The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles)

by James S. Gardner

  “You've just touched on one of the great unsolved mysteries in this country. My wife says it's like ‘Where did the Mafia bury Jimmy Hoffa?' The way I see it, there are two possibilities. Either John William's the father or it's Oscar. The kids are so ugly, it could be either one.”

  They left the tarmac and turned onto a corrugated road running uphill. The William's place was a makeshift series of wooden shacks. There was a tireless tractor and the remains of four trucks jackedup in the front yard. The threelegged, oneeared hyena played with two children in the dirt. Oscar licked one child's head. The other kid tried to stick a bone in Oscar's unprotected ear hole.

  John William rocked back and forth in his rocking chair. There was a rusty shotgun in his lap. He wore nothing but a dirty blanket draped over his hairy shoulders. On the forward rocks, Jesse could see his genitalia. Jesse smiled and waved nervously. The man's eyes gave no indication of mental acuity. John William's beard was soiled with the evidence of his last feeding. His lips formed a circle as he ejaculated a snotty mixture into the dirt.

  “Why Jesse, I do believe John William likes you,” said Rigby getting out of the truck.

  “How do you know he likes me?” Jesse asked.

  “Because he hasn't shot you,” Croxford whispered. “Sir John, how's the family?” Croxford inquired, getting no response.

  “I'm locking the doors,” Jesse yelled.

  Five heavy-set women encircled their truck. One woman pressed her milk laden breasts against a side window. Two others started to lick the windshield. Some children climbed up on the hood. The more adventurous ones used the truck's roof as a trampoline. Oscar balanced on his rear leg and peered into the back window.

  A woman knocked on Jesse's door, but he ignored her. He guessed she was the albino, but she was so dirty he wasn't sure. The same woman continued to knock until Jesse cracked the window open. Her words were so muffled he rolled the window completely down. “I beg your pardon,” Jesse said.

  “I said, you can kiss my ass, you cock…cock…sucker.” She tried to reswallow her profanity, but couldn't. She seemed pleased when her sisters found her comment hilarious.

  Jesse knew she was Velma, the stuttering albino. “Get me out of here,” he screamed.

  After Rigby filled his truck with petrol, the men drove away from the farm leaving rolling dust filled with children running in their wake. “Spooner, if you're interested in any of his daughters, just say the word and I'll turn around. I think old John kind of fancied you for himself.”

  “Please tell me you've run out of surprises.”

  “You've taken my best shots and you've passed with flying colors. Here, take a drink of water. You look shaky,” he said, handing Jesse his canteen. “My farm's just over the next ridge.”

  The winding road to the Croxford farm was lined with blooming bougainvillea and blue flowered jacaranda trees. The fields on the right looked weedy and unattended. To the left there was a herd of zebra. The stallion watched them, but his females continued to graze. Jesse saw a giraffe gliding between some woodland acacias. The shadows from cotton ball clouds moved lazily over the rolling hills.

  “It's beautiful. I didn't know you had wild animals on your farm,” said Jesse.

  “It was my wife's idea. I fought it, but she won the argument.”

  “What crops do you grow?”

  “We did grow wheat and tobacco. We stopped planting four years ago. If we plant, we're afraid the government will confiscate our farm. This land has been in my family for over a hundred years. Someday, I expect to die defending it.”

  They slowed down as they approached some thatchroofed huts. The men standing around the huts glared back at them. Rigby didn't acknowledge them. “Squatters or warvets as they call themselves, sent here by Mugabe to run me off my land.”

  “I can't blame you for trying to hold on. It's not like I thought.”

  “Spooner, forget everything you think you know about Africa. For starters, the unemployment rate in Zimbabwe is eighty percent and our inflation rate is a zillion percent. Mugabe's a rabid baboon. Ten years ago, we had fifty black families living on this farm. My wife insisted that we send the brighter kids to college. It damn near bankrupted us.”

  “What happened to the college-educated kids?”

  “They're afraid to come back to Zimbabwe. They're seen as a threat by the men in power. It's the same story all over Africa.”

  “You were right. Africa really is a mess.”

  ***

  Helen and Lynn walked out of the house to meet them. Black servants unloaded their luggage. They knocked the dust off and followed Helen and Lynn up on the veranda. The introductions were slightly awkward. There was the usual small talk, but the atmosphere was contrived.

  “Is Africa anything like you expected?” Helen asked Jesse. “Dr. Croxford, your husband has shown me things I could never imagine.” “I hope you didn't subject him to those dreadful people,” she said, turning to her husband.

  “That family is one of the great tourist attractions in Zimbabwe.”

  “My husband has a weird sense of humor. Rigby dear, let's go inside. There's something we need to discuss.” Jesse didn't stand up. He thought the couple wanted privacy. “Jesse, this includes you,” said Helen.

  Rigby's mind raced through the possible scenarios. The two couples sat around a table. Helen spoke first. “Maxwell Turner's here,” his wife blurted out.

  “I'm not following you,” said Rigby.

  “Turner's here in Zimbabwe. He wants to hire you to help him get his son out of the Congo. Before you go ballistic, hear us out. Lynn, give him the background on your stepson.”

  “I don't want to hear another word about Max Turner or his son. Spooner, what've you got to say? Let's start with the truth. By the way, I know you still work for your government. Carrying that pistol was proof positive.” Rigby turned to Lynn. “Why do I get the feeling you planned this?” He waited for a response. When he didn't get one, he threw up his hands in frustration. “Please, somebody say something.”

  Jesse got up, put his hands in his pockets and walked over to the railing. He turned to face Rigby. “Everything you said is true. Coming over here was my idea, not Lynn's. Our motives are not the same. Lynn wants to save her stepson. I'm part of an investigation involving Max Turner and Nelson Chang selling classified information to the Chinese Government. On a personal level, I believe Turner was responsible for the death of a good friend.” Jesse turned to face Lynn. She looked tearful. “I wouldn't be averse to killing Max,” Jesse said.

  “Shame on you Jesse,” Rigby said. “All this talk about killing Max is meant to butter me up. Listen to me for a second. I know the Congo. I fought there as a mercenary. The Congolese are proper Africans, not like the Africans you see around here. The ones around here talk on cell phones. We're talking about cannibals who file their teeth and run around naked looking for someone to eat. The Congo's dangerous.”

  “Arthur isn't in the Congo,” declared Lynn. “He's in the Sudan, the Darfur region to be exact. Sorry, Helen, I should have told you.”

  Croxford sprinkled a pinch of tobacco on a piece of paper, licked the edge and rolled it. After he lit the cigarette, he picked a piece of errant tobacco from between his teeth and smiled. “Well now, that's lovely news. The Sudan's even more dangerous than the Congo. I hunted elephant in the Sudan thirty years ago. We used camels as pack animals until we heard that if the Arabs captured us, they'd eat us and rape the camels. Or maybe it was the other way around. This ought to be interesting.”

  “Does that mean you've decided to lead the rescue?” Helen asked.

  “Lynn, arrange a meeting with Turner. Jesse, does he know you're in Zimbabwe?”

  “I don't think so, but I wouldn't bet my life on it.”

  “Bad choice of words. I need a promise that you won't interfere?”

  “I'm hoping Arthur Turner will be a friendly witness against Nelson Chang. I promise I won't get in the way.”

&
nbsp; Rigby held up his hand to stop them from speaking and turned his back. He stared out at his land. There was a snake-eagle soaring high above the green hills. It's so peaceful here, so tranquil, he thought. They have no way of knowing how bad this could get. He shook his head and turned back to face them. “If we're gonna do this thing, I've got lots to do. I said ‘we,' because I need all of you to go as far as the Central African Republic. Helen, I'll need your medical expertise. I'll play the safari guide, and you two will be my clients,” he said, nodding at Lynn and Jesse. “Once we get to the Sudanese border, I'm on my own. This rescue will be damn expensive. Just the bribes will be a fortune.”

  “Max says he's willing to pay you a half-a-million dollars,” Lynn said.

  “You tell Max I'll do it for expenses. This isn't about money, it's personal.”

  “We'll take the money,'' Helen demanded.

  “In that case, let's get the money in advance,” Rigby insisted.

  Her husband's words made Helen uneasy. She had hoped time would heal his war wounds, but she realized a long time ago there was no magic cure. Does he want the money up-front, because he plans to settle an old score? She had no way of knowing.

  Part TWO

  The Sudan

  “When two bull elephants fight, it is the grass beneath them that gets trampled”

  Old African Proverb

  11

  The Darfur Region, Sudan

  Arthur Turner squinted as he proofread his letter. He moved upwind from the smoke. His assistant, Abel Deng, a Dinka boy, handed him a cup of bush tea. Turner sniffed the contents and scowled. The boy's expression changed to a gaptoothed grin.

  “This tastes like cow piss. I'm afraid to ask what you boiled to make it.”

  “Khawadja, the tea is brewed from swamp reeds. There were days in the Sahel when I prayed to God for ‘cow piss' to quench my thirst. I ate mud for the wetness. Some days, my uncle gave me his urine to drink. I was so thirsty I cried, but my tears wouldn't flow. My people have always bathed in cattle urine, but the Arabs have stolen our cows. I think that's why many of us are sick.”

  “The Dinka are sick for many reasons. When you finish medical school, you will understand these things. Tell the women if they leave the camp to search for firewood they might be kidnapped.” He waited until Abel's back was turned before pouring the tea on the ground. He picked up the letter and resumed his proofreading.

  My dearest Lynn,

  It has been two months since our last attack. The Sudanese rebels continue to steal most of the food and medicine sent to the Darfur. Since my last letter, the English doctor has left the refugee camp.

  If you could send me a copy of Jamison's Diseases and Mortality of SubSaharan Africa, it would be greatly appreciated. Mail it to the same address in Kampala.

  For the first time in my life I feel like I'm making a difference. I work with an Italian nurse and two French nuns. We work twelvehour days. The work is the most satisfying thing I've ever done.

  My personal problems seem trivial compared to what these people are enduring. The president of the Sudan has declared that he wants this country to be an Islamic state. There is a movement to kill all of the Christian males in the Sudan. Pregnant women are killed, fearing they might be carrying a male baby.

  Thousands of boys have left their villages to avoid being massacred. The boys, some as young as five, marched single file across the desert into Ethiopia where they hoped to find a home among the Christian majority. They walked at night to avoid detection by the Arabs. Many of them died during the march. The Dinka girls have fared no better. They have been raped and killed. Malnourishment and exposure killed thousands. The Janjaweed continued to attack the children until they crossed into Ethiopia.

  The Ethiopians are plagued with another famine; as such, they couldn't afford to share their food. Faced with starvation, some of the boys went in search of food. They stole some pumpkins from the local farmers. That's when their world got turned upside down. The next few words are exactly as they were told to me by a Dinka survivor. Lynn, the story is so brutal it defies the imagination:

  “We had nothing to eat for five days. Some of the boys left the camp to search for food. They brought back pumpkins and tortoises. The People's Protection Brigade came to the camp with soldiers. They demanded we turn over the boys who raided their crops, but we refused. I remember my uncle reciting an old African proverb: ‘When two bull elephants fight, it is the grass beneath them that gets trampled.' The next day more soldiers came to the camp. They told us that we must leave and go back to the Sudan. My uncle asked if they would reconsider. A soldier shot him in the face.

  The camp is on the Gilo River. The river had risen above its banks. Few of us could swim. Gunfire forced us into the water. When they ran out of bullets, they used their rifle butts to smash the heads of the smaller boys. A helicopter fired bombs into us as we gathered on the bank. The river turned red from the blood. The first boys were crushed by those who followed. Crocodiles fought over the bodies. I tried to hold on to my brother, but a crocodile pulled him under. Somehow, I reached the other bank. When I looked back, I thought the end of the world had come.”

  Lynn, we heard rumors that as many as eight thousand boys may have died in the Gilo River. I apologize for this disorganized letter. I'm writing between treating cases of cholera. I missed my calling. I am a far better healer than a lawyer. Please see that Ashlyn gets the enclosed sealed letter.

  All my love,

  Arthur

  Arthur stared at the glowing embers. There was wheezy coughing coming from some of the mud huts. The stench was a mixture of human waste and the sour smell of sweat. Some of the refugees were too weak to make it to the latrines. He strained to hear a mother humming to her baby. The Dinka embraced their shortened lives with such enthusiasm. This is such a living hell, I wonder why I love it, he thought.

  He opened a book entitled Introduction to Parasitological Studies in Cameroon, but before he could find his place, Abel Deng reappeared in the dull glow. Two white-haired black men stood behind the boy. Their cadaverous features were obscured in the flickering light. Both men were naked from the waist up and skeletally thin. When they stepped forward, he could see the intricate scarring on their foreheads, indicating they were tribal elders.

  “Khawadja,” said Abel, “these men have traveled from the Kangen Marshes in the Sudd. They say there are young Dinka girls hiding there. There is little food and many of them are sick.” The two men escaped the shadows and stepped into the light. One of them wobbled and grabbed Abel's shoulder for support.

  “Have you been injured?” Arthur asked the man. The old man looked down. Encouraged by Abel, he stepped forward. His skin sagged from malnutrition. He unhooked his pants and let them fall to his ankles. His uncircumcised penis drooped above a festering wound where his testicles should have hung. Streaks of septic pus glistened in the light.

  “How many days have passed since the Janjaweed did this to you?” Arthur asked.

  “Ten days,” the old man answered. He showed no indication of pain, only embarrassment.

  “And you walked here from the Sudd. Surely, God will smile favorably on you in the next life. I am honored to meet you.” He felt the man's forehead. “His temperature is elevated. Abel, bring my medical kit. We need to get an antibiotic in him.” Arthur looked away and muttered, “Will the insanity ever end.”

  “A thousand blessings upon you,” said the injured man. “I will never see heaven. A man cannot reach the next life without a son to guide him. All of my sons have been butchered by the Arabs.” Sadness filled the moment.

  “Don't the Dinka believe an adopted son can show you the way to the next life?” asked Arthur, trying to lift the man's spirits.

  “Ouch, I have been bitten by a scorpion,” the old man barked as Abel stuck the syringe into his wrinkled buttocks.

  “Sorry, the needle is sterile, but dulled by a hundred injections,” said Abel. “The Khawadja has taught us
not to be wasteful.”

  “My friends, I must say goodnight. I leave for the Sudd in the morning,” Arthur said. The Dinka men bowed and left him.

  The next morning, the injured man was waiting next to the Land Rover for Arthur. Abel Deng complained about not being allowed to go, but his words fell on deaf ears. If they were stopped by the Sudanese Liberation Army, Abel would be conscripted. If they were raided by the Janjaweed, the odds of him surviving weren't good. Arthur spoke to Abel as he was leaving. “Abel, I'm leaving you in charge.”

  “Are you sure I'm ready?” Abel asked.

  “Someday you'll be in charge of a camp. Don't worry, you'll do just fine. Goodbye,” he said, shaking the boy's hand. Abel watched Arthur's truck disappear behind the sand dunes.

  The Darfur was held hostage by the dry season. Only the Bahr-el-Jebel or White Nile fed water into the lower regions. The earth was cracked and buckled from a lack of rain, which made the driving difficult. Arthur worried about being seen from the air. He slowed down to reduce the road dust.

  On the first day, Arthur's convoy came upon three scorched villages. Only the walls of the huts were left standing. Everything had been burned.

  The skeletal remains of the cattle defined the Arab's plan. In Dinka society, cows are the essence of life. Without cattle, there is nothing. What animals the Arabs didn't steal they slaughtered, hoping to force the Dinka from their land. Driving across the parched earth, Arthur realized how successful the ethnic cleansing had been. Only the vultures are thriving here, he thought, squinting up at the specks circling above him.

  The last village they came to was still smoldering. A scrawny yellow dog straddled the remains of a calf. When the men got out of the truck, the dog lowered its head and snarled. An old woman crawled out from under a demolished hut. She was naked and tried to cover her private parts with her hands. Her breasts hung like black leathery pouches. A few tuffs of white hair covered her skull. She wore a necklace of white crocodile teeth. When they offered the old woman water, she gulped it down and dropped to her knees. When she recognized Arthur Turner, she squealed and shuffled up to him. She sighed and placed her head against his chest.