by Saul Dobney
Yanif
The Atheist’s Messiah
By Saul Dobney
The Atheist's Messiah
by Saul Dobney
© Copyright Saul Dobney 2015
Amazon Kindle Edition
Also known as:
Yanif – The Atheist's Messiah
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
“Yanif”™ and “The Atheist's Messiah”™ are the property of Saul Dobney
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Chapters
1. Lecture
2. The boys
3. The heist
4. Jill's birthday
5. Police arrive
6. Discovery
7. St Peter’s
8. Newspapers and letters
9. Tremus
10. Johannes
11. Schooling
12. Reaction to Johannes
13. Tremus and Eshe find work
14. At the market with Tremus
15. Charlatans
16. Tremus looks after Yanif
17. Mr Eden
18. Golders Green
19. To America
20. Next door birthday party
21. New York
22. The Guru of Golders Green
23. Returning to Kenya
24. The reception at Mr Eden's
25. The police and the Hands of God
26. Looking for business
27. The hospice
28. Chaplain calls
29. Uhuru Park
30. At the village
31. Tabitha Coombe
32. The meeting with the chaplain
33. Meeting Mr Chiumbo
34. Village Two – Mr Coombe's car
35. Jill's news
36. Dinner with Mr Coombe
37. The Chama
38. Bird watching
39. Angelie
40. Mr Chiumbo's party
41. House from Mr Coombe
42. Email from Kenya
43. Village three
44. The finders
45. The wedding dispute
46. Response to the chaplain
47. Mosi runs into trouble
48. The Cambridge vigil
49. Loss of the house
50. Heather Cross
51. Media reaction
52. Mobbed in Nairobi
53. The Retreat
54. Coming to London
55. The Rift Valley festival
56. London and St Paul's
57. BBC interview
58. Tabitha's birthday
59. Trouble with Heather
60. Financial dispute
61. Return to Kenya
62. Into custody
63. Television report
64. Night journey
65. The body on the hill
66. News travels
67. New shoots
68. Dr Hill in his study
1. Lecture
“It is a surprise to be here.” Doctor James Hill looked up into the swell of faces that filled the auditorium. His hands kneaded the wooden frame of the lectern to quell the flutter of fear in his stomach as he watched his audience, waiting for the people to settle.
In front of him, the invited guests and academics sat in their black gowns and furs, their sharp features examining him like ravens eyeing carrion.
Towards the back he could make out the undergraduates. Three girls in white t-shirts in the top row were chatting in hushed tones suppressing giggles oblivious to his presence down below.
Among the middle mass of onlookers, a blur of eyes were directed towards him and he felt his palms dampen against the lecture stand. He scanned across the rows and met the gaze of his wife Jill, like him, in her forties. She smiled and Dr Hill felt himself relax, took a second deep breath and continued:
“I would like to thank the chaplain, Nicholas, for his introduction. As he has just said, many of you will know me as a critic of religion and false belief. So being a guest speaker in this august department of theology here in Cambridge does seem strange and, if I’m honest, a little intimidating. I feel like Daniel in the Lion’s Den.”
A murmur of amusement echoed around the room at the biblical reference and Dr Hill’s breathing became calmer. He took his right hand from the lectern and undid the button on his jacket, revealing a rotund belly that squeezed out over the belt in his trousers.
“As much as I would love to stand here and lecture about religious fallacies and reminding you that what goes on in your heads isn’t reality—”
A sharp cough from someone sitting in the front row cut the flow of words. Dr Hill glanced towards the academics' bench and smiled, enjoying the irritation he had caused.
“—unfortunately Nicholas, in his wisdom, has advised that I should avoid bear-baiting and stick to the title of the lecture.”
To his side came the click of a camera and a flash of light from the photographer from Camtab, a university newspaper.
“A couple of months ago I wrote an article for the New York Times called 'New Prophets, New Messiahs'. This article has caused a few ripples if my in-box is anything to go by. Today I want to explain the reasoning behind the article and why I think the conditions in the world today are ripe for the emergence of a new religious force equivalent to that of Buddha, Jesus Christ or Mohammed.”
The audience hushed and he felt them close in towards him.
“I need to emphasize that I do not have a religious bone in my body. I do not believe in God. I am not making any sort of religious statement here.” He emphasized the ‘not’ and paused to make sure the audience had taken it in.
Another click and flash came from the photographer to his side.
“But my view is that looking at where we are historically, socially, culturally and technologically, all the structural elements are in place that will lead to the emergence of a new prophet or religious leader. I am not saying that he or she really will be a new prophet or that a new religion will be any less false than current religions. Just that the conditions now in the world are ripe for this type of person to emerge.”
A brief murmur of chatter filled the room, and he waited for the noise to die down before continuing:
“Take society. We see religion in decline in most of the Western World. Religion is a minority sport in Europe and Japan. Even in the evangelical stronghold of the United States, increasing numbers of people now feel free to declare themselves as non-religious. In the West, the non-religious influence on politics and government is becoming as significant as those of evangelical Christians and the Religious Right. But we know, from a scientific viewpoint, human beings are creatures of belief. Even as an atheist, I recognise that belief is a fundamental part of how we make sense of the world around us. And this need for belief is not being satisfied by science.”
Dr Hill took a sip from the water and added as an aside: “Although, as I remind my critics, merely believing in something doesn’t make it true.
“The reality is that most people can’t relate to the scientific vie
w of the world. It is too remote, too difficult to understand and too technical. Its cold brutality provides little in the way of comforting answers. So for many people, the decline of the traditional religions that seem to have nothing to say about the world of today leaves a gap and a yearning for answers and spiritual cravings.
“Outside the West we see this in the rise of Islamic fundamentalism fighting against secularism and Enlightenment values where the wrong belief has become a death sentence. And in the West we see this in the growth of alternative medicine, homoeopathy, increases in spirituality and complementary therapies and people seeking to ‘find themselves’.”
His voice revealed a faint sneer of sarcasm at this last phrase, but he continued:
“If we combine this with the modern communications from mobile phones to the Internet, and a socially connected world that stretches through Africa and Asia, then it seems almost certain to me that we will see the emergence of a person, or a collection of people who will tap into this need and be hailed as new spiritual leaders across the world. Imagine if you will how the current cult of celebrity in our media will play for someone who claims divine inspiration and can reach and build an audience through the Internet. …”
2. The boys
Thwack. A large white pock-mark crazed the reinforced glass where the brick had hit the window. The gang of boys and young men standing among the fuel pumps on the service station forecourt cheered and goaded the thrower to try again. The boy, no more than thirteen, ran forwards and picked up the brick he had just thrown, took two steps back and launched it again. Another thwack and another dent appeared on the shop window. Still the glass held and the boy leapt and launched a kick against the glass with the heel of his bare foot in an act of childish annoyance.
Behind him the gang of men and boys hollered. The three eldest, into their twenties, watched from the back, a battered Toyota pick-up to their side, semi-automatic rifles on their shoulders. As the boy drifted out of the way, others threw stones and lumps of wood at the building to the sound of whistles and cheers from their elders.
The fusillade paused and Joe, a bulky tall youth of about sixteen staggered to the front. Above his head he swung a length of metal chain about four feet long with a heavy lump of grey concrete at one end.
“Joe. Joe. Joe. Joe,” the men chanted from the back, clapping their hands in rhythm.
Taking their cue, the younger boys joined in. “Joe. Joe. Joe.”
Joe broke into a grin, bright white teeth bursting out of his dark face, a layer of puppy fat exposed under his open shirt, his skin glistening with the exertion. He puffed and tottered forwards towards the window, the weight of the concrete throwing him off balance as it helicoptered above his head.
“Joe. Joe. Joe.” The refrain redoubled behind him accompanied by hands slapping against the side of the truck.
Joe started to spin; turning, turning; like a hammer thrower lifting the concrete block into the air; accelerating, accelerating. Then … release.
The lump of concrete flew towards the window and crashed against the pane. The glass shuddered and then fractured, leaving a hole as big as a melon in the reinforced pane.
Joe spun to face the others, still dizzy from the effort, and threw his arms in the air in triumph. “Goallllllllll,” he cried in delight, lengthening the last syllable like a football commentator and drumming his feet on the ground.
The breech made, the older youths took charge. The younger boys stopped throwing their rocks and watched in silence as the eldest, Adu, strode up to the store. From his waistband, Adu unclipped a bottle of whiskey, and out of his pocket he took a white rag. He opened the bottle and took a swig, sloshing the liquid around his mouth before swilling it down in a noisy gulp, then he tipped the bottle so a measure of the rough alcohol poured over the cloth. Stuffing the rag into the neck of the bottle, he swaggered towards the shop window.
He peered through Joe’s hole at the half empty shelves in the semi-darkness and his eyes narrowed as he picked out a spot inside. He reached deep into his trouser pocket and took out a yellow plastic lighter. Turning his back to the breeze, Adu flicked the strike-wheel with his thumb until a small flame flickered to life. He kept the flame in the lee of his body and played it against the rag until that too was alight, the edges turning black as the flames ate the loose threads.
He hissed, wrinkling his nose and baring his teeth. He took two steps backward from the window and made a short run up and launched the bottle through the hole as if he was throwing a paper plane. From the void within, a brittle crash sounded as the bottle broke as it hit the floor. A flicker of yellow-orange light illuminated the shelves as the burning spirit spread its payload to the boxes and dry paper inside.
From inside the shop, a woman screamed.
3. The heist
“Put that back.” Nurya’s voice echoed through the store, a tremble of fear intensifying her accented English.
She glared down the isle from behind the cashier’s desk at the men and the crate of beer they were carrying out towards the truck on the service station forecourt.
“Put that back or I call police.”
Behind her, a small boy in a yellow t-shirt hugged against his mother’s thigh. Yanif's head barely reached her hip, and he stared at the men.
The taller man gave a sly chuckle to his companion and they put down the crate. The man turned towards Nurya and, puffing out his chest, he sauntered back down the aisle towards the cash desk. As he walked he stretched out his hand and forearm, pushing the goods off the top shelf. Tins, packets and paint aerosols cascaded to the floor in a stream of crashes that reverberated through the otherwise deserted shop.
“Lady,” he called to her in a mocking tone as he reached the end of the aisle, “I think you do not understand. You are new here. I have not seen you before. Yes?” The question was rhetorical and he continued, “Lady, you are new to this land. This is our land.”
He nodded backwards indicating the expanse of Kenyan savannah and acacia trees that surrounded the shop and service station.
“This is our land. We own this land. Now you are on our land, so now we own you. Do you understand? We own you and this” —he motioned towards the crate of beer behind him— “is a gift that you are giving us. A welcoming present. Understand mwanamke?”
A look of horror crossed Nurya’s face. She picked up the phone on the desk and punched at the keypad, calling out towards the back of the shop, the sound of panic in her voice, “Marid, Marid.”
Yanif peered into the store room at the back to see if he could see his father. “Abba, Abba.”
Nurya bent down and said something to the boy and ushered him towards the back.
The man reached the counter, his once joking eyes full of menace and so close that Nurya could smell tobacco on his breath. Nurya backed away, keeping the counter-top between them. The man grabbed the phone from its place by the cash register and with a yank, ripped the telephone cable from the wall.
“You should not call the police mwanamke. Understand? The police,” —and he spat the word police out— “are our police. You should not talk to them without our permission. Understand mwanamke?”
He lunged at her, trying to grab her arm, but Nurya ducked and threw herself under the counter. The man leaned over trying to fish her out from underneath; his long arms craning into the darkness of the cavity.
With a jolt the man stopped and lifted himself up and away, his hands held open at shoulder height and he started to back away. From beneath the desk Nurya emerged, the long twin barrels of a shotgun in her hands pointing at the young man.
“Perhaps you need to understand” —there was a tremble in Nurya’s voice but she kept her eyes fixed on the man in front of her— “that we are here to live. We do not live to feed thieves.”
From behind her, Marid, her husband, appeared. “Nurya…”
He caught sight of the gun in his wife's hands and gasped. He scooped up Yanif into his arms.
“Nurya…” he whispered once again.
Nurya ignored Marid and remained fixed on her target.
“You leave,” she snapped at the young man.
Marid placed his hand around Nurya’s hip to pull her close but Nurya resisted concentrating on the man at the end of the barrels.
“You leave and you do not come back. Understand?” There was force in her voice as she repeated the word the man had used to her.
A strange smile came over the man’s face and he nodded to himself. “You know, I will go now. But you should take care mwanamke. This is our land and you still owe us our welcoming gift.”
He turned towards his companion and sauntered back down the aisle. In a show of defiance he grabbed at the remaining items on the shelves and threw them to the floor.
Nurya was not sure what surprised her more, the recoil of the gun or the sudden burst of noise that reverberated through the cavernous space of the shop.
Yanif screamed and put his hands over his ears.
In the aisle the young man had fallen to his knees and was grabbing at a mass of red and torn cloth at his calf where the scatter of shot had entered the muscle. The other young man, scared and bewildered, stared back at Nurya.
Nurya let the weapon drop to her side and the young man ran towards his companion and grabbed him by the arm, pulling and dragging his partner in a bloody limp towards the door. The smaller man opened it with one hand, and the two of them made their way back to their truck before roaring away into the hazy heat.
Marid put his arms around Nurya and squeezed her, then lifted Yanif to his hip. Nurya placed her head on Marid’s chest and sobbed, the shotgun still held by her side.
“I don’t think you should have done that,” said Marid. “We have only been here a month. Shooting customers is not a good start.”
He smiled at his faint attempt at humour, but Nurya did not hear or see; her face was nestled into his shoulder.
“We will have to see if anyone at the Centre can help us,” he continued.