Have a Heart Read online

  Contents

  Imprint

  Chapter 1 The Slave Loder – The Year 1800

  Chapter 2The Slave Hunter Bugan

  Chapter 3The Slaver Granville-Throgmorton – Bargaining for Slaves

  Chapter 4The Slave Loder – A Forced March to the Coast

  Chapter 5The Slaver Granville-Throgmorton – On Board the Slave Ship

  Chapter 6The Slave Loder – Voyage to Ommenrik

  Chapter 7The Slaver Granville-Throgmorton – With Captain Mosset

  Chapter 8The Slave Loder – At Atlicante Tobacco Plantation

  Chapter 9The Slaver Granville-Throgmorton – Entertained at Atlicante

  Chapter 10The Slave Loder – Tobacco Planter and Stockman

  Chapter 11The Slave Loder – Marriage

  Chapter 12Dorcas’s Slave Children – Abraham and Abie

  Chapter 13The Slave Loder – Old Age and Escape

  Chapter 14The Slaver Granville-Throgmorton – Last Days in Majola

  Chapter 15Clifford Granville – Mini-Pirate and Trickster 1978

  Chapter 16Clifford – Venture into Entrepreneurship

  Chapter 17Frank Allen – Childhood and Youth

  Chapter 18Clifford – The King and Will to Power

  Chapter 19Mt. Sagarmatha – Goddess of the Sky

  Chapter 20Frank’s Life in the City

  Chapter 21Clifford Finds his Métier

  Chapter 22Frank Drops Out

  Chapter 23Clifford – Establishing “Have a Heart”

  Chapter 24Frank – Petty Criminal

  Chapter 25Clifford’s Business Takes Off

  Chapter 26Frank – The End

  Chapter 27Clifford’s Business Collapses

  Glossary

  Bibliography

  Imprint

  All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

  © 2018 novum publishing

  ISBN print edition: 978-3-99064-204-7

  ISBN e-book: 978-3-99064-205-4

  Editor: novum publishing

  Cover images: Pixattitude, Phanuwatn, Maksim Prochan | Dreamstime.com

  Coverdesign, Layout & Type: novum publishing

  www.novum-publishing.co.uk

  Chapter 1

  The Slave Loder – The Year 1800

  Before and after. Eden before, the nightmare after. And continuing in unending minutes, days, nights, months and years of unendurable pain, torture, beatings and abuse. The warmth and security of family had become a faint memory, erased in the stark reality of life as indentured labour, if you could call it life, but rather a life sentence.

  Two worlds apart as heaven and hell. Heaven was Lemayakloo’s earliest years on his mother’s back, safe, warm, secure and in touch, lulled by the rhythm of her movements, by her singing and humming. As with his sisters and brothers, he was admired and cosseted by the adults of the tribe, kissed and cuddled by his extended family who touched, cared and attended without the need for beatings and brutality. He remembered the special scent of his mother’s skin, her soft and pliable flesh, the patterns, shapes and colours of her headdress, her headscarf.

  His feelings towards his mother comprised emotions of pleasure and comfort, holding her, seeing and hearing her. Growing up, he became aware of others of the extended family around him, experiencing varied and complex feelings towards different people, different individuals, men, women, young, old, patterns of activities like eating, sleeping, bathing, waking and moving, others around him moving.

  As he grew up, he watched the succession of younger sisters and brothers carried on his mother’s back. He felt the familiar feelings of warmth and nurturing all over again. He didn’t know about resentment or jealousy. The family shared, worked, ate and slept together, at first with the parents and then (as they got older) the siblings slept close for comfort and body warmth. The boys fought and squabbled, raced one another to the river in the morning to swim and bathe, aware of crocodiles lurking in the mud.

  The sun shone high up in an intensely azure blue Alkeban sky. Brothers and sisters bunched together under the shelter of a banana-leaf lean-to, watching the torrential rain, which fell for days on end, especially in summer in the monsoon months of May to September. There was a rhythm, a time and a place for rituals of birth, initiation, marriage, children and death, a rightness that he felt but didn’t know until the opposite took hold. Grounded by the rain, they made up stories, scaring one another into wakefulness all night long.

  The oldest brother whispered in ghostly tones. “The evil one came in the dark, riding a baboon backwards. He sprinkled his muti on the doorstep and rode away. We didn’t know who he was. He was naked. Wore a mask. In the day, he kept the baboon deep in the forest and fed him with beer.”

  Big sister Zenani, thinking the tale was too tame, took up the action, elaborating.

  “The baboon crept in at the window in the darkest night, wind howling, thunder and lightning blotting out the noise of his entry. Approaching the first bed, he reached out to a young boy whom he held in his arms and fed by means of a skull filled with blood.”

  The youngsters hung on to every word, eyes wide, clinging to one another in horrified suspense. Not to be outdone, big brother Manaloo took up a new tale, this time in more dramatic mood.

  “On the darkest night of midwinter, the witches gathered in the forest. Some flew in on bats or owls. Some came invisible, others disguised as a frog, a toad. Their helpers, slaves and servants, skulked at the edge of the clearing, waiting aggressively and impatiently for the potions they would take to their victims. Witch Toda’s helper was the dwarf Umkhovu, his tongue cut off so he couldn’t speak and couldn’t tell the witch’s secrets!”

  “Wh … wh … what about the tokoloshe?” The young Jabu stammered in fear and ghoulish excitement.

  “He was there,” Manaloo replied. “He came from the river. A hairy dwarf, running to the place where the witches met, slowed down by his giant phallus, which got in the way. So he flung it over his shoulder. But it kept falling down. So he stopped, wrapped and tied it round his waist before he too lurked at the edge of the clearing, watching the witches dancing and making muti.”

  The children giggled at the lurid picture. Then it was time for bed. Manaloo and Zenani continued the drama the following evening. But they couldn’t decide who would tell their story first. In the argument that followed, the children shouted, laughed, cried and pointed at them in turn. “Witch-bitch! Wizard-lizard!” Till Zenani stepped down (generously) for her brother. He began with details of the fiends.

  “Waiting impatiently, the witches’ helpers bickered among themselves, hissing, scratching and stirring up jealousies, especially the wild cat. He boasted he could bewitch them all to go off and antagonize the villagers, poison the pregnant women and strangle new-born babies. If they couldn’t do it, he himself would fly through the air, slip through the thatching into a family hut and do the dire deeds himself.”

  Zenani continued.

  “As soon as the witches’ brew was ready, Impaka (wild cat) begged his mistress, Witch Ntala, for a bowlful, to which she added some hair and nails from a village elder’s wives. ‘Go! Make haste!’ She hissed. ‘A few drops of muti in his beer. And he’ll hate them all. Except for the noble Luyanda who paid us handsomely for this service!’”

  Hushed, attention focused on Zenani, the children jumped in shock and fear when (at that moment) they heard a cat yowling, fighting and spitting until they realized Manaloo was play-acting the realistic side effects. Then they rolled around screaming and laughing with relief.

  One night Manaloo begged Big Uncle to tell them about wizards and sorcerers.

&n
bsp; “Long ago,” Big Uncle began, “when the forest was thick with trees, when the people lived in small huts built on platforms between the trees, there was a sorcerer who lived near the top of a huge tree. He had long arms and could swing with ease up and down from tree top to the ground. Among his evil helpers, the red and black eagle controlled thunder and lightning. The owl was the sorcerer’s messenger of illness and death. He had a magical Impundulu bird, which was a kind of vampire. On the night of the new moon, so dark the sorcerer had to feel his way to the Impundulu bird’s cage, he opened it and sent the bird out to suck his neighbour’s blood. Then he sent out the owl to hoot and cry to warn the people of the man’s death. Because the next morning, the neighbour’s wife saw a hornbill hopping on the platform of her hut. And she found her husband stiff, cold and dead.”

  A real owl hooted nearby. The children shivered, moving closer to one another. That night they slept, arms around each other to ward off fear and evil spirits.

  Lemayakloo grew up sturdy, ebony-skinned and good-natured. He helped his father, mother, older brothers and sisters on the piece of land that sustained them, planting beans and chickpeas under the wheat and barley. He used an ox-drawn plough as his ancestors had done from generation to generation, planting a mixture of onions, tomatoes, garlic, gourds and cilantro

  by hand.

  The villagers lived together more-or-less in harmony. But in the event of conflict or disputes, they consulted the chief and the circle of elders. Their combined judgment and final words were law, undisputed. After the old chief’s death, his son took over the leadership of the tribe. A man unlike his father, he was impatient and irascible. In the four years of his tenure, he showed signs of greed and power-mongering, which emerged in particular in his attempts to force out the old circle of advisors, replacing them with those who followed and obeyed him, uncritically and without judgment. They were sycophants who would benefit by their association with him. The interest and well-being of the individual members of the tribe were not their concern.

  The growing unease among the people was still to gather momentum before they were moved to act. Their inertia and apathy would have tragic consequences presaged by the arrival of a small band of twelve black strangers with a young leader.

  “Do they think we’ve got gold?” Lemayakloo speculated in conversation with his eldest brother. “And the strong men? … Powerful, muscular giants!”

  “You’re envious!” His brother teased. “Think of the women competing for such a man!”

  Lemayakloo preened, flexed the muscles in his arms, thighs and calves, mock-seriously stood on his toes to look taller. He was a handsome young man, a Greek god sculpted in ebony, not too tall though well-proportioned. Ploughing, hoeing and planting had developed his muscles. He knew he was attractive, but still he regretted his lack of stature. If only he were as tall as the visiting strangers!

  Serious now.

  “Do you think Theramala would fall for one of the giants?” He asked anxiously about the young woman he’d recently been courting.

  His brother, Manaloo (pretending to give the question long and weighty consideration) teased him.

  “Perhaps …Who knows what goes on in a woman’s mind? Be patient and you’ll soon find out. But don’t forget. She’s given you the white beads to say she loves you.”

  Like any fiery young man, Lemayakloo found it hard to contain his ardour for Theramala. Gamine, mischievous and (to him) irresistibly sensual, she was bound by tribal tradition to communicate her desires through the language of beads, in a particular ritual of patterns, geometric designs, colours and colour combinations. The custom meant that they (the young couple) could avoid the sensitive subject of personal relations without direct confrontation and discussion about their courtship.

  She met Lemayakloo in her family hut, in the presence of her father and older brothers, to present him with a five metre long necklace of white beads, on one end a tassel of blue and white beads. He wound them around his neck as a token of their engagement, a public display of the couple’s intention given to the village society. Lemayakloo’s older sister Zenani helped him to respond to the token by creating a beaded love letter as an answer. She explained the forms to him.

  “The main shape consists of a basic triangle. It represents father and mother at the base, the child at the apex. Since you and Theramala are still courting, we need to use the colours of courtship – white for purity and blue for fidelity. If you like, we can add a little red.”

  “For passion, for my love. I’m bursting with love for her!” Lemayakloo confessed.

  “Pay special attention,” Zenani continued, “to the Hadeda Ibis and his mate. They represent the ideal couple, the couple you should strive to be when you marry. You always find them together looking for food and shelter or grooming each other with great care. When the female sits on the nest, the male defends the territory, protects her and the family-to-be from invading enemies.

  Also pay attention if Theremala gives you a love token of bluish-purple beads, the colours of the Hadeda Ibis’s wings. It means she’s unhappy. She’s lamenting your lack of attention. Her lament is like the mournful cry of the Hadeda. Perhaps she’s trying to say, ‘If you do not fulfill your promises of courtship and marriage to me now, I will leave and not come back.’”

  Meanwhile, courtship had to take second place to the visit by the thirteen strangers. In the tantalizing week that followed, there were discussions and meetings with the chief. The tribe became increasingly expectant and curious but were given no clue as to the nature of the negotiations. At last a meeting was called for the entire village, an important event, judging by the chief’s ceremonial dress, his leopard-skin cloak and macaw-feathered headdress. Beginning with the ritual praise of the ancestors, the acknowledgment of sun, moon and stars, the gods of protection and plenty, the wily leader eventually addressed them as follows.

  “My people, your interests and your well-being are always close to my heart. Each and every man, woman and child among you is as my own family, my bloodline, my care and my obligation, both for now and for the future. With this in mind, I have taken up the generous offer of these emissaries from the western sea. These men have come to lead you to the new country, the land of Ommenrik. There you will live as in the place of the gods, in a land without famine or disease, a land where the sun shines, the rivers flow and where the soil is richly brown and fertile. You will till the soil and work the land as you have done in the fields of your forefathers. But your rewards will be richer, greater. They will come faster. Instead of the mud huts and lean-tos of the village, you will live in large buildings with clear walls lit up inside. Outside the trees hang heavily with fruit of every kind. Your wives will bless you with many children. They (in turn) will reward you with loyalty, gratitude and service as tokens for your brave decision in taking up this opportunity to go to strange shores.

  This generous offer is limited to twenty-five of you: eighteen men, four women and three children. I beg of you. Do not let this event be an excuse to stir up conflict among you. Those of you who want this adventure can step forward. Now!”

  A stampede followed. Mostly young men pushed forward. They stood in the sacred place before their chief. Lemayakloo was the only member of his family to reach the front, closely followed by Theramala, dragging by the hand her eight-year-old sister. The twenty-five ‘chosen’ laughed, caught their breath triumphantly. They were bound together by their good fortune and prompt response.

  After brief instructions as to time (the following morning early), meeting place and minimal luggage, Chief Stematon retired, leaving the villagers in a mood of excitement and anticipation.

  Chapter 2

  The Slave Hunter Bugan

  Once Bugan understood the main market in slaves, there were rich pickings. He’d walked away from his old life, his sparse and modest existence. Even though he was the tribal chief’s son, he would fish alongside the inhabitants of the small village at the sea. It was
a harsh and never-changing life, which left him restless and dissatisfied. The occasional rumour reached the village about men captured and sold at the coast as slaves. After that they were loaded on to slave ships and transported across the oceans. Or else, men were seized during tribal wars and raids before being sold to white slave traders. There was an unsuccessful raid on his own village by ‘slave catchers.’ This provoked him into laying plans for his own escape from the confines of the village.

  He would bide his time until the inevitable took place, namely that some of his fellow fishermen were captured by the slave catchers. Then he would vanish, never to be seen again. Perhaps he would become involved in the slave trade as a catcher or dealer himself. And so he shadowed the groups of young men who periodically left the village to hunt small buck in the forest nearby. Eventually some of the men were caught by the catchers right under his very eyes as he cautiously followed at a discreet and safe distance.

  He made his way south following the coast until he came to the city of Salora where he managed to find shelter while he collected information about the slavers and learned about slave collecting centres called ‘barracoons.’ Here the slaves were kept in a holding area. Every day he stopped for some fish pilaf from a young man at a food cart near the harbour, close to the barracoon. The man was eager to show off his knowledge when Bugan asked him about the slave centre.

  “What happens inside?” Bugan asked curiously.

  “Well, I see them bringing the slaves past my cart, chained together around the leg in pairs, a chain attaching one to the other at the neck. They’re mostly in groups, six at a time. There’s a long column of them called a coffle. And they’re guarded by free men with whips and coshes.”

  “So. What happens then?” Bugan was less interested in the details than the crux of the action.

  But the young man was piqued at the interruption and refused to be rushed in his story-telling. He turned away, silent for a while so that Bugan was forced to wait patiently for the reply.