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

by Taona Dumisani Chiveneko

  “Always, Chief.”

  Mr. Gweta nodded in the opposite direction of his true feelings. The client sounded like a man flailing in the humbling waters of the unfamiliar. Even if his reflections on brains and brawn were correct in principle, that principle did not apply to the mind he yearned to pickle.

  Ironically, Mr. Gweta’s client would be sitting just metres away when the brain’s owner swung from the gallows. And yet, despite all his power, the client knew that no matter who he threatened or tried to persuade, he would never be allowed to lay his hands on the skull protecting his prize. No amount of brute force could bludgeon its way out of a future that had long been guaranteed. A future that had been set into motion long before the client even knew he would ever aspire to become a brain surgeon.

  Mr. Gweta’s client was simply indulging a morbid fantasy to keep hope alive. But no matter how hard he tried, he knew that the food chain had been inverted against him. God had refused to intervene against the reversal. At least not within the time it would take the plant to devour the client.

  “Okay, Gweta. I must continue the war on another front.”

  “The Cargo Cows?”

  “Yes. I never thought I would have so much trouble rescuing cattle from captivity. But we are close. With luck, those transplants will happen in a few days. After that, we can throw the dough in the oven and watch ourselves heal.”

  “I really hope that happens. Take care, Chief.”

  “Me too. Not everyone is so optimistic. Some people have already started to flee the country. Not me. I will die in Zimbabwe, Gweta. I will die in Zimbabwe.”

  * * *

  The Embassy Refugee

  At three in the morning, a sleek black sedan glided up to the gates of the Tuvaluan embassy in Harare. As the security guard approached the vehicle, the back window lowered with an electric silence.

  “I need to get through those gates,” said the man in the back seat.

  “I am sorry, sir. I cannot let you in. The embassy is closed. Come back later in the morning.”

  The man in the car removed his shades.

  “What is your name, Mr. Security Guard?”

  “Oliver, sir.”

  “Do you like this car, Oliver?” he asked.

  “Well it is a beautiful car, sir.”

  “There are only two such cars in Zimbabwe. The shell is bulletproof. It has a personal oxygen supply that could sustain four occupants for up to five hours. This car is worth more than the embassy building you are guarding. And yet, it represents a small part of my net worth. Now, I am going to ask you an important question. Do you breathe, Oliver?”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Do you inhale air into your lungs?”

  “I do, sir. It’s an addiction.”

  “Good. Now, do you sincerely believe that you and I breathe the same air?”

  “Well, maybe not when you are holed up in your oxygen-filled car, sir.”

  “Ha, ha, ha, and yes, a bonus ha. Now, let’s assume that you have no sense of humour. What would be a more reasonable answer to my question?”

  “I would say that we do not breathe the same air. My lungs are lined with the smoke of a wood-burning stove. I am not sure you have seen such an appliance for some time. Maybe never.”

  “Exactly, Oliver! Now, when you meet a man in a car like this, should your first instinct be to deny him what he asks?”

  “It is, sir. And that is what I did before you started asking me about my breathing.”

  “Ah, that sense of humour. It is a part of you, I see.”

  “So is my job.”

  The man reached into his coat pocket and took out a little bundle of paper. He leaned out of the window and flung it over the gates of the embassy.

  “Oops. I threw litter onto foreign soil. Thirty thousand dollars of rubbish. This could spark a diplomatic incident. Unless of course you open those gates and retrieve the litter before anyone finds out?”

  The guard looked into the embassy compound.

  “Well, sir, I do not care much for fancy cars filled with oxygen. But I will not tolerate the littering of foreign soil. I will correct this injustice.”

  With that, the guard opened the gates. As he walked over to pick up the bundle, the black sedan crept in behind him.

  * * *

  Monetary Induced Amnesia (MIA)

  The ambassador was ready for another uneventful day at the embassy. Relations between Tuvalu and Zimbabwe were exquisite. His ulcer was behaving. The lovely trees were beautiful. But as the chauffeur pulled up to the gates, the ambassador noticed that the guard was not there. Instead, his assistant, Faipa, was standing by the security booth beside the intercom. She looked tense. The ambassador sighed. This was going to be an eventful day.

  The chauffeur eased the car into the shaded parking spot by the fountain. Beyond it, an unfamiliar vehicle was parked between the trees by the eastern wall of the compound. It looked expensive. Moments later, Faipa joined her boss in the back seat. Soon, the ambassador was fully briefed about the refugee hiding in his embassy.

  “How did he get past Oliver?”

  “We don’t know, Mr. Ambassador. Oliver claims he briefly left the gate to use the toilet. When he returned, the car was already in the compound. Our refugee’s driver parked it over there and took off on foot. Oliver remembers nothing else.”

  “MIA?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ambassador. We suspect Monetary Induced Amnesia.”

  “Where is this ‘refugee’ now?”

  “He has made himself at home in the guest lounge. He brought pyjamas, books, and even a few salty snacks.”

  “And he will not say what he wants?”

  “No. He will only talk to you.”

  “Fine. Anything else I should know?”

  “Yes. He seems to be afraid of flowers. When we brought him into the lobby, he shrunk back from the bouquet at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “The one we got from the Harare Floral Society?”

  “Yes. He found it distracting. He would not look at me as we spoke. He kept his eye on the bouquet the entire time. Finally, he asked us to get rid of it. He said he was allergic. I threw it in the garbage at the back of the building. Those flowers were starting to wilt anyway, but their disappearance certainly relaxed him. After that, he took over the place. He had a shower and clipped his toenails. He then ordered Albert to kindle the fireplace and began reading a book in front of the guest lounge TV. We were all caught off guard by his confidence so we did not stop him. It has become harder to re-establish our authority, and he is taking advantage of that. He is barking orders like he is the Prime Minister of Tuvalu. This man is used to getting his way.”

  “I hope he doesn’t spark a major diplomatic incident between Tuvalu and Zimbabwe,” grumbled the ambassador.

  * * *

  Mother Tuvalu

  When the ambassador walked into the guest lounge, he found the mysterious guest sprawled on one of the sofas. The heavily-cushioned arm of the settee had engulfed his head in a velvet embrace. A shock of grizzly red hair shot up from the part of his scalp that had not been smothered by the luxury.

  The man looked like an ancient Greek aristocrat. His air of entitlement was common to men whose egos had been cultivated by a lifetime of privilege. As a former psychologist, the ambassador had assessed a number of people who had this trait. The sickness was irreversible. Usually, the patients preferred it that way.

  The guest turned towards the door when the ambassador walked in. There was something hard in those green eyes. The man was munching on a puffy pastry that was sprinkled with icing sugar. The frosty patches on his lap were consistent with the hasty pace at which he was wolfing it down. So he had brought a stash of non-salty snacks?

  “Good morning, Mr. ... ?”

  “Call me Josh.”

  “Okay, Josh. I see you have made yourself at home in our embassy.”

  “I have. Your staff has been excellent. They have provided better ser
vice than I have enjoyed in some of the best hotels in the world. I recommend a promotion for them all. Or a bonus at the very least.”

  “I will consider it. How can I help you?”

  “Oh, it’s simple really. I need to live here for a few days. I am a good tenant. I will pay you generously for the trouble.”

  The ambassador looked around the room. Food wrappers. Books. Cell phones. A pillow. Velvet slippers. A suitcase. Other clutter.

  “May I take a seat?” asked the ambassador.

  “Of course. It’s your embassy.”

  “Well, by the looks of it, you now own a good part of it.”

  Josh looked around and nodded. He had not noticed the extent of the inconvenience he had caused.

  “Right. My third grade teacher told me that my personality takes up a lot of space. I’m not sure she meant it as a compliment, but I can’t accuse her of lying. Don’t fret. My disruption will be worth your while.”

  The ambassador helped himself to a colourful candy from an open bag. He pinched the twisted ends of the wrapper between his thumbs and forefingers. As he was about to untangle the sugary goodness, Josh leaned forward. A frown of protest was etched into his face. He was about to vent his concerns when he froze and eased himself back into the sofa. His hair crackled like the candy wrapper when his head collapsed into the arm rest. Josh was concerned.

  “Is there a problem?” asked the ambassador.

  “No,” replied Josh. His tone was unconvincing. The ambassador put the candy back into the bag.

  “I won’t eat your sweets if you don’t want to share them. I just thought that since you took over my embassy, I could at least enjoy a small part of your rations?”

  “Of course, Mr. Ambassador. Help yourself.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes … Just don’t take the purple ones. They are my favourite.”

  “Ah, I see. Can I have this green one?”

  “Please do. I hate them. Help yourself to the red and yellow ones too.”

  “Thanks, but one green one is enough. Eating sweets is the same as feeding cavities. My dentist would not approve of more than one helping.”

  The ambassador swirled the candy around in his mouth. Mint and guava.

  “So why do you want to stay here, Josh?”

  “I need somewhere to kick back before moving to Tuvalu.”

  “Right! Of course ... Why?”

  “Why do I want to live here till then, or why do I want to move to Tuvalu?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “Well,” mumbled Josh between mouthfuls of pastry. “I will start with your second question. I have been named a trustee of the Polynesian Institute for Climate Change Defence. It is based in Tuvalu.”

  “That’s odd. I have never heard of that body.”

  “I’m not surprised. I will be creating it when I get there. Climate change is raising sea levels around the world. Island nations such as our Mother Tuvalu are in danger. I plan to make a significant contribution to the survival of our homeland.”

  “‘Our’ homeland? Are you a Tuvaluan citizen?”

  “I was hoping you could help me with that. What papers do I need to fill?”

  “Well, I am not sure that—”

  “I am. I looked it up. A lawyer back home told me I could do it. He said you would have the necessary forms here.”

  “Well—”

  “No problem. We can finalize that later. Now, to your first question. Why do I need to stay here till I go home?”

  “Uh, okay? Why?”

  “I am fleeing a plant infestation.”

  The ambassador leaned back in his seat. His thoughts drifted through a library of random information that he had catalogued over the past few months. Josh looked at him in silence. Finally, the ambassador found the filing cabinet with the right answer.

  “Hmm. Now that I think about it, I heard about another man who was arrested last week at the Canadian embassy. He was seeking asylum, I believe. From what I heard, he did not look like a typical refugee. Like you, he had an expensive car and fine clothes. In fact, yet another man tried the same trick at the American embassy earlier that day. Neither case meant anything to me until you marched in here and took over the place. Do you know anything about those events?”

  “No. But if I did, I would say that those men were stupid. Why did they flee to embassies with such high security? The Americans have tattooed marines guarding their gates. Mysteriously, all are named Biff. I’m serious. They tower over a wall of sandbags to send the message that they mean business. Oh, and they are also armed to the teeth. The Biffs will send you packing before you can even yell ‘refugee’! The security at the Canadian embassy is not as bad, but it’s definitely better than Tuvalu’s.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You are welcome. In fact, our embassy is also more welcoming. That’s why I came here. Anyway, fleeing to Canada wouldn’t have saved that bastard. Certain flowers have the ability to bloom in the northern winters, especially when they have been sent to find you. They will hunt you all the way to the North Pole. If you are lucky enough to be dead when they find you, they will feast on your frozen corpse.”

  Josh curled all ten fingers into a chamber of gnarled roots. Somewhere in his skull, his brain cells were collaborating on the vivid image of a plant devouring a dead body somewhere north of the tundra. His green eyes were alight with horror. His gaze was intense and distant. It revealed the solitary trauma of a man who had been condemned to witness a scene of gross perversion.

  His own commentary caused him to shudder. Josh decided to abandon the subject altogether. He shook his head and quickly replaced the grotesque image with a bite of a pastry. It tasted good. Sugar was always the solution to certain problems.

  “No, I would rather go to a place that is sunny all year-round. A place where I can sip rum on the beach. A place where I can eat fresh fish that has been baked in banana leaves over an open fire.”

  “Hmm,” mumbled the ambassador. “You can get all those things in Barbados too. Why don’t you go there instead?”

  Josh was about to munch on another pastry when his hand froze just short of his mouth. The ambassador leaned back casually and continued.

  “Barbados is a beautiful country. They also have some things that Tuvalu doesn’t have.”

  “Like what?” asked Josh cautiously.

  “Underground limestone caves.”

  Josh stuffed the entire pastry into his mouth. A small cloud of icing sugar obscured his face. It cleared just as he swallowed the entire treat.

  “I’m not a fan of caves. Bats live in them,” he replied.

  “The ones in Barbados have no bats in them. Those caves are too moist.”

  “So why would I go into a place that even a bat wouldn’t go? Besides, I’m not fond of calcium … or any structures made of it.”

  “But your body needs calcium to strengthen your bones, Josh.”

  “Sure. Until it destroys them with malice.”

  The ambassador eyed his guest with mounting curiosity.

  “Does this wave of emigration have anything to do with the mysterious flame lilies that were found at Great Zimbabwe?”

  “Perhaps. But my reasons for leaving are not mysterious at all. I have pollen allergies, you see? I gotta go.”

  “Well, moving to Tuvalu will not help. We have lots of flowers there, too.”

  “Do any of them like to eat the dead? Or break criminals out of prison? Or turn hardened men into bowls of shivering pudding?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Then I have nothing to worry about. The pollen of some carnivorous flowers gives me hives. Itchy eyes. I sneeze non-stop. Allergy medications don’t work. I am out of here. Health reasons.”

  “Like not getting eaten, for example?”

  “Sure. Not getting eaten tends to be good for the health. However, the carnivorous behaviour itself is not the real problem. It’s the pollen.”

  The ambassado
r tapped his fingers on his lap.

  “So, you would like to stay here because my embassy is diplomatic territory?”

  “Yes. From what I understand, though I am in Zimbabwe, the grounds of a foreign embassy are the sovereign territory of the guest country. That principle places this compound on Tuvaluan soil. Therefore, I can enjoy the benefits of being ‘in’ the country before I actually go there. That means I left Zimbabwe the moment I drove through your gates.”

  “Well sorry to disappoint you, Josh, but that is not entirely true. The diplomatic treaty that governs these matters –”

  “Mr. Ambassador. The allergy I am fleeing doesn’t care about diplomatic treaties.”

  “Okay. But aren’t you concerned that Zimbabwean pollen could drift into our Tuvaluan territory from beyond this compound? We often get a steady breeze through these parts. I believe that the pollen riding on it will not respect international borders either.”

  “Why, Mr. Ambassador, you are smart and well informed.”

  “The latter. Things have been slow around here. I do a lot of socializing in diplomatic circles. Lately, there has been some chatter about certain plants and their special pollen. Chatter in high places. I hear some of it from time to time.”

  “People talk too much,” muttered Josh, shaking his head. “Well, a prominent ‘allergist’ told me that for the purposes of my problem, this is foreign territory.”

  “I hope your ‘allergist’ was right. I know of other people who have different opinions. In fact, I heard that a group of specialists met to discuss this very issue. They did not reach an agreement about whether foreign embassies provide the protections you seek.”

  “I have never liked focus groups, Ambassador. Anyway, the chatter will have to continue without me. I have a plan. That plan is to go home.”

  “To Tuvalu.”

  “Where else? And here is how I plan to do it. In a week’s time, a helicopter will land on the empty lot in the back. I checked the title deeds with the city council. You own that lot. Strictly speaking, you don’t use it for embassy business, but growing a few yams is enough to make it part of the diplomatic territory. Therefore, when my chopper arrives, it will land on our home turf. When I get on board, it will lift vertically for more than a mile above the embassy. The chopper will then fly through Zimbabwean airspace as quickly as possible. We will make it to Zambia in record speed. You will hear from me after I arrive in Mother Tuvalu.”