ISSUE IV: Mirror of Society

PROSE
ando shaved in the expensive salon on the ground floor. It was
Sin the boutiques that served mainly wealthy tourists. There
were massage salons, wines, and spirits. Beautiful girls,
employed there no doubt, went about the place. He denuded
in the toilets, and Bet came and binned the clothes and shoes.
He bathed in a large white bathtub, savoring the luscious water and
foam with his eyes closed. For a long time, he had missed this very
freedom that the rich enjoyed, that inspired his reign of terror as a
criminal in these parts. Now he was out of prison and his bank account
was fat and he would have it all.
Sando surprised the gathering in the third-floor suite like he
was just in. There were bottles of wine and beer over the table but no
one was drinking heartily, obviously pending his reception. He let go of
his little hold-all and a very buxom, beautiful woman sprang out of the
corner seat and ran into his arms, followed by a youth of twenty-five
dressed in jeans and short sleeves.
“Sando.”
“Njoki. Who’s this?” as he spoke the little youth hugged him,
and the uncouth audience looked on touched, their silence redolent of
the sort of awe peculiar to people of very mean ideology who otherwise
hold it in very high esteem.
“Kennedy. Your son.”
They disengaged, and looked into each other’s eyes. There
were a striking resemblance and tears. Now one of the men rose. He
had a tummy. He also wore a baseball cap. He was older. One of the
ladies filled glasses all around. Everybody raising their glasses, the
corpulent man said earnestly :‘To dear old Sando’s health.”
Glasses clanked.
“I hear there’s a job this afternoon, Jack,” said Sando, after a
while, eying Bet and the older man.
“A group of wealthy tourists, including the present owner of
La Emeralda, are out in the lake. They’re camping in one of the islands.”
“Kennedy, you will join the team. Learn to fend for yourself in
this jungle of a place. Got it?”
The youth nodded. From his hold-all, the father who had just
regained his freedom produced a new little revolver. He handed it to
Kennedy.
The island was sandy, and sunny. Where they made tent was
grassy, and overhead was a near-canopy of acacia and other Nile tulips
and other native trees that they could not give names to. Frederick
Dickens, a widower in his late fifties and the manager of a travel agency,
presided over the grille in the tent yard that roasted dik-dik meat
supplied by the natives. Poaching was illegal but the occasional game
wardens wandering in speed boats had respect for White Hunters and
class privilege. Mike and Judy served warmed sausage and grilled dikdik
and a Chinese spinster in her mother’s company and an African
girl with whom they were on very good terms served the wine.
“Let’s get out of here, Mike,” said Judy. “ It’s so sequestered.”
“I can’t leave mother. We’ll go together,” they were walking
along the lake now, away from the party. Judy clung with both hands
on Mike’s elbow. “ Besides, after so long in the camps among disgraced
crowds it’s great ambling freely where there’s only trees and sunshine
– and you.”
At two, they got into the boat to watch crocs. They were
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By WOLFGANG HASSEL