was a temporary refuge for me, Vaida. Had I not found Lazarus, I would have left as soon as I raised enough money for a ticket back home.”

  “I know,” replied Vaida.

  “So was the client looking for the ‘African touch’?”

  “Well, it was not the sort of touch I had in mind. When I walked into the bedroom in my outfit, the man seemed uncomfortable. He did not even look at me below the neck. He just locked his sunken eyes on mine. His eyes were buried deep in his skull, but they had a glint that easily made them the most prominent feature on his face. We lay down on the bed. He continued to avoid looking at my body. He was tense.”

  “What colour were his eyes?”

  “Green, maybe? It was hard to tell. They were so small and sunken. The house had overhead lighting everywhere, including in my bedroom. The ridges over his eyes protruded like umbrellas. They shielded his eyeballs from any direct light. The little light that was reflected into them from the surroundings simply made them sparkle.”

  “Interesting,” Anala muttered to herself. Vaida continued.

  “I looked at his hands. They were large and strong. His knuckles protruded to the same extent that his eyes retreated into his skull. Extending from those hands was a burly pair of arms. They were covered by a thick mat of hair, but their muscular definition was unmistakable. My instincts told me to talk about his hands.”

  * * *

  Don’t tell me. You are an artisan, right?

  How did you know?

  You have the hands of a man who likes to shape things.

  You are right! I am an artisan. A craftsman. A creator. What more do you see my fortune-telling queen?

  You work mostly with wood.

  Fascinating! ... But wait a minute. Mr. Gejo must have told you all this.

  You know he didn’t. Mr. Gejo doesn’t like to ruin a surprise. He knows I provide better customer service when I use my intuition. Otherwise, I am just a robot taking instructions. If you wanted a robot, he would have taken you to someone else. Do I look like a robot to you, Mr. Crabworthy?

  No! You an intriguing woman. Very un-robot-like. Tell me more about me. How do you know I prefer to work with wood?

  You do not wear protective gloves. I see that most of the scars on your hands were caused by splinters. The others were caused by your own tools. However, you sustained these wounds early in your career. Your skills improved quickly. It has been a while since you seriously injured yourself.

  Intriguing. Continue to espouse!

  You rarely work with metal.

  How can you tell?

  Your arms are shaped like two planks of wood. Not a hint of metal.

  Really?

  No. I was joking.

  Ha! Ha! That was truly funny. Metal.

  Yes. Metal. You do not work with it much. Metalwork frequently involves welding. But since you never work with gloves, there is no way you could avoid suffering burns from the sparks. Your hands and arms would be spotted like a cheetah. They are not.

  This is amazing, Vaida! Your knowledge of carpentry and metalwork are not bad. However, you did get one thing wrong. I do work with metal. Of course, not as often as I work with wood, but not infrequently either. You are right that I do not wear gloves. But I always lather my hands with a flame-retardant foam. It’s not as effective as gloves, but it is strong enough to prevent scarring. If you look closely, I have a few speckled burns on my arms where some unruly sparks broke through the foam. You can’t see them clearly in this light because they are hidden by all this hair.

  Those burns must have hurt a lot, Mr. Crabworthy?

  They did at first. But over time, the sparks burn less and less. My skin has toughened from the regular exposure, I guess.

  But I hope you use goggles?

  Of course. No matter how tough a man gets, his eyes will never become immune to the light of a blow torch. His retinas will always remain as delicate as those of the lovely ladies he burns himself to impress. Ladies such as yourself ... And my wife.

  You love your work, don’t you, Mr. Crabworthy?

  Mightily! I must have been a deity in a past life. I love to create things. And I love the things I create.

  What do you love more? Your creations or the money you make from selling them?

  Above all, I love the process of creation. The product is merely the culmination of the effort, the physical testament to my talent. The money I get from selling my creations is only important because it feeds my family. If I had no wife and children, I would consider it blood money. Deities create out of necessity, not profit.

  You have children? They must be so much fun.

  I do! They are! Both are very cute. Both are very expensive. You would be amazed how much money you can spend on toddlers. They can barely walk or talk, and yet they can burn through a lot of cash with little effort.

  I wouldn’t know. But I imagine that you lavish every penny you have on your children.

  I wish. The government takes almost half of my income.

  What! Why?

  It’s called ‘tax’, Vaida. It has sent shivers down the spines of productive citizens for millennia. However, the word has an orgasmic effect on the parasitic class. It flows down their ear canals like honey. Of course, they have enough time to enjoy the slow ooze. They spend much of the day sitting on their backsides while the rest of us work.

  I cannot stand lazy people, Mr. Crabworthy. We don’t have a social safety net in Zimbabwe. If you don’t work, you starve. Pure and simple. I work hard for my money. There is no way I will share it with those who refuse to work.

  Oh! I feel vindicated! I wish there were more people like you in Britain, Vaida. You know, it is often noted that the only things in life you cannot avoid are death and taxes. How I wish that death was limited to those who levy taxes. They should be strung up with their own purse strings and hung till they are dead, dead, dead! ...

  Yes, Mr. Crab
worthy. Dead ... I see your mind is preoccupied with something important. A penny for you thoughts? The British government is not here to tax our transaction.

  Thank goodness for that. I have a lot to share about this subject. If Her Majesty could tax my thoughts, I would owe more in taxes than my total income. Those lefties are skilled in the art of robbing the productive to feed the lazy. What else can you expect from a country where Robin Hood remains a folk hero?

  Robin Hood? The outlaw?

  Yes! The outlaw! Thank you! That’s all he was: a bandit and a scoundrel. Theft was his occupation. He was a philanderer, too, I hear.

  Well, I can’t judge him for the latter sin, but the thieving habit was unforgivable. Why didn’t that man just get a job?

  Because he was the Patron Saint of Socialism before that evil ideology had a name. Socialists love to talk about the ‘workers’. But if they work, why are they always poor?

  True. But I also read that Robin Hood helped those who were oppressed by the aristocracy.

  Sure, most of the wealthy people were also lazy bastards. They ate, got fat, developed gout, and fornicated. The king at the time was also a crook. He loved to tax the nuts off his subjects. The hardworking citizens were caught between the nobility and the lazy. They took it from both ends. But those days are gone. The royalty has stepped away from governance. We now live in a market economy where the modern Briton has to work for his money. He can make a fortune regardless of his social rank. Even the few who inherit titles or great fortunes can no longer treat their employees like serfs. So in many ways, we have moved forward. We now have a democracy were the citizens are free to pick their brand of incompetence. They often do.

  What are serfs?

  People destined for a life of servitude.

  That’s not nice, Mr. Crabworthy.

  My hatred for serfs, or the fact that such a system existed?