Tope smiled: “It’s called an Afro, you know, like the Jackson Five?”
Black-Power snorted. “It looks ridiculous...are you robbing this bank?” Three nervous, armed men stood behind his... brother.
“Brother, will you not greet me with a kiss? I haven’t seen you in-”
“You were supposed to stay up north.”
“I know. Things happened. I have been travelling around the world. I have much to tell you.”
“You can tell me from jail. There can be only one penalty for breaking the law.”
Cop cars were screeching to a halt nearby, but he waved them to a stop. He had this in hand.
“Brother, there is no need for violence. This money is going to feed women and children in Angola.”
Black-Power stamped forward, rippling a force wave through concrete, buckling the pavement, upending the three men, who fell with a clatter of weapons.
Tope stood, several feet above the wrecked concrete pavement, hanging in the air like a mirage. Slowly, sadly, he shook his head, and then with a blur of speed, he was up into the sky, a speck disappearing amongst the few clouds leeching off the cloud cloth of Table Mountain.
Brother, why have you turned back to crime, thought Black-Power pensively, as he strode into the bank hall again, where customers and tellers were picking themselves up.
They looked at him, but no one clapped.
“Ja sure, I know you don’t allow black people in here—but your asses just got saved by a black man, so chew on that, honkeys.”
He was met with blank looks. Of course, none of them would have seen Shaft, or anything like it. He sighed, feeling faintly ridiculous, knowing his brother would not be able to stop laughing if he had watched and heard him just now.
For both our sakes, he thought grimly, don’t come back, brother.
The police were moving past him now, careful not to touch him, heading for the vaults. One policeman levelled a gun at the man lying against stairs at the far side of the hall, his broken automatic weapon crumpled like his body.
“Alamu,” he’d heard a name mentioned. Yet again, black men die.
Black-Power crouched low and then jumped, bursting through the roof in a spray of wood and brick, heading up and up, towards the Mountain, where no one would find or see him.
At least there, alone, hunched by yellow sandstone rocks and with an orange-breasted sunbird calling nearby in the mountain fynbos, he began to feel somewhat at home again.
But his thoughts brooded north: Brother, after all these... millennia... still the sharp tongue and the patronising tone, even though I am as yet ever the elder...
2015
Somewhere over Africa
Phulani Mabuza sat alongside Black-Power in the specially commissioned SAA jet, loaded with ANC government officials and a small but select press entourage. Black-Power, besides taking up two seats, wore a discreet grey track suit over his bodysuit, stitched in green letters on the back: ‘Black-Power’. He was not going to be mistaken for a British Petroleum flunkey again.
Phulani nodded at Black-Power’s hand-luggage, a subdued but tall Italian leather man-bag, well within luggage allowances.
“What you got in there, BP?”
Black-Power leaned forward and flicked it open with his finger. He took out a cowhide covered shaft and flat blade, about a metre in length, decorated with bright beads on the grip, balancing it on his fingers.
Phulani goggled at him, “What’s that, a fucking assegai?”
“No,” said Black-Power. “An iklwa. Shaka himself gave it to me.”
Phulani laughed then, clasping his suited belly, which had grown with the greying of his hair. “You always were a fucking clown, BP.”
Black-Power glowered at him through the mask.
Phulani unlaced his fingers and shifted back in his seat, a little nervously. He knew Black-Power had limits to his tolerance, even though they went back as partners many, many years.
A young aspiring official from Foreign Affairs stood deferentially at their shoulders, a comic book in hand, holding it forward to be signed.
Black-Power took it gently, knowing his fingers could shred the ageing yellow paper with the slightest of heavier touches.
“Ah...” he said. “The last issue.” Battle in the Sahara. A few pen marks, crumpled spine, VG at best, he thought quietly to himself.
“Is it true the amaBokaboka wanted to sign you, sir?”
Black-Power smiled as he signed the cover page with a flourish. “Yes, they claim they need me at lock forward to beat the All Blacks in the next rugby World Cup in Japan. I said no, because I’m not a transformation token to boost their almost All Whites team.”
He handed the man his old comic book back, gently.
The official scurried off hurriedly—but with a pleased smile—holding the scrawled signature across the cover reverentially.
No comic book violence coming up, thought Black-Power drily, and with a faint frisson of fear.
“What else you got in that bag there, BP?” asked Phulani, a little more relaxed, now that Black-Power had signed his name on a collectible so cheerfully.
Black-Power rummaged and pulled out a long cape, slowly and carefully.
“You - have - got - to - be - fucking - kidding - me,” said Phulani.
The cape was a bright, luminescent rainbow in colour.
“Just making a statement,” said Black-Power.
“What,” swallowed Phulani, “That you’re representing the fucking rainbow nation?”
“And gay pride.”
Slowly, Phulani shook his head, “Tell me it’s a secret weapon to kill your brother by laughing until he chokes?”
Black-Power shoved the cape back into the bag, almost bursting the bag’s seams.
“You still miss Thembeka, don’t you?”
Black-Power was huddled forward, but still shot a sideways glance at Phulani, who had surprised him with the sensitivity in his comment. Not usual, nor in character, but Phulani had showed flashes of insights down the years, which had cemented the bumpiness of their years together. And he was a damn good fixer!
“Yes,” he said shortly.
“Well, for fuck’s sake, kiss another woman instead next time, okay?”
The plane’s intercom system kicked in, as the aeroplane began to buck up and down with tropical turbulence and the seat belt signs pinged on.
“This is your captain speaking, we’re about to head down towards the Murtala Muhammed International Airport.”
“Fuck...” said Phulani, clasping the sides of his seat, “I wish we were going to watch Bafana Bafana play the Super Eagles instead.”
“Ha!” barked Black-Power, “I stand a much better chance of winning this, than the Bafana would have.”
Despite his words, Black-Power suddenly felt very cold indeed, as the plane began its dip down towards Lagos.
15
2015
Lagos, Nigeria
There was a crackle down the phone line that suggested either wind or that manoeuvre where the device is held between shoulder and ear, freeing the hand for other activities.
“I don’t see him,” said Bank.
“He’s there,” said Tope. “I can feel him. Hasn’t been this strong in years.”
“I’m telling you, I’ve seen all the flight data from Jo’burg. There is no listing.”
“Look for a big Zulu-looking motherfucker with an entourage. He might be wearing sports clothes.”
“Isn’t he supposed to be under arrest?”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. The case was thin.”
“I see him.”
Tope took the image out of Bank’s head. It took fifteen seconds to resolve the image. While doing that he picked up Bank’s fear of being arrested as a terrorist for using field glasses in an airport. Boko Haram had been quiet, so it was reasonable to expect fireworks soon.
Bank was at the airport while Tope stayed home answering mail. Since the bout was announced
all kinds of people sent all kinds of things for Tope to sign or touch and send back. They wanted him to contact their dead grandfather. They wanted to know who stole their money. They wanted to know if the baby was theirs, or if the baby was a boy, or if the baby had Sickle Cell Disease. Wasn’t there a blood test for that these days? Hadn’t these people heard of ultrasound?
It was Black-Power all right. Age had made Cele slightly gaunt, even showing a slight paunch. His muscles didn’t pop the way they used to, although nobody but Tope could notice such a difference. He wore a New York City cap and an Addidas tracksuit. Duffel bag hooked around left shoulder. He did not look happy. Actually, he never looked happy.
“Actually, he never looked happy,” said Bank.
Shit.
“Bank, I seem to be influencing your thoughts. It’s not on purpose, but my control is a bit off. Try to think of a white screen.”
“Just ignore the porn.”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
Weather forecast was good, temperature holding at a steady forty Celsius. Their presence together in the same geographic location hadn’t caused any meteorological change. Yet...
“What’s that in his hand?” asked Bank.
“It used to belong to Shaka Zulu. It’s a weapon.”
A priest once told Tope a story about Shaka Zulu. A white soldier told the great king that the manner in which the Zulu troops fought reminded him of the Spartans. He asked if Shaka had heard of them. Shaka asked if the Spartans died like other humans. The soldier asked what he meant. Shaka asked if, when pierced by a spear the Spartans would cry out in pain. The soldier said he thought so. Then Shaka Zulu looked away from the soldier and said he had no use for such soldiers. “If I command it my impi die in silence. These Spartans cry like women and give away their position.”
Tope smiled. Only Shaka kaSenzangakhona could call the Spartans pussies.
“Spartans pussies,” said Bank.
Tope broke the link.
“Come home, Bank,” said Tope.
Lekan hawked and spat. “Yes, he’s here. I didn’t want to tell you yet because I didn’t know if that rape allegation would go forward.”
The dome was all but complete. It was a gigantic structure covered in scaffolding and bathed in Klieg lights. Construction continued day and night. Welding sparks floated slowly to the ground. Booms and cranes placed men in unusual positions over a hundred feet in the air.
“How’s the foundation?” asked Tope.
“It’s wedged in bedrock. Don’t worry; it’ll hold.”
Lekan was happy, and he had good reason. He had already made one hundred million U.S. dollars in pay-per-view bookings alone. Advertising had not collated data yet and the gambling data was astronomical. Merchandising...the figures were beyond what Tope was used to or interested in.
Two men shuffled up in hardhats. They looked harried.
“Tope, I want you to meet Nick Wood and Tade Thompson.”
“Pleasure,” said Tope, but it sounded like a question. He wasn’t sure what their role was. Both were slightly bookish, wore glasses and seemed in awe of him. Tade was black and Nick looked like he might be a Pacific Islander or mixed race, but both had that endomorphic look that Tope associated with academics.
“They’re in charge of the novelisation,” said Lekan.
“What novelisation?” said Tope.
“Graphic novelisation,” said Nick. “We’re immortalising the bout in print.”
“Do you think you have the time to look at some character sketches?” said Tade.
Tope frowned at Lekan. “You know how I feel about this.”
“Pele, o! Sorry. I know you would prefer Joe Orlando. Look, I couldn’t get at Armand Hector-”
“Hector’s dead,” said Tope.
“That explains a lot,” said Lekan.
Indeed. Armand Hector was rumoured to have been a consultant on the early MKDelta-sponsored Black-Power comics, in addition to other African comics like South Africa’s Mighty Man and Nigeria’s Power Man. The projects all died off when CIA interference in Africa became unfashionable.
“We need some background information on you,” said Nick.
“On both of you,” said Tade. “The 1970s comics were simplistic bullshit.”
They were both sweating and Tope got the impression they were not used to the warm climate. “Let’s get some beers...”
The drums kept beating.
Tope was naked.
The Babalawo sliced the cockerel’s head off and sprinkled blood on Tope’s head, all the while continuing with his monotonous incantations.
It was going to be a long night.
None of these rituals existed eight hundred years ago.
Tope saw Bank into the taxi.
“Uncle, are you sure you don’t want me to-”
“I’m not coming back, Bank. One way or the other, this is it. Just share out the money the way I told you.”
Bank’s cheeks were wet with tears. “We will never forget you, Uncle.”
“You better not! I made you all millionaires.”
“I-”
“Just kidding. Go. Go now.”
“You can win this.”
“I can’t kill him. He’s my brother.”
When the taxi pulled away, Tope felt the loss like a knife to the gut.
Question: What do you do on the eve of your death?
Answer: Slot in a DVD and watch John McClane perforate European terrorists in a high rise building over one hundred and twenty frenetic, action-packed minutes!
There weren’t many people around the dome. It had no seating and was opaque so nobody could see anything but a dome. A security cordon went up weeks before and there was a desolate circle a mile wide around the area. There were two doors, each coded to admit only one. The north face was for Black-Power to enter, while the south was for Tope. There were no roads, and Tope flew up and dropped straight down by the dome from orbit. The flames of re-entry died quickly against his force field.
He placed both palms against the south door and waited. It opened with a klaxon piercing the silence.
A shining walkway led to a metal platform in the centre.
Tope walked to the centre and sat cross-legged on the floor.
He closed his eyes and waited.
A sudden, loud vibration alerted him an hour later.
Black-Power had landed.
Morituri te salutamus.
16
2015
Geodesic Dome, Lagos
Pan-African sat calmly, eyes closed, meditating.
But Black-Power knew his presence had been marked...
...And that his brother was listening to him.
There would be no surprising him, they both knew each other too well.
Perhaps.
Black-Power bowed, blanking his mind.
Jump, swing....
Pan-African rolled with his right hook, a glancing body blow, but still he gasped. Keep on him—left uppercut, right jab, scorpion kick, keep the fucker rolling and dodging, no time to think, no time to use his fucking mind.
Swivel kick, fucking sweet that one, sent him soaring into the top of this spherical dome, ramming him against the metal structure, blood spilling freely from his face. Jump now, nail the sucker...
Shit, missed, uh!—these bars are titanium hard—losing that bastard to close quarters was a fucking mistake. Where’s he?
Black-Power grunted as he felt a rock hard fist ram into his midriff, and he started to fall, blows now raining against his face. The sky’s this fucker’s space, air’s his power, grab him, hold him, down to the ground...
Unhhhh, he’s spun on top, using me like a fucking cushion—bastard’s smaller, but still no fucking light weight. Off he goes again, ha—got his foot, swing him down, hard!
The ground shook with the impact, blood flying again, as if in slow motion. Bounce him down hard again, his head fucking first this time.
F
lashing red stars, stagger back, blink, one eye’s puffed and gone, Pan-African’s free again, must have kicked him hard in the face with his free leg. Tope, his brother, the younger, hangs on the edge of the cage, crouched, panting, bleeding.
Black-Power could taste sour blood in his own mouth and strained to focus on the Pan-African with his good left eye, wiping blood from a cut leaking on his forehead.
Fucking corny, those fight scenes in comics, when light repartee is exchanged. When it really gets down to it, each fucking word will cost you. Just get your breath back...
It was then that he heard them.
A roar from the baying mob outside the cage, heard through speakers, the audience packed in this huge digital stadium, thousands upon thousands, baying them on, to kill each other. Millions more besides—probably several billion, watching, screaming, from across the globe.
Who should I be fighting, Black-Power thought, and why am I fighting?
“Lost your balls then?” Pan-African called. “Kissing too many men?”
Fuck you, he thought...fuck everyone!
Black-Power inhaled deeply, settling his weight squarely into his braced legs and haunches, summoning a focus of his strength, sweetly into his favoured left fist.
Pan-African steadied himself on the opposite wall, ready...
But he was not the target.
Black-Power pivoted and drove his fist hard into the structure next to him—it stretched backwards, bent, buckled... exploded...
...and fragments of death flew everywhere...
Black-Power opened his one good eye, feeling the ground beneath him shake and snap.
His brother, the Pan-African, hung in the air, blood pouring from a gaping wound in his chest. He appeared to be crying blood as he clenched his left fist—and Black-Power could feel the ground lifting him up, fragments of the cage hanging like scattered, glowing ingots, caught in the might of the Pan-African’s mental force field.
“Where the fuck’s he going?” thought Black-Power, as the air grew chill around them and the blue sky deepened into indigo, the ground now a very, very long way below them indeed...
17
2015
Lagos, Nigeria
Sixty-two miles above the surface
Dick Tiger once told me that boxing fights were abnormal. In fact, all sporting fights were abnormal. Fights in their natural state last seconds. Those that last longer than five minutes are usually between people who are not trying to hurt themselves.
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