by Julian Beale
WINGS
OF THE
MORNING
Julian Beale
for the love of Africa
Royalties from the sale of this book are donated to registered charities which support Africans in need.
Copyright © Julian Beale 2012
Julian Beale has asserted his right
under the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988 to be identified
as the author of this work.
Cover image: Shutterstock
Umbria Press
London SW15 5DP
www.umbriapress.co.uk
Printed and bound by
Ashford Colour Press, Gosport
Paperback ISBN 978-0-9573641-0-3
E book ISBN 978-0-9573641-6-5
MAJOR CHARACTERS
THE OXFORD FIVE
OTHER KEY PEOPLE
If I take the wings of the morning,
and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;
Even there shall thy hand lead me,
and thy right hand shall hold me.
PSALM 139
CONTENTS
OLIVER AVELING — 2021
MICHEL LABARRE — 1963
DAVID HEAVEN — 1943 to 1965
JOSH TROLLOPE — 1965
SOLOMON KIRCHOFF — 1965
DAVID HEAVEN —1965
THE OXFORD FIVE — 1970
THIERRY CESTAC — 1970
KINGSTON OFFENBACH — 1970
ALEXA LABARRE — 1970
CONRAD AVELING — 1970
DAVID HEAVEN — 1970
ALEXA BUSHELL — 1971
DAVID HEAVEN — 1973
THIERRY CESTAC — 1974
CONRAD AVELING — 1975
ALEXA BUSHELL — 1977
THE OXFORD FIVE — 1977
THIERRY CESTAC — 1980
KINGSTON OFFENBACH — 1984
DAVID HEAVEN & MARTIN KIRCHOFF — 1985
THIERRY CESTAC — 1986
ALEXA BUSHELL — 1987
AISCHA GOMES — 1989
HUGH DUNDAS —1990
THIERRY CESTAC — 1991
AISCHA GOMES — 1994
DAVID HEAVEN — 1995
THE OXFORD FIVE — 1996
CONRAD AVELING — 1996
DAVID HEAVEN — 1997
FERGUS CARRADINE — 1997
THE OXFORD FIVE — 1997
CONRAD AVELING — 1998
DAVID HEAVEN — 1998
JOSH TROLLOPE — February 1999
THIERRY CESTAC — July 1999
DAVID HEAVEN & AISCHA GOMES — September 1999
DAVID HEAVEN — December 1999
FERGUS CARRADINE — New Year’s Day 2000
MARTIN KIRCHOFF — March 2000
KINGSTON OFFENBACH — May 2000
PENTE BROKE SMITH — December 2000
AISCHA HEAVEN — May 2003
ALEXA DUNDAS — August 2004
DAVID HEAVEN — May 2013
OLIVER AVELING — 2021
OLIVER AVELING — 2021
Most people call me ‘Olty’. I turn thirty today, the first of January 2021. I enjoy my birthday on New Year’s Day. It wasn’t so great when I was a child, but since reaching my teenage years, I’ve had a lot of fun with extra celebration after the partying on New Year’s Eve. This year’s a bit special of course: thirty is a major number and a dozen of us have planned a big bash for tonight. But I want to make a start on this project first. It’s going to be a challenge.
I’m a diplomat by profession. I’m white, single, straight, solvent. I work with a great bunch of people and I’m lucky with my friends. I travel a lot, but I love coming home to this apartment with its brilliant view over the ocean. I have company from time to time, but there’s no one really serious in my life.
I was born in England, but I’ve lived here since I finished school twelve years ago. ‘Here’ is Century City, Capital of Millennium, a country occupying a landmass on the West Coast of Africa as old as time itself, although our nation was born only twenty-one years ago today.
Millennium’s struggle into existence is the kernel of my story, but there’s a more personal element to it as well. Our country’s founding president was David Heaven who’s been long gone from life and much longer from that post. I was twenty-two when he died and I knew him a bit because he had been close to our family since I was a boy and he features in my earliest memories. He was gruff but kind, and to give him his due, he was a pretty good communicator with all age groups. Plus of course, David Heaven was for a while the man of Millennium and was therefore a significant figure. Until his death, I thought of him as an important family friend and after he had gone, I simply thought about him less and less. I certainly had no idea that he was my biological grandfather, the father of my mother. So this news hit me like a thunderbolt.
A little over a year ago, I was spending a lot of working time in New York and I had a visit from a Frenchman called Guy Labarre. He’s not a relative but our families have been intertwined over many years. Guy is a human rights lawyer and we did have a bit of business to do together, but that was not the reason to bring him calling. He bought me lunch and took the opportunity to hand over a letter written to me by David Heaven. It doesn’t say much, just a simple message addressed to me in his handwriting which I recognised on the envelope.
‘To my grandson, Oliver Aveling.’
The letter inside is not dated. It reads as follows:
‘Dear Olty,
I do not know when you will receive this, neither do I know who will give it to you, but I leave it in safe hands and in confidence that it will reach you one day. I could not acknowledge you in life, but here is my legacy in death. Here is a record of my time and my efforts. There is untold history and there are unrecorded facts. Above all, Olty, I leave you my memories. I am certain that you will become the man who will make the most of them.’
There is no signature.
With this letter came a small suitcase, full of photographs, newspaper cuttings, memorabilia of all sorts. And there was a journal. I have one volume in front of me now. It’s not a diary and it’s hardly a memoire. It’s not ‘it’. There are eleven hardback books and the lined pages of all of them are filled with Heaven’s neat handwriting. There’s no concession to modernity. He might as well have drawn a pirate’s map with a quill pen. There’s no index, no summary and only a few of the photos are dated. But the journal is compelling and I was hooked from the moment I started to browse.
It’s recorded history that my grandfather started a revolution. He raised an army and planned an invasion. He came in from the ocean with three ships and three thousand people in the small hours of the new century. He aimed to take over an established sovereign state and to replace it with a new country, a new order and a new society. Human engineering on a grand scale.
It’s people who shape events on this planet and the personalities which drive the people are formed from background, relationships, opportunity and sheer damn fortune. It’s the ‘humanity of history’ as my grandfather calls it somewhere in this tome of his. Mostly, however, he keeps his emotional side in check. He writes in facts and figures and dates. He uses terse language, abbreviating his inner feelings.
I could have tidied this up and published his journal as a posthumous autobiography. But I wanted more. I wanted flesh on the bones of his sparse account and so I have spent the past year in research and conversations with survivors of the era.
This is an extraordinary story of momentous times. It starts with a relative of my family friend Guy Labarre – his Uncle Michel.
MICHEL LABARRE — 1963
On the evening of the fourth day, the young man standing on tip toes accepted th
at his death was imminent and found that he was quite looking forward to it.
When he was snatched from the hotel, his first reaction had been disbelief larded with a sheer, raging terror. He liked to talk as tough as any red-blooded young man when a bit taken in drink and surrounded by his mates, but that would have been in Paris or in his home city of Limoges. Out here he was in strange territory, without the familiar points of reference and he had felt both excitement and isolation from the moment he had stepped off his direct flight from France into the arrivals hall at Niamey International Airport in the Republic of Niger.
Michel Labarre was twenty-three years old with a reasonable degree in chemical engineering from the University of Sorbonne. He came from a quality family, possessed of money, status and standing. He was an enthusiastic sportsman, a good looking, fun-loving young man, with a lively and likeable personality.
The oyster of Michel’s world was opening up as he arrived that day from Paris. He was joining, as a management trainee, a substantial French conglomerate in civil engineering called Georges DuLame & Cie which had global interests but especially in the former French colonies of West Africa. Newly recruited university graduates could expect to spend at least half of their first three years on short term postings overseas, and for most of them, this was a significant attraction of the job.
Michel was therefore one of a kind and he relished the chance, following his inaugural stint at the DuLame training centre outside Nanterre, to cut his teeth on some proper work in Africa. For the first couple of months, the company’s well established practice was to apply a regime of strict acclimatisation. The young men, and there were precious few women of any age, were required to knuckle down to big company discipline, to work diligently and to get their bodies used to the extreme climate with its 40 degree heat. They must tolerate the sometimes dodgy food and accept the basic accommodation. The incentives were that expatriate life offered decent money, infrequent but long leaves, and satisfaction for the Beau Geste spirit if that turned you on.
Michel loved it all. He liked the work, liked the heat, liked his fellow workers be they French or Nigerien, especially liked the feeling of accomplishment that he was doing something different, and doing it well. The French management at the DuLame compound took to him also, congratulating themselves that they had an asset in Michel Labarre, all the more impressive as he came from a pretty toffee-nosed background. And all his colleagues appreciated his ability to keep up with the pace of beer when they had a night out in the bars and dives of Niamey, especially as he was something of a musician and could play a reasonable guitar even when several sheets to the wind.
That single talent led to his undoing. A group of them finished up one night at La Chatte, a lively club in the red light ghetto, notorious for its innovative band which was delighted to welcome Michel into an impromptu jamming session at which his playing ability shone out as brightly as his face whilst the drinks poured down and the heat of pressing bodies mounted. It was during a beer break that he talked rather loosely to the double bass player who encouraged Michel in his account of learning to play the guitar at his exclusive school in France and applauded him for working hard in the Sahara despite obviously coming from a pretty wealthy background. Michel was well past picking up any danger signals from this trend of conversation and his new friend took care that their little talk did not include the other members of Labarre’s group from the company.
Half an hour after that, the girl arrived. She might have been from Mali or perhaps from Mauritania, but she was actually a Senegalese and strikingly beautiful — tall, very slim, angel face and totally poised. The entire package was white hot sexy, and Michel was overboard when she came straight over to talk to him. She gurgled with the claim that word of his excellence had reached her from her friends in the band and she just had to see him perform. She delivered that line with such clear innuendo that Michel felt as if he had been that kicked in the groin.
A little more music was played and a good deal more beer lowered before the senior DuLame man announced that their group was leaving. That was an absolute instruction. No one got left behind, certainly not Michel Labarre with his hormones pumping, but the girl, who called herself Salacia, managed to whisper that she could not say adieu and just must meet him two nights hence in the main square of the city at 6:30 pm, and that he must come alone.
The following day was a Sunday and Michel spent it in a fever of indecision mixed with lust. Company instructions were explicit. No employee to leave the compound without a pass and never alone in the evening. But Michel knew, like everybody else, that the wire perimeter was holed like a Swiss cheese, that many of the inhabitants went out from time to time and that the African workers in the camp brought their own women in through the selfsame holes. So practicality was not an issue. But then there was risk assessment, and he made a steadily less objective job of this as his animal instincts drove his brain south.
Monday was therefore passed with the electricity of planning and anticipation, with the enticing body of Salacia ever dancing before his eyes. He finished his work, showered, grabbed some cash and slipped out of the compound. He picked up a flea bitten cab immediately which was surely a good omen and was in the square by 6:20 pm feeling relaxed and sure of himself. She would be pleased to see him and he paused by the fountain to light a cigarette with luxuriant pleasure.
Salacia was indeed delighted to see him. She had a good feeling about this one, but you still needed the proof that the fish was on the line. She was sitting at the back of an open fronted cafe across the square, hidden by the awning overhead and pleased to see her mark exhibiting the body language of nerves drowned in expectation. Now she whispered a final instruction to her companion, a huge man in a flat white cap which obscured a little of his beard, unusually luxuriant for an African, and then she rose to slip away, lithe in her sea green dress with the skirt just a bit too short. Minutes later, she could be seen approaching Michel from the other side of the square having circled around. The big man shook his head. She was almost too sharp and sexy this one, but she knew her business and made more money more easily than any of his former partners. Plus she liked a bit of rough and brawny occasionally, so no way was he going to complain about taking orders from Salacia.
Meanwhile, Michel was in heaven. This gorgeous girl was treating him like manna from heaven, a little decorous kiss on his cheek, smoothing his hair, compliments on his appearance and her finger nails skittering down his arm in a gesture of welcome and possession. Supremely sexy.
She slipped her arm through his and led him away out of the square into the main street and towards the misnamed Hotel du Parc, which was nonetheless the best establishment in town. As they walked, she explained that she worked for the Foreign Service of Senegal, she had flown in a week ago on a visit mixing business with pleasure and that she always stayed in this hotel. Michel was entranced and questioned none of this. They went into the foyer, in which he felt instinctively that he should be discreet if not furtive, but Salacia continued their conversation uninterrupted as she waited for her key, saying that their plan should be to go and listen to some more music, but first perhaps, a refreshing drink and a little relax. She looked demurely at him with a twinkle in her eye which would have debauched a monk.
Upstairs in her spacious room, she poured him a cold beer, lit a cigarette for them both, kicked off her shoes and slipped gracefully onto the double bed, patting the sheets alongside her in invitation. Michel put down his glass and moved towards her, his throat, despite the lager, already dry with expectation.
‘Cheri’, she invited him calmly, ‘I think you should first remove your clothes ... just like me’.
She smiled encouragement as she let slip the dress from around her neck and lay back in the middle of the bed, hair spread out, breasts high, nipples thrust in excitement, legs ajar, the whole marvellously naked. She held out her arms to him and Michel stumbled awkwardly out of his trousers, almost tripping as he simulta
neously ripped off his shirt. In his fevered state, he didn’t notice the lift whirring to a halt on their floor, neither did he hear the door to the bedroom being gently opened, nor sense the large man with the white cap enter with a silence which belied his bulk. But at that moment, Michel might not have noticed a rampaging bull — he was one himself. With a groan of delight, he got onto the bed and leaned forward to rest his belly against Salacia’s knees which she had drawn up into her chest. Michel supported himself on his arms, his hands palm down on either side of his lover. Classic missionary stuff, he had time to think to himself as he pushed forward quite gently and was thrilled to feel her knees begin to part before his thrust. Nirvana, here we come, he thought.
But in an instant, his every instinct turned from slaking lust to fighting panic as he seemed to levitate in a manner which defied all his senses. Michel was suddenly powerless, overcome by extraordinary strength. One large human hand gripped his throat so he could gurgle but not breathe. Another slipped between his legs and gathered all his rampant genitalia in one massive grip which would have made him scream if he could have used his larynx. He felt himself being swung effortlessly into the air, the same two hands in the same two places, but now he was being held upside down and then lowered into a heavy hessian sack with fumes which drove the breath from his nose as he started to choke. But neither hand released its hold until Salacia, who had snatched the bag from under the bed and opened the neck to receive its human burden, pulled tight a drawstring which laced the bottom of the sack around Michels’s down-stretched neck so that the giant could pull out his hand and permit the cord and the fumes to stifle any cries which the captive might make. Without delay, the big man stood on the bed, lifted up Michel by balls and body and thumped him head down on the wooden floor. The lights went out for Michel.