Out in front, a storm from neighboring South Africa rolled in along the hills of Lesotho, bringing precious rain. The sun hung low in the sky, rays peeking through the clouds and draping over the hills, and for a moment, Arthur Browning could have been anywhere. His mind escaped him, searching each of the rays.
In front of him, the new Lesotho flag flew, the mokorotlo hat in the center flanked by a chickpea plant to the left and a raining cloud to the right. If George Washington had his way, an earthworm would be wiggling just below the mokorotlo. George had pitched the idea to the king twice, turned down both times.
The king. The professor at once recalled why he was here. Turning around, he saw the faces inside looking to the professor, anxious to get this over with.
“Come on, George,” Arthur said.
George grabbed the professor’s arm. “Will this work?”
“I hope so, my friend.”
George smiled, a smile of belief and friendship.
“I, uh, I want to first thank you all for coming here to southern Africa.” Professor Browning never understood why speakers said wanted to, as if they no longer wanted to. It was a silly thing to think of right now, and perhaps he could have passed it off as nerves if he ever got nervous. But Arthur Browning never got nervous. Not even with the big shots in this room. There were the usual NGO players, the regional leaders, the national leaders, even a few Western faces vaguely familiar to him.
He turned to a map of Africa behind him. “If you look at this, folks, you will see just how small Lesotho is in the grand scheme of things. This is a tiny enclave within South Africa, it’s mountainous, and it’s poor. But.” He looked at George Washington, whose eyes sparkled like an excited child. “Against all odds, this country is turning things around. More so than any experts could have predicted.
“We are here tonight because while most of Africa is in turmoil, this small nation is a light in darkness, a beacon of the future. Just look at what one of its ordinary citizens has managed to do.” The professor pointed to George Washington.
George stood, excited to have the floor. “Hello, everyone. I want to welcome you all here to Lesotho.” He looked to the professor. George didn’t have long to get the attention of these people, so Arthur motioned for him to roll right into his pitch. George nodded and continued. “I have started a program over the last year to both repair our exhausted soils and grow enough food to feed ourselves.”
George was doing well, surprisingly well. He was animated, and he used hand gestures well; a natural. But the professor didn’t believe in naturals, he only believed in nature.
“Take this plant.” George held up the beautiful green bush. “This is a chickpea plant. It repairs the soils, and provides a great source of protein. My brothers and sisters, you must look at this plant and see what I see—the future.”
Arthur scanned the room, a few obligatory nods amongst an unimpressed crowd. Then George went for the ace up his sleeve. He turned and grabbed a dirty green plastic bucket from under his seat. Reaching in, he fingered around for a moment, finally pulling out a handful of his magical goodness. “Look at these, my friends. These are the way of the future for Lesotho!” Oh fuck. He’d gone back to the worms. The man, George Washington, was obsessed with worms. Arthur would tell many stories about this George Washington in pubs from Alert, Nunavut to Bernardo O’Higgins, from Singapore to Mexico City, they would hear tale of this George Washington.
Then George held his bucket high above his head, and he spoke louder, with a tone that commanded respect from everyone in the room. “My brothers and sisters, my friends. I see you sitting there, wondering what is this man talking about up here? Well, let me tell you. We are using worms—yes, worms—to repair our degraded soil and provide livelihood for our people. We are creating life, and it is free! Look!”
George held the worms and castings up again, and just then, something stirred inside of Arthur. Standing there, watching George talk about his worms with some of the most powerful and wealthy NGOs in the world, the professor realized that George was better than any of them.
Arthur looked at the people in the room. They all looked at one another, most of them rolling their eyes or politely laughing at the black African. Except for one man, sitting at the back. The man stood out from the crowd, for more reasons than the fact that his eyes were fixed on George Washington.
Presently, George finished his spiel, knowing when he had overspent his time, and handed the floor back to the professor.
Arthur Browning stood there, unable to swoop back into his normal spiel. George Washington had changed him. He looked to George, who was putting his worms back in their bucket, sitting in place. He could not argue with the man.
George had gone for it, and so would he. “I was in Oklahoma last week,” Arthur said. “They’re growing okra and chickpeas and amaranth because their corn is failing. The climate zones are pushing north in North America, and this past year, they managed to grow blueberries inside of greenhouses in Nunavut. Do any of you know where Nunavut is?!
“We, in the West, have destroyed our soils, and now the planet is repulsing our fertilizers, it is rebuking our synthetic vegetation. And it will eventually kill us all.” The professor walked over to George and put his hand on his shoulder. “But here, in Lesotho, this is one of the few places in the world where we are actually repairing the earth! This man believes, and you know what? So do I.” They all looked at the professor, annoyed and waiting for the punchline.
“It’s simple,” the professor said. “What we need is two billion dollars U.S., plus logistics and security. We need that to secure the borders of this country, and to provide safe haven to the five hundred white South Africans who are crossing over each day, fleeing an anti-white movement that will not end until South Africa is all black. That is the reality. These people, they are coming here, and Lesotho is welcoming them. But they will soon overwhelm the government and its infrastructure unless we prop it up.
“So, what I’m saying is that either we believe in this country, either we believe in this man, George Washington, and his worms, and provide Lesotho the means to put these people, as well as its own, to work, or we sit back and watch this small country be swallowed and consumed.”
The professor took a deep breath and watched his words bounce off their ears and into space.
George popped the top on two bottles and handed one to the professor. “So, what did we do wrong, my friend?”
The professor took a long swig of the beer. “Damn, that is good.”
“Yes, I am learning how to make home brew from one of my German friends.”
“It’s good. Listen, George, this wasn’t your fault. If you remember, I told you at the start that it was a longshot.”
George worked as he listened to the professor. George had constructed a long garden bed the length of the deck in front of the building. To the left, the soil was fine, soft, black. George was a true miracle worker, taking the clumps of dried, grey, dead dirt and building a fine dark, rich soil. The leaves of the tomatoes and carrots and beets and squash and chickpeas were green and fragrant. George was making his way down the bed, about two-thirds of the way, breaking down the clumps of dirt, mixing in his precious worm castings, and putting in his chickpea seedlings. He watered each one in with the love and care of a father towards his children.
This was the sanctuary of George Washington, for however long it lasted.
George watered in a chickpea and stopped. “We are going to die here, aren’t we, Professor?”
Arthur leaned forward. “I will get you out, George. Do you hear me? I will get you and your family out of here before those savages in South Africa cross into Lesotho and burn this place to the ground.”
George’s eyes went hazy, losing the belief and excitement that the professor thought had come to define him.
“This is a special place, professor. To think that it will be destroyed soon—”
“Oh, hi. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Arthur and George stood. As the man stepped forward, Arthur recognized him as the man who had been sitting at the back of the room.
“Hi there,” Arthur said.
“Hi. My name is Keegan.” He extended his hand, first to George.
“I am George Washington.”
Keegan nodded. “Yes, I know who you are, George. I’ve come a long way to meet you.” He turned to the professor.
“Arthur Browning. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Yes, of course.” The man had a disarming smile, as if he knew what was coming just around the corner.
“I am sorry,” George said, pulling a beer from the ice in a hole in the ground. “Here, please join us, my friend.”
“Ah, thank you, George. Now I know I’ve come to the right place.”
They all sat, and Arthur and George watched him as he took a couple of long gulps from the beer, waiting for him to speak.
“Mmm,” Keegan said, “that is very nice.” He took another sip, moving it around in his mouth. “Is it German?”
George nodded. “How did you know?”
“Well, I am German. In fact, I’ve come here from Germany because I want to give you some money, George.”
“What money?” Arthur said.
“The money you need to do what you want to do,” Keegan said. “How’s five billion dollars sound?”
Arthur couldn’t move.
Keegan took a smooth swig of his beer. “I trust that will be enough to secure your borders, improve your infrastructure, and feed your people?”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Arthur said.
“How so, Professor?”
“The main issue is logistics. We would need time to get supplies here, and to organize operations.”
Keegan nodded. “Come with me, please.”
They stepped around to the side of the building. There was a long black semi-truck with four long trailers attached parked along the street. Keegan reached into his pocket and pulled a controller out. The thing must have been one of the newer models, it looked more like an old TV remote. The German dialed in an instruction, and a roller panel on one of the trailers lifted. Long steel poles hung stacked in racks, spools of steel wire stacked below.
He dialed another instruction and a metal figure lowered to the ground. It was huge, maybe ten feet tall, and moved upon a quadrapedal frame.
Keegan turned to the professor and George and smiled. “That’s the new Border Maker. She’s heavily armed, and depending upon terrain, can lay between two and fifty kilometers of fence in a day. Given your rugged terrain, I’d say it will be at the lower end. But not to worry, I can get you all you need.”
Arthur didn’t know where to begin. “We need more than fences—”
“Yes, Professor, you need structure. Well, the GCN is sending a team here—assuming you want our help?”
George nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir. We do.”
“Who are you?” Arthur said. How did this guy come out of nowhere with all of this?
“I’m a man with a mutual interest. My non-governmental organization—”
“Which organization?”
“We’ve been around Europe for a little while now, but we’re starting to venture beyond those borders. Anyway, my organization believes this is the way forward.” Keegan turned to George. “When you spoke about worms saving the world, Mister Washington, I believed you.”
“So, what now?” Arthur said.
Keegan shrugged. “We transfer the money tonight. I have lots and lots of road trains just like this one at the border ready to cross over. First, we fence the border in both directions from Maseru, up to Ficksburg and down to the Orange River. Once that portion is secured, we focus on the west.”
The professor thought for a moment. “Well, mister, I don’t know why you want to help Lesotho out so much, but it is most appreciated.” He shook Keegan’s hand. “Drones and fences won’t be enough for security, though.”
Keegan nodded, no doubt expecting it. “Don’t worry about security, Professor Browning. I know somebody.”
***
December, 2025
The Irishman kicked his foot up onto the bull bar of the ute and tied his shoe, and as he did, all Roger could think was what a shitty map. The map had betrayed him insomuch as it had colors, lines, and dots on it. But all he could see in front of him was darkness—darkness and whatever color that was created when the wind blew that burnt orange Australian Outback dust in front of the headlights.
And there was also blue. The Irishman’s eyes were a terrifying depth of blue that made Roger’s spine tingle to look into. The Irishman put his foot down on the ground and looked right at Roger through the windshield, then turned just as the black Inuit strolled past the front of the Irishman’s ute to the right, a mango in her hand. She reached down and pulled a huge knife from inside her boot. Slicing the mango, she handed a piece to the Irishman. She sliced another piece and handed it to the Chechen, who was walking past Roger’s door, his boots grinding against the rocks and dirt.
As the Chechen munched on the mango slice, gnawing the flesh from the skin with his teeth, Roger could make out the definitions of the scar on the left side of his face and his jaw muscles clenching with each bite. Roger imagined those jaws must have been strong enough to bite through a bloody steel pipe.
The South African was sitting to Roger’s right in the driver’s side. Sighing, the South African creaked the door open and stepped out, walked around, and held out his hand to the black Inuit. She cleanly sliced off a piece of mango and placed it in his large palm. He tossed it into his mouth, looking around as he scarfed it down.
The black Inuit was lean but strong. Roger could see her ripped dark arms through her padded black tank top. Her knife was nearly as long as her forearm, but she wielded it like Roger would a fork. Rolling a chunk of mango around in her mouth, she paused from the slicing to grab a handkerchief from her pocket and wipe the sweat from her upper chest and forehead.
Roger creaked his door open and stepped out onto the ground, which seemed to be radiating heat from it like an oven. As he did, the Aboriginal looked up from his shotgun to survey Roger. In truth, the young man was only half-Aboriginal, and the black Inuit was only half-black, but half was enough for Roger. He made his way over to the Irishman and the South African, who were standing in front of the headlights.
Roger’s dress shirt was already dirty and was now soaking through with foul-smelling sweat. For all the pleasure his company seemed to be enjoying out in this desolate dustpan—the South African, the Irishman, the black Inuit, the Chechen, and the Aboriginal all seemed to absolutely love it out here—Roger wished he was back in his air-conditioned, cluttered apartment on his stinky, loud, patrolled street in Melbourne.
The South African whispered something to the Irishman, then walked up to Roger. “They’re still comin’, yah?” The man was big, and with hands that Roger knew could crush his throat without effort.
“Yeah, they’re coming, mate,” Roger said. “Listen, you and your people don’t need to worry, okay? I told you I would arrange things, and I did. I’m paying you, remember?”
The South African scanned Roger’s face for a moment, then smiled halfheartedly. “Sure,” he said, then looking down to his watch, he turned to pace aimlessly about his companions. The black Inuit and Chechen stared at Roger. The Irishman kicked dirt around with his ridiculously shiny boot toe, his arms hanging crossed behind his back, then he looked up to the sky, holding one hand up to shield the headlights from his vision. The Aboriginal… Well, Roger couldn’t quite tell what he was doing behind the Irishman’s ute.
/> Roger would have made small talk if he knew what these people even talked about to begin with. Then, just as he started to open his mouth…
How was it that Roger had come to be here? He wondered this while he stood there, drenched in his own filthy sweat, swatting at the ferocious flies. The two utes had driven out from Karratha, through the late afternoon and into the evening, for five hours to the Auski Roadhouse. Roger wasn’t sure what the Irishman and South African had done inside the roadhouse, but their business there had taken about forty-five minutes. It was well and truly night when they had pulled out from the roadhouse, and it was nearly another hour before they had pulled off the main road in the park. They had driven for some fifteen or twenty minutes—Roger seemed to somehow lose track of time out here—until they came to something of a fork in the road. They had headed straight instead of bearing left, then the road had turned to dirt for a short distance before coming to a dead end. That was where they had turned right and pulled in behind a fenced-in area, their two utes facing a grove of short, scattered trees away from the fork in the road.
First, it was the black Inuit; she was followed by the Chechen, then the Irishman and the South African. But for Roger’s reflexes and estimation, they all pretty well tied. They all flicked their heads south towards the road coming up to the fork a couple of hundred meters from where they were parked at. Roger looked, trying to find what they saw, but he couldn’t.
They all then looked to the Aboriginal, who was making his way towards the group. He had a serious look, a change from the look of apathy Roger had seen from him the whole trip. He looked off into the bush towards the fork, his demeanor distant but serious. His eyes searched for a few moments. “Two utes, maybe three,” he said, then dipped his head. He knelt down and placed a hand to the ground. “And behind them, more road trains than I can count.” With that, he stood and walked to the far side of the Irishman’s ute, loading shells into his shotgun.
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