------------------------------------------------------------------ [u][b]June 17th: Kisumu, Swahili People's Republic[/b][/u] ------------------------------------------------------------------ Thomas Jefferson Murungaru sat on the edge of his bed in his room at the [i]Umoja Hotel[/i]. The door to the balcony was open, letting a pleasant breeze blow in from Lake Victoria, the sound of children playing in the street coming from outside. He held a pen in his hand over a piece of parchment on a slim portable desk. [indent] [i] The Kikomunisti do not build nations in the Imperialist sense. We do not look at Europe as a model. To impose the European nation-state on Africa is to initiate one thousand years of fresh chaos. When Europeans came, they drew borders according to their needs, cutting through tribal lands, splitting common peoples from each other, and grouping peoples foreign to each other into colonies. Whereas Europe has been forged by murder into near-identical pockets of sameness, Africa is not yet one hundred years removed from her original freedom, and the rich tapestry of our cultural heritage still exists. One has to squint to see the difference between the Anglo-Saxon, the Norman, and the Briton, and there is no remnant left at all of the Iceni or the Jute. But whereas the people of Britain have been forced into a cultureless conformity, the Swahili Kikomunisti still know themselves as Kikuyu, Oromo, and Maasai. We are the Buganda, the Lango, and the Acholi. Then how do we function? Without a national identity, what holds the Swahili Republic together? The answer rings out from the mouths, and is written in bold letters by the pens of every knowledgeable Marxist. There is no single British tribe. There is no single Swahili tribe. There is only the exploiter and the exploited. There is only class. I am Kikuyu, yet I can be a brother of the Maasai, he only need have class consciousness. I am brother to the proletarian in China, and in Britain. My nationality is the working brotherhood of man. It is understanding this truth, and implanting it into the heart of every African, that will make Africa free. Letter from the Umoja hotel, Thomas Jefferson Murungaru [/i] [/indent] Li Huan stirred. He put down his pen and turned to look at her. Her almond skin was partially visible beneath the thin linen sheets, teasing him with her nudity, two brown nipples pushing against the fabric. She was still asleep. He thrust his hand under the sheet, running his fingers against the soft skin on her belly, down through the unshaved thicket of hair between her legs, arriving delicately at her sex. "Good morning" she said, a smile on her face, disheveled hair in front of her half-asleep eyes. When he looked at her she giggled and grabbed onto his arm, pulling him in. Their mouths met. He thought he tasted a slight tang of wine from the night before. Why couldn't it always be like this? Wasn't their revolution over? He wanted to settle down by the sea somewhere and spend the rest of his life happy. "Are we waiting the day away again?" she asked hopefully. His smile faded. "I have some things to do." "What things?" she asked. "I'll come with you." "Have breakfast. I'll be back, and we can spend the rest of the day together doing nothing." She sat up, her upper half rising above the sheet. She looked worried. "What is it? You can tell me. I am here to help." "I know." he said while washing up, splashing water in his face and under his arms. He started getting dressed. "You can help me by getting breakfast." "What are you not telling me?" "I am meeting somebody today. It's not interesting, and I don't think he wants company. It won't take long." "You owe me." "We'll have dinner by the lake. I promise." He was now dressed, wearing his military fatigues, the common sort that most of his men wore. "I'll hold you to that." She was smiling, uncertainly now. He did his best to look nonchalant as he slipped into the hall. The [i]Umoja Hotel[/i] had been turned into Kisumu's Communist headquarters, but this changed its appearance very little except for the clientele. It was full of rough-looking bush soldiers. Communist flags of various kinds hung above the hand-me-down British furniture. His men saluted him casually, holding up their breakfast to him and smiling. He returned the gesture and walked outside. The kids in the street paid him no mind, yelling at each other as they kicked a rough leather ball down the rutted dirt road. The smell of fish was prevalent in this city, part from the breeze blowing off the lake, part from the markets selling fishermen's catches in the open air. It wafted through old colonial buildings, cheap imitations of European architecture constructed out of whatever material was easiest to get, built to be airy and open by people unaccustomed to the tropics, characterized by spindly wood and plaster covered in pealing paint. Toward the lake he could hear the crack of guns, careful and even, the sound of target practice. The veterans of Mombasa lounged about the town, still riding high from the sack of Mombasa, draped with jewelry and trinkets like pirates in a movie. Murungaru had deprived them of their human spoils, releasing the victims of the sack of the city through Djibouti where they could be sent to more familiar countries in a subtle way, avoiding the bad press that would accompany a similar deposit in Dar es Salaam or Beira. He knew the sack of Mombasa still made a bad impression, but this was war. Germany had made a bad impression in the rape of Belgium, and they had recovered their reputation since then. He only felt remorse in one way; the doubt it had planted in Li Huan's idealistic breast, the way she second guessed his intentions now. He walked toward [i]Mbaya-Hispania Hospital[/i]; a colonial hospital built during the War to treat cases of Spanish Flu, afterwards converted into a Bedlam until the Communist movement took control of the city and emptied the asylum to fill their ranks. Now it was an annex to the Communist organization in this part of the country, an unassuming single story colonial building facing the lake, its only suspicious feature being the soldiers standing guard. Franz Agricola met him up front. "I don't like this character." he said, uncertainty playing across his face. This was the same face that'd beamed so proudly at the trebuchets he built to take Mombasa. The engineer was second guessing him too. "Why?" Murungaru kept walking. "I talked to him, about his research. I like a good researcher and wanted to know what this guy was about. What he had to tell me... it's creepy, I think. I don't know any other word for it." "This man has recommendations you wouldn't believe if I told you. I want to see what he can supply." "Is the revolution not inevitable? You don't need a man like that." "I don't have patience for the inevitable. Wait outside please. You know I can't let you in." "What do... who do you have in there, General Secretary?" "Work." Murungaru passed inside. The building was dusty and partially decayed. Inside there were only guards, the rotting furniture unused and ignored since the revolution, and the man he'd came to see. He was dressed like an English butler from another century, held a gold-tipped cane in his gloved hands, and stood so properly as to be almost feminine. His hair bushed out from his head like a halo-disk. He smiled and tapped his cane twice against the ground. "You are the General Secretary, I presume? I must extol the virtue of your facial hair, it is remarkably Communist. You have the appearance of Chairman Hou Sai Tang's negroid cousin, if such a man were to exist." "Dr Sisi. Your name proceeds you." "Excellent. I appreciate that you are interested in narcotics? Because I must say, my cup overfloweth, videlicet clientele, and to take on more is... well, it is onerous work, General Secretary." "I was told you prefer a different sort of payment. Something other than money?" "And possess have such an article?" "That's why we are here." Murungaru smiled insincerely, "Follow me. Though I warn you, I don't know what we'll see." They walked along a rounded portion of the building until they came to a door. The guard there saw Murungaru walking toward him and opened it. They walked into what had once been a surgical facility, but was now mostly empty, except for the activity in the center of the room. The moment they entered, one naked man, his muscle-knotted back and ass glistening with sweat, climbed off a battered looking white man, a man Murungaru recognized as Commander Trevor from Mombasa, slumped against the wall like a tossed pillow. "I told you to be ready for our guest!" Murungaru filled with pounding rage. He attacked the black man, slapping him several times in the face, wanting beat him but restraining himself in front of the Doctor. The white man at the wall groaned, his body a bruised and bleeding disaster, fresh red blood trickling down his leg. Dr Sisi ran to the victim, his face contorted in worry, and grabbed the damaged man by the head. Murungaru slapped the black man again and turned toward Sisi. "I apologize, Doctor. This is what comes from trusting faggots." "What have they done to you!" Sisi had the dazed white man by the chin, maneuvering his head, inspecting it. "I will have this faggot punished. This perversion..." "Irrelevant." Sisi cut him off, "His nose is fractured, but his skull is intact. That is marvelous. Though a concussion could come of the trauma apparent by the wounds on his skin. Have you been hurling this man's skull about?" "I suppose." the torturer, still naked, shrugged. "This is a valid peace offering, but in the future I will expect more, and in better condition. Science fears no evil, but it fears confounding factors. The head is delicate, and should be treated carefully" He looked up, and then around the room. "There is some equipment in here, but not much. I need to retrieve some tools. You mind?" "Get what you need. Ask any of the guards and they'll help you." "Good" Dr Sisi beamed, "And get your man servant dressed. His genitals are dripping this man's claret." Murungaru didn't look to see, but instead motioned to the torturer to do as told. Sisi grabbed a dusty stretcher cart and wheeled it outside. Murungaru stared at the ceiling, wishing he was still with Li Huan, and that this wasn't the work he was fated to do. When Sisi came back, the cart was brimming with bags and strange supplies. He went to lift the half-dazed victim. The torturer helped him. They propped him into a chair, and Sisi poured a bucket of water onto him. It partially woke him, and the process of washing him down with a rag did the rest. While Commander Trevor came to his senses, Sisi grabbed a straight-razor. "Kill me. Finish it." Trevor asked. Sisi smiled. "No, sir. I am only amputating your mane." And so he did. He cut the man bald, worrying over every freshly discovered cut or bruise, until the entirety of his sickly white scalp was naked to the world. "Do you know your benzodiazepines?" the Doctor asked the two standing men. Both shook their heads. "Well, look in the bag brimming with bottles and recover the one that reads [i]chlordiazepoxide[/i]." "What are you doing?" Murungaru asked. "I can't travel with him like this, hogtied and gagged so he can't make an incriminating sound. Ah, very good." the latter response was to how the torturer handled the syringe and prepared the bottle even though he hadn't been asked, handing the filled syringe to Sisi. Without saying a word, Sisi injected it. Tom Trevor's eyes went wide for a moment as if he expected death, but he didn't protest. The man was spent. "Now this alone could make the man transportable. Customarily I would do it in this fashion. But I know a method to make him more agreeable than chlordiazepoxide could ever do, and I postulate you need a demonstration, to understand why I expect quality specimens in immaculate condition. Now, aid me with this please." Murungaru didn't say a word. He watched as the Doctor and the torturer grabbed a big steel brace and fitted it over Trevor's head. The Doctor dug into his bag of drugs and injected several other liquids into the victim's scalp. When it was all done, he admired his work like an artist. What he did next was sickening. He began to screw the brace-like contraption into the head of Commander Trevor. Blood trickled from the wounds. Trevor winced, but did not panic. Murungaru thought it hurt him to watch more than it hurt the victim. "What you are about to witness is neurological science of the persuasion rarely observed by laymen. Regard yourselves as lucky, my friends. There are sons of the prosperous of Europe who spend many annorum anticipating such a demonstration." He began to cut away Trevor's scalp. It was disgusting and bloody work. He then applied a small steel hammer to the victim's skull, and opened it like a melon. Murungaru had seen battlefield gore of the worst kind, wounds no man should ever have to consider, and it didn't effect him like this did. He felt nauseous. "What are you doing?" Trevor asked, eerily calm. "Can you save your disturbing ejaculations for another point in time?" Sisi asked. "What are you doing?" the dazed man said. "If you must speak, then sing something." Trevor began to sing [i]Rule, Britannia[/i]. Sisi spoke. "People ascribe too much being to their bodies. The heart, the stomach, perhaps even the soul, that's just hydraulics. We are the brain. Right here, this is us. Sever a quarter of a teaspoon worth of grey matter, and a man never speaks again. It's that delicate." With his scalpel, he dug at a spot on the left side of Trevor's brain. Rule Britannia became a garble of nonsense. Trevor was babbling like a brain-damaged infant. His eyes lit up in distress as he realized what had been done to him. "He will most likely never utter an intelligible word again. He can still think in words, but he can no longer produce them sensibly. The mind is impressions. Speech is more structural, and requires something I just pilfered. To everybody we run across in our travels, he is just another madman, and I am his doctor. Now, I need him clothed. A few more like this and I'll show you how I can serve you." It was done. The babbling patient was covered in a black cloth and wheeled out to Sisi's Helicopter. The rest of their interactions were terse as the Doctor prepared to leave. Murungaru watched the helicopter take off, sending Dr Sisi away with his madman. Agricola met with him, and saw the concern in his eyes. "That bad?" he asked. Murungaru waited until the chopper became a single dot in the sky. "I need a cigarette." he said.