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

by Taona Dumisani Chiveneko

  Both.

  Oh, I guess you are right. The serfs cannot be blamed for their lack of resourcefulness. However, they eventually revolted and changed their destiny. Tragically, as with most revolutions, things got out of hand. The medieval serf evolved into the modern leftist politician. He has used his new powers to unleash vindictive taxes on society’s most productive people. I too have been struck by the debris, you know? So it’s no surprise that the lazy will neither be reformed nor become extinct. Not as long as the welfare state survives to enable them. With luck, my comrades and I will launch a successful counterrevolution. We will end state-sponsored fiscal torture in Britain.

  Your comrades?

  Yes. I am the founding treasurer of an organization called CASS-FT. Citizens Against State-Sponsored Fiscal Torture. We raise funds and campaign on behalf of anti-taxation candidates running for Parliament. Our group is making good progress. With luck and enthusiasm, we will end the British welfare state within three election cycles. Mark my words.

  Consider them marked, Mr. Crabworthy. Consider them marked.

  Splendid! So what are your views on taxation, Vaida? Something tells me we are kindred spirits on that front.

  Well, to be honest, I have never given the subject much thought. I do not pay income tax in my line of work. Besides, my body is already taxed enough in this business. That’s why I am finding it so refreshing to talk to someone who wants to work my brain instead. And what an intriguing tool to do it with: a conversation about how governments use civic duty as an excuse to raid our wallets.

  Are you making fun of me, Vaida?

  Of course not! Why would you think that?

  Well, it’s just that ... you know ... I don’t meet many people who are excited by this sort of thing. In fact, I rarely meet people who find me interesting as a person. Is it because I am paying you?

  No. Sure, if you were not paying, I wouldn’t have let you in. But now that you are in, why can’t I enjoy our conversation? Payment and enjoyment often don’t go together, but once in a while there is a welcome exception. This visit falls into that category.

  I’m chuffed, Vaida. Truly.

  You should be, Mr. Crabworthy. You describe things so clearly that I don’t have to struggle to understand or relate to your values.

  Well, thank you, Vaida. I’ve had a lot of time to articulate my thoughts on the issue of taxation.

  Clearly. You know, Mr. Crabworthy, it can take years to truly know someone. But if you can find a way to isolate a person’s values, you can understand them much faster than friends who have known them for years. After our conversation, I feel like I have known you forever. This does not happen often.

  Why, this is so wonderful, Vaida.

  It is. Now back to taxation. Even if I wanted to donate money to the state, I wouldn’t know where to take my money. Fortunately, I do not have to share my cash with the government. In fact, it would be pointless to do so because that’s where much of my income comes from anyway. If I returned any of it, I would earn it all back before the bureaucracy even processed my payment.

  That is a brilliant analysis! Absolutely, mind-blowing!

  No, Mr. Crabworthy. It’s common sense. But as someone once said—

  Common sense is extremely uncommon!

  Right! I can see no scenario in which it makes sense to donate to the government. I have neither the time to waste, nor the generosity to fake. My civic duty extends no further than sharing my talents with the men of this country ... and their guests of course.

  Of course.

  I too am an artisan, Mr. Crabworthy. You use your hands to make art that people experience with their eyes. I use my hands to make art that my clients experience in other ways.

  With their minds, Vaida! With their minds!

  True, but some more than others. Either way, I don’t see a role for government anywhere in my expressive equation.

  None! Nowhere!

  I hope you succeed, Mr. Crabworthy. You are one of those men who the British people will speak of fondly one day.

  Fondly ...

  A man who was willing to be the voice in the wilderness.

  Wilderness ...

  A man who witnessed a country plagued by laziness and pointed it out when others did not have the courage to do so.

  Courage!

  Maybe one day, you and your organization will have a monument built in your honour. Right in the middle of London.

  CASS-FT would want such a monument in Ipswich. Your point is well taken, though.

  It’s not a point, Mr. Crabworthy. It’s a prophecy of your legacy.

  Quite so! Quite verily so! My goodness!

  You will be remembered as the artisan who sent the British welfare state to the gallows.

  Sing credence! ...

  Anala was spellbound.

  “‘Sing credence.’ What the hell is that?”

  “A testament to my talents, Anala. It’s called versatility. It means I am just as effective with clients looking for intellectual prostitution.”

  “Vaida, you always knew how to find the soft spot buried in the armpit of any deviant. I don’t know how you do it.”

  “I am a curious person. I read widely. I watch the world around me. My curiosity helps me to learn things that make for stimulating conversations when directed at the right person.”

  “It makes me wonder where you have travelled and which libraries you borrow your books from. The things you learn seem to appeal to characters with strange tastes.”

  “Not really, Anala. My curiosity simply gives me a broad base of ordinary information that gives me a foothold into their extraordinary world views.”

  “Maybe, Vaida. But your real talent is that you have learned to read people better than you read books. You know the person they want to see when they look in the mirror. You can bridge any gulf between the flattering image and its unremarkable reality. That is what you did to the man with the sunken eyes. You made him believe that you hated taxation as much as he did. And yet, you only learned to hate it the moment he shared his thoughts on the subject. Little did he know that throughout your conversation he was actually having intellectual sex with a more attractive reflection of himself.”

  “Exactly. He only wanted to be validated by a female manifestation of his worldview. I conjured her up and let her smother him with loving solidarity.”

  “And the poor bastard didn’t even understand the mechanics of his deception.”

  “I didn’t deceive him. I helped him deceive himself to fulfillment. I was just the reflection, remember. I could not defy the subject. I simply mimicked his movements. The only difference is that I looked better doing the motions because I have nicer hips.”

  “I am sure he noticed. You always know the right postures to assume in front of clients.”

  “That’s why my hospitality business is the most popular in Harare. Maybe I should coin a slogan too? How about: ‘Vaida’s place: We also move things ... As long as your needs are above your knees and within your means.’”

  “That reminds me why I left the business as soon as I could. Apart from Lazarus, nothing above a man’s knees ever gave me any excitement. So what happened after your tax-hating client yelled ‘sing credence’?”

  “Nothing. He rolled over on the bed and clutched his chest. He was heaving. His shirt was soaked with sweat.”

  “He kept his clothes on the entire time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you touch him?”

  “No.”

  “Did he touch you?”

  “No.”

  “Did he touch—”

  “No.”

  “Did you—”

  “No.”

  “So it was a hands-off affair all round?”

  “We were physically chaste in every possible combination. But mentally, we did it.”

  “Death and taxes? His poor wife must be so miserable. Even I feel gloomy after hearing this story. Vaida, it’s official. My loins will
never emerge from the ice age.”

  “Well, I plunged his loins into the fires of hell. In the process, I unleashed an army of pent-up demons. I must have been an exorcist in a former life.”

  “And how did Mr. Crabworthy pay for his exorcism?”

  “He refused to pay. He later confessed that he had not planned to do so all along. At least not with money. Apparently, that would have been prostitution.”

  “Of course.”

  “However, he insisted on giving me a gift.”

  “What was it?”

  “A pair of contact lens.”

  * * *

  If You Touch Me I Will Kill You

  “Mr. Crabworthy gave you a pair of contact lenses? Hmm …” Anala’s voice was barely audible. It sounded like she was talking to herself. “Go on,” she urged Vaida.

  “He told me the lenses would come in useful with one of my upcoming clients.”

  “Another one of Gejo’s referrals?”

  “He did not say, but that was my assumption. Mr. Crabworthy told me that the client loved women with black eyes. They were the only feature on a woman that got him excited.”

  “You mean black irises? The coloured parts of the eyeballs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you wear these lenses with this next client?”

  “I did. He came by the next day. I will never forget that man. He was the happiest person I have ever met. Everything was a blessing to him. Life. Democracy. Solar panels. My smile. Even the fading rainbow that was ‘hugging Harare like a satisfied lover after an amazing night of coitus’. He even found something positive to say about the wilting flowers in my garden. That man smiled so much that I wondered whether the muscles in his face had been frozen in that position. He had large brown eyes, which were constantly filled with wonder, an ongoing sense of awe with the world.”

  “What type of service did he want?”

  “Something different. It was as untraditional as Mr. Crabworthy’s fantasy. He asked if we could go somewhere quiet. I realized that Tongai Gejo had told him about the basement. I took him down there and asked him how he wanted to proceed. He told me that he wanted me to tie him to the bed. Ordinary enough, right?”

  “For a start.”

  “After binding him to the bed, I was to sit on top of him and tickle him viciously. However, I had to do so while looking into his eyes. Before we started, he told me that no matter what he said during the session, I was not to untie him. I was to ignore any of his pleas or threats. He made me promise to follow his instructions. His eyes and tone remained friendly, but, for the first time, I saw a hint of a more tempered personality. I agreed to comply with his request.

  “After securing his diaper, I asked him once more if he really wanted to be tickled. He nodded vigorously. He was so happy. The moment I tightened the straps around his hands, his entire face changed. A different man lay before me. All the happiness was gone. His lips narrowed. His eyes widened. I have never seen anyone’s eyes become that bloodshot so quickly. The muscles in his neck tightened. At first he said nothing. He just stared at me.”

  “I was about to climb on top of him when he turned away and looked towards the door. He started wriggling his hands and toes. He was testing the restraints. Then, in a quiet voice he said, ‘I don’t care that you have beautiful eyes. If you touch me, I will kill you.’ I believed him, but I ignored him. I don’t take orders from people who are tied up, especially when I bind them myself.

  “I went to work. He exploded into laughter before I even laid a finger on him. When I dug my fingers into his abdomen, he shook like the cow I once saw walking into a fallen power line. He raised his head and looked into my eyes as he quivered. He swore. He heaved. He roared. The pressure in his head must have been great. His eyes started protruding from his skull. They came out so far that his eyelids folded backwards on themselves. He begged me to stop. He even threatened me with deeds that no man should be creative enough to think of under such pressure. Still, I ignored him.

  “Less than ten minutes after we started, he fainted. At first, I thought he was pretending. After another minute of tickling, he still did not respond. I left him to recover in the basement. When I returned, he was weak but conscious. Restful. Satisfied. He thanked me. The murderous monster was gone. I untied him. He removed the diaper, took a shower, and dressed. He told me I had beautiful eyes. We walked upstairs together. I gave him a sandwich for the road. He said that the sandwich was a blessing. Both the meat and the bread on either side of it. ‘Jesus was good.’ Then he left.”

  “So you never removed the black contact lenses at any point during his visit?”

  “No. I think they made a difference.”

  “More than you may know,” Anala whispered under her breath.

  * * *

  A Legitimate Authority

  Anala was deep in thought when Vaida interrupted her.

  “But how are Mr. Black Eyes and Mr. Crabworthy related to Abel?”

  “In many ways, I am sure. I just don’t know them all. I will share some of what I do know, though I must withhold anything that compromises my oath of confidentiality to Gondo. But I will give you a good start. Now, before you can understand where Mr. Black Eyes fits into the bigger picture, you must learn more about the man who gave you the contact lenses. Your Mr. Crabworthy is actually a man named Percival Allen. Resident of Ipswich. Now a father of six. Still husband to the same woman who gave birth to the first two children, whom I am sure have grown more expensive with age.

  “As you guessed back then, Percival was an artisan. A carpenter. He still is. Before he found someone strange enough to marry him, he lived in Zimbabwe for several years on either side of independence. During his time here, he made a few friends. Of course, such a character is bound to attract a certain breed of companions.”

  “Like Mr. Gejo?”

  “For a start. Magnets attract iron. Idiots attract beatings. Contrast attracts clients ... At least most clients.”

  Vaida rolled her eyes. Anala winked back.

  “But dead bodies attract scavengers. Abstinence is not an option. Percival Allen is a scavenger who arrived in Zimbabwe and made friends with people who had a habit of leaving corpses in their wake. He did not participate in the murders, or enjoy his friend’s sadism. However, in a lonely world, he found kindred spirits to debate the subject. He found receptive ears that allowed him to share his insights in a safe space where he would not be judged.”

  “I guess every beast can find a home among its own,” said Vaida.

  “Percival is not a beast. He is a scavenger. He does not kill. He feeds on the carrion. Or rather, he feeds off the process of creating the carrion. To him, death is a form of nutrition that is only fascinating when it is approached as an art form. But since few people would kill themselves to fulfill his desires, Percival has been forced to seek fulfillment in the deaths of unwilling victims. His friends would offer opportunities for him to observe their dirty work, but he always turned them down. His conscience only allowed him to enjoy the ‘legitimate deaths’ of those who deserved to die.”

  Anala paused before continuing.

  “But who gets to fill the ranks of the deserving? A legitimate authority, of course! Percival believes that legitimacy is the very soul of art. Thus, for any death to be artistically fulfilling, it must arise from a formal process that is sanctioned by the law. That was why Percival Allen came to Zimbabwe during the Rhodesian days. Many other African countries were blessed with more death than he could ever absorb. However, these were places of random slaughter. No deliberation. No ceremony. In Zimbabwe, he found a place where capital punishment was legal and actively used against regular criminals and captured freedom fighters.”

  “Percival believed that such executions were just?”

  “Probably not. But in the absence of the ideal choice, impulsive desires will embrace the best available option. For Percival, the authority of a court-ordered execution was enough to overcome any g
uilt he felt about the underlying legitimacy of the executions. The important thing was that the hangings were carried out after a formal process involving judges and lawyers.”

  Vaida swirled her cup of tea. It was half-full. Warm.

  “I still don’t understand how this client is linked to my Abel.”

  “‘My Abel’. You are still fighting the vaccine.”

  “I just like hearing the sound of it. Saying it is a part of letting it go.”

  “I hope you are right. Anyway, Percival is the carpenter who was hired to build the gallows that ‘your Abel’ will be using to execute prisoners if he gets the job.”

  Vaida froze.

  “That man is the gallows maker?”

  “Probably the best. They call him ‘The Carpenter’.”

  “What a creative name for a man who works with wood.”

  “And metal. Anyhow, if the name fits, wear it.”

  “But why would anyone bother ordering gallows from abroad? From what I have seen on TV, they look like simple structures. At most, they are made from three wooden beams and a rope. Surely we have many competent carpenters who could make the gallows in this country?”

  “I agree that the cost and hassle of ordering them from abroad are excessive. But I believe there is something special about these gallows. I just don’t know what. This entire saga is complicated. I can only assume that the strange fragments I have seen are part of the same picture. What is obvious is that each of the characters in this bizarre story has a vested interest in whether Abel Muranda gets the job or not. Either result will benefit some and imperil the others. The only person who will lose regardless of the outcome is Abel Muranda. If he does not get the job, his family will die. If he does, it may be even worse.”

  * * *

  Abel Muranda And This Job Need Each Other

  “Anala. I know that Abel is a rural man from a drought-stricken part of Zimbabwe. Yes, he had no friends or family in the city before he arrived. But you and I know at least a hundred people who would give him a decent job upon request. Maybe not something fancy, but a job that would pay him enough to look after his family. Becoming a hangman to avoid hunger makes no sense when there are so many options separating the two extremes. Hey, Abel could even become a gardener. Remember what he did with my yard?”