Anala threw her hands in the air.
“I see that the injection has not produced the side effect I was expecting. Listen, Vaida, you are still trying to apply logic to a situation that plays by its own rules. Did you ever think you would risk your life for a man who rejected you?”
Vaida looked away.
“Just absorb what I am saying. The options you speak of do not exist in this case. Sure, Abel Muranda would make an excellent gardener. But if anyone was foolish enough to hire him, they would quickly become fertilizer in their well-kept garden. The bodies would multiply until Abel Muranda and his fate were reconciled. The carnage would also touch those who had nothing to do with him opting for another job. If you don’t want to end up among them, don’t try to influence the process.”
“So my only option is to stand by and let him take the job?”
“You have no options, Vaida. At least not in deciding his professional destiny. There are people on death row who certain people want dead. They believe that Abel Muranda should be the one to kill them. Finding another job for him will only create more problems than it will solve.”
Vaida looked blankly at Anala.
“Vaida. Have you asked yourself why Abel Muranda is so determined to get this job? He may be illiterate, but he sounds like a smart man. I am sure he is not blind to the fact that the city offers many jobs that do not weigh so much on the conscience. Sure, they do not pay as well, but many men look after large families on modest earnings. I am sure his wife could supplement Abel’s income by setting up a vegetable stand or working as a domestic servant for a local family. But why he is so determined to ignore these alternatives? I am sure you asked yourself that question. I am certain that you came to the same conclusion that I did. Abel Muranda loves his family, but even he doesn’t know why this job is the only one that will help him look after them. All he knows is that he must become Zimbabwe’s next hangman. No other job will bring the salvation he seeks.
“The man and the job are drawn to each other for reasons we cannot comprehend. I am sure Abel Muranda himself does not understand the attraction either. Your interference will not untangle his destiny. If you fail to accept that fact, you have no hope of protecting him. Fight on other fronts. I wish I could tell you how, but I don’t know. The only advice I can give you is to pay close attention to any stories about mutant flame lilies cropping up around the country. Keep an eye on Zuva Redu, especially.”
“Are you talking about the plant that was found at Great Zimbabwe?”
“Yes.”
“But how will such news help me?”
“It will help you understand what to do when you receive one of these plants yourself.”
“Someone is going to send me flowers? I can’t remember the last time that happened.”
“It’s actually a flowering plant. If you are lucky, it may not have any blooms when you receive it. Still, it would be best if you did not receive it at all, Vaida. If you do, it will mean that your efforts on behalf of Abel Muranda are starting to show signs of progress. The plant will be a warning.”
“A warning from whom? People on either side of the fight to recruit Abel?”
“No. Someone with his own motives. Imagine a vulture of radioactive genius. He finds his own sense of balance by destabilizing the world outside his head. This vulture enjoys fomenting wars. He sits high on his perch and watches in glee as the people below eat each other alive. When the dust settles, he swoops down and feeds on the last ones standing. His main tool is a plant that provokes the items on the menu to first kill each other. This efficient way of eating allows him to devour everyone without engaging in the dirty business of hands-on combat.”
“Who is this man? What does he want?”
“Apart from entertainment? Not a clue. Whatever his reasons, he is giving both sides a headache. Any outsider who tries to enter the fray and influence the war will receive one of his flame lilies. Mine was delivered recently. If you get one, I suggest you obey his wishes.”
“What if I refuse?”
“Things will end badly. Remember, Vaida, vultures are the only creatures that are guaranteed to benefit from a war. The bodies of the good and the bad all taste the same to the scavenger, so death is the only outcome it is invested in. Consider that an advantage. If this man was invested in Abel Muranda’s downfall, then that would have happened long before you even knew your unwilling soul mate existed.”
“You sound like you are in awe of this man, Anala. Zimbabwe is filled with many powerful, cunning, and nasty characters. You can’t tell me this florist is so exceptional that he stands out in such a crowded field?”
“That’s exactly what I am saying, Vaida. I know that we both live in murky waters, but mine are much darker than yours. I’ve met people who would give you nightmares for the rest of your life. This man rises to the top of the heap. The nasty men that you mentioned fear him more than they fear anyone on either side of their war. You will appreciate what I am saying after I tell you about my own experience with him. The story must begin with the two strange clients we just talked about. I have already told you about Percival Allen, the man with an orgasmic hatred for taxes. Now, you must learn more about Mr. Black Eyes, the man who never introduced himself to you by name, and whom you never thought to ask. The man who loves women with black eyes.”
* * *
The Seventeenth Mercenary
Anala took a deep breath to reset the conversation.
“Some time ago, I received a unique assignment. I take every job seriously, but this one was different. A client hired MSG to receive a special delivery near Bulawayo. The plane carrying the shipment was arriving from England via Luanda, Angola. Our job was to unload the contents and bring them to Harare in a smaller aircraft.
“The plane from Luanda touched down at a small private airport a few kilometres from the Khami Ruins. It was exactly three in the morning. I remember being impressed by the pilot. He or she must have been highly experienced to safely land the aircraft on a short, rugged, and unlit runway.
“The plane sat on the tarmac for a while. The cabin lights were off. There were no signs of life onboard, even in the cockpit. Then we heard a loud metallic sound. We turned towards the western fence of the airport just as the doors of a large hangar creaked open. The muffled sound of heavy tires rolling over the tarmac was quickly followed by the nose of a second aircraft. The second plane was smaller. It too had no lights and showed no signs of life onboard. It appeared to be moving on its own power, even though the engines were off and no sounds of internal machinery were evident.
“The second plane moved towards the first. Slowly, it turned in the opposite direction so that its cargo hold was directly facing that of the first plane. The tails of the two aircraft were about twenty metres apart.
“Our handler asked me and my team to follow him to the planes. When we got there, the rear-loading doors of both aircraft opened downwards like the drawbridges of medieval castles. They touched the tarmac at exactly the same time.
“Our handler then asked us to enter the cargo hold of the smaller plane, which had emerged from the hangar. It was empty. We then stood facing the cargo hold of the other plane. It was too dark to see more than a metre into the space. A minute later, we heard footsteps approaching the entrance. Sixteen men marched down the lowered doors and moved towards us. They were arranged in two parallel columns. Each column had eight men marching in single file. All were wearing dark brown camouflage uniforms. I don’t think they were Angolan soldiers, though. I believe they were mercenaries. The group had an air of ruthless efficiency. This trait is common among men whose sense of loyalty only gets an erection when a fat wallet strips and shakes what’s inside. I have no hard evidence that these were hired guns, but I have developed strong instincts for these things in my business.
“Still in their columns, the men stretched themselves between the lowered doors of the two planes. They then turned to face each other. Each man aligned hi
mself with the one in the corresponding position on the other side. When they were in place, we heard a shuffling noise echoing deep inside the other plane. It sounded like coarse plastic scraping against the floor. A seventeenth man walked out. At that moment, the dark clouds thinned significantly, though they did not disperse completely. The remaining layer of clouds was like tracing paper. It granted the captive moon a conditional parole, which allowed just enough light to draw attention to the seventeenth mercenary’s most prominent features. In the filtered beams that shone through, I noticed that the man’s skin was unusually shiny. He also had dark bulges around his eyes.
“The man was taken aback by the sudden change in the moonlight. He looked nervously up at the sky, but quickly regained his composure. He continued to walk out of the plane, stopping short where the door rested on the tarmac. The two mercenaries standing in the first position of either row extended their arms towards each other. They interlocked them hand-to-wrist. The other seven pairs followed suit. Together, they created a human rope bridge with their arms.
“The seventeenth mercenary lifted one leg and brought his foot down on the interlocked hands of the first two men. He steadied himself by putting one hand on each of their shoulders. When he felt comfortable that they were ready to sustain his weight, he lifted himself off his other leg and burdened them with his entire body. The two mercenaries grunted under the load. This was strange because the man was of medium build. He was notably smaller than nearly all of the men in the two columns.
“When he found his balance, the man took another step forward. The second pair of mercenaries caught his descending weight. This time they did not grunt. I am sure their friends’ reactions had warned them of the coming burden. Still, we could see that they were using all their strength to hold him up. This process continued as the man moved steadily towards us. All was quiet except for the rustling caused by the plastic coverings of his feet. Finally, he reached the door to our plane. He carefully jumped off the hands of the last two mercenaries and landed beyond the edge of our lowered door. I don’t know why he didn’t want to step on the tarmac. Hiring sixteen men to create a human bridge between the cargo holds of two planes seemed like overkill.
“The man walked up to me. I noticed that the shiny texture of his skins was caused by the moonbeams reflecting off his latex bodysuit. It covered him head to toe. I took a sudden step back when I realized that he was not wearing anything underneath the transparent garment. The man was wearing a full-body condom. The strange bulges on his face turned out to be swimming goggles. A thin black tube extended from a hole at the mouth of the suit’s face. It ran over his left shoulder and disappeared around his back. I worked hard to avoid glancing anywhere below his chin. Fortunately, the moon’s brief parole came to an end. The man darkened into a silhouette.
“I held out my hand to him. I was relieved when he refused to shake it. He reached behind his back and withdrew a flashlight. Attached by a strap to its handle was a narrow rectangular mirror. The man raised it to my face and held it with the surface running perpendicular to my profile. Then he motioned me to look down onto the glass. I obeyed. He turned on the flashlight and shone it onto the mirror. The reflected beam also lit up his face. He was clean shaven, but the sweaty latex made his day-old beard more pronounced. The bodysuit had also flattened his nose and ruffled his eyebrows. The heavily tinted goggles hid his eyes.
“When he had me in the right position, he cautiously peered into the mirror. For some reason, he was trying to look into my eyes indirectly. We stood like that for at least five minutes. He let out a muffled huff each time I blinked. Finally, he relaxed. I don’t know why, but he must have found whatever he was looking for. He turned off his flashlight and nodded to our handler. Without saying anything further, he turned around and walked back to his human rope bridge. I noticed a small bag strapped to his back. That’s where the tube from his mouth led to. I’m sure there was a medical oxygen tank in there. An M6 canister at least. That size would give him between four and ten hours of oxygen depending on the concentration he was using. With one replacement tank, he would have had more than enough to get him from Luanda and back without breathing any Zimbabwean air. I believe he wanted to avoid contamination.
“We all watched as the seventeenth mercenary returned to the other plane. He went back the same way he had come. The mercenaries followed him inside. They re-emerged from the cargo hold with a large wooden crate about thrice the size of a standard coffin. It took all sixteen men to move it into our plane. Four more crates followed. But the most curious one was a small package about the size of a shoe box. Our handler told me not to pack it with the rest of the crates in the cargo hold. I had to carry it with me in the plane’s cabin.
“When the transfer was done, the mercenaries returned to their plane. The door was raised shut. The plane taxied and took off to Luanda. We secured the crates and accompanied them to Harare. When we landed, we transferred them to MSG vehicles. Under heavy security, my team delivered them to Mazambuko Maximum Security Prison.”
Vaida frowned.
“The gallows?”
“Well, MSG ‘also moves things’, but our clients don’t always tell us what we are moving. However, I am sure the shipment contained the gallows that were made by your tax-hating client. I believe they were shipped in parts that were later assembled in the prison.”
“What do you think was in the smaller shoe box?”
“I don’t know. But gallows are relatively simple machines. They have large beams, ropes, and fasteners. It was obviously too small to hold the beams. The box could not have contained the rope either. It was too small to hold the necessary length to hang a man. I also doubt that it held nuts and bolts. The item in the box was a single rigid object about the length of the box. I could feel each end of the object bumping against the smaller sides of the box when the plane was jolted by in-flight turbulence.”
“Hmm,” said Vaida. “Let’s say that the entire shipment did contain the disassembled gallows. The only part that would fit into a shoe box would be ... The handle of the lever?”
“I didn’t know you were an expert in gallows design, Vaida.”
“Well, speaking with Abel and Tongai Gejo made me curious about these machines. I spent some time researching them. I was alarmed by the amount of information that exists on the subject. Anyway, I may be wrong, but from the sources I consulted, the only component that fits your description is the handle.”
Anala took a sip of her tea.
“But, why would the handle be too special to pack with the other parts?”
“I don’t know, Anala. The delivery process you described sounds too involved for a simple gallows. Nothing about this story makes any sense so my theory of a precious lever handle is just as credible. ”
“Excellent! You are finally discarding logic. The injection’s effects are kicking in.”
“Slowly. Why did the goggled man want to look into your eyes through a mirror? … Why was he wearing a full-body condom? … While nude underneath?”
“These are good questions, Vaida. I can’t answer either of them.”
“And why would he bring his own oxygen? Did he think our Zimbabwean air would contaminate him?”
At this point, Vaida was talking to herself. Anala answered her anyway.
“Maybe he thought the country would run out of air altogether. You can never be too prepared, you know.”
“What type of man needs to walk between two planes on the hands of other men?”
“The type of man who loves to be tickled by a woman with black eyes.”
Vaida clutched her chest.
“No!”
“Yes!” replied Anala, clutching at her own chest.
“How did you know it was him?”
“I will never forget the man who tortured my husband to death.”
“Slow down, Anala. The threads of this story are getting too tangled. Are you telling me that Mr. Black Eyes killed Lazarus?”
>
“Yes. Mr. Black Eyes was the seventeenth mercenary. His real name is Asher Muchenje. He was hired by Lazarus’ business rivals a few years after your tickling party. I did not meet him during his visit at your place, but I helped you to clean the room after he left. I never forget the smell of people’s sweat. Hysterical laughter produces a lot of it. The basement reeked of his perspiration.
“At the time, it meant nothing to me. But when I later smelled Lazarus’ clothes in the morgue, I detected the scent of another man. The smell was strongest around the collar. At some point during the murder, Asher gripped my Lazarus in a headlock. The sweat from his armpits soaked into my husband’s shirt. More recently, I recognized that same smell when he stepped onto our plane in Bulawayo. Asher was tense. Nervous. Sweaty.”
“But how could you smell him when he was inside that latex suit?”
“Even latex has tiny pores. The ones in his bodysuit probably were notably larger than those of a regular condom. If he had been sweating for hours, microscopic beads of sweat would have made it to the surface. Another likely explanation is that Asher changed into the bodysuit on the plane. It looked uncomfortable so I am sure he would have delayed putting it on until he had to. I suspect this happened as the plane approached Zimbabwean airspace. He must have handled the outside of the suit with his hands when he put it on. He probably also handled the mirror and torch with exposed hands before he wore the suit. The strap attaching the mouth tube to his oxygen tank must have absorbed some sweat as well.
I think the combination of all these things contributed to an odour that was strong enough for me to detect. Even though it was weak, its distinctiveness made it overpowering. Vaida, that man’s sweat burned its signature into my nostrils. It shall stay there forever. To this day, I will never know what stopped me from lunging at him. I am glad I didn’t do so. I would have put my team in danger. We were outnumbered and outgunned. Vengeance must never be rash. If you approach it like diarrhea, you will soil yourself before you strike your enemy.”
The Hangman's Replacement: Sprout of Disruption (BOOK 1) Page 32
