Timemaster
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June 20th: Fort Portal, Watu wa Uhuru held Swahili People's Republic
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The flag of the Watu wa Uhuru was not the red and black of the European anarchists. Marcel Hondo-Demissie rejected those colors, the hues of blood and death. He did not dream of violence. It was true he conducted it, but violence had been forced upon him, and he did not wish to serve under its banner. The flag of the Watu wa Uhuru was pearly white, a dove dominating its the center, an olive branch in its beak. It whipped proudly in the wind above Fort Portal.
(Optional Listening if you can read and listen at the same time)
Marcel was there when the farmers arrived to deposit their harvest in the granaries. He loved this work the best. He helped the common soldiers unload the trucks full of corn and millet into large wooden barrel-like structures held up off the ground by wooden poles. It was hard work, but it made him feel close to the earth, a part of the honest process of feeding the people. The farmers were not paid for their work in money. Instead, he gave them the right to replenish their supplies and equipment as needed whenever they delivered a load. Any man caught abusing this right and reselling the products of the revolutionaries risked losing Marcel's protection, becoming carrion for the warring factions in the so called Swahili People's Republic.
He was shoveling grain into a bin when Captain Ami approached, the tattered blue robes of the Force Socialiste hanging from the man's shoulders. His expression was grave. Marcel stopped working and waited for the hammer to drop.
"The Revolutionary Army is moving from Kisumu. They will be in Revolution-Town soon."
"Lutalo will use them." Marcel replied airily. "Don't worry. We knew this day would come. We must prepare our defenses."
"Can we defend against their entire force?"
"There is something we can do. It will be discussed at the meeting of the people tonight. I have a plan."
Ami smiled. When Marcel said he had a plan, worries went away. Marcel knew half of a good General's ability lay in his reputation. What had Joan of Arc used to retake France but reputation? His men fought hard expecting miracles. The burden on his shoulders was to keep his reputation and use it in service to his people and their cause.
He returned to shoveling corn, his hands tightening around the wooden grip of the shovel. He could feel his muscles tense in his arms. It was true that he had a plan, but he did not like it one bit.
"This is a boon crop." Marcel slapped the shoulder of the old toothless farmer when they were done. "How is your truck?"
"It is holding on to life. God willing it will survive me."
"It could use work." Marcel looked it over. It was a dented old rusting thing. The tires looked were nearly bald, and torn in some places showing the steel belt. "We have a mechanic. Your crop feeds that man, he won't mind helping you in return."
"I try to do my own work. But... I guess it won't hurt."
"Good health." Marcel sent the man off.
Fort Portal was a small colonial town in the green hills of western Uganda. Its centerpiece was the Palace of the Tooro Kingdom. The death of King Karamagi at the hands of the Communist revolution left the seat vacant, and Marcel's Congolese anarchists filled the void. The Palatial hill was now the meeting place of the Anarchist democracy; The Watu wa Uhuru Commune. That hill, peppered with a few scarce trees, watched over the humble streets of Fort Portal like a medieval mote and bailey.
Marcel went to the Maisha-Marefu Hospital, looking for the love of his life, longing for the comfort he derived by simply being in her presence. The mudbrick building held the only window air-conditioners in Anarchist territory, and their growl could be heard from the other side of town when all was quiet enough. He passed through the door. The place smelled like sauce and fresh fruit. The building was mostly open save for the quarantine ward and surgical theater. He saw Grace serving wine to the patients, and the sight of her warmed him down to the soul.
Grace Odinga was a Ugandan, a shapely woman with an infectious smile, who'd won his heart when he came to this land in the heady days of its early revolution, when he naively though of James Lutalo and Thomas Jefferson Murungaru as potential friends and comrades. They had disappointed them, but Grace had not. She held her hair up in a hair scarf now, making her look matronly.
"Where did you get those bottles?" he asked her.
"One of our raiders gave them to us. He said the the sick need comfort more than he does."
"Our people are a good people." Marcel said, his heart fluttering with pride. How much of acts like this could he take credit for? How much was innately human, freed from the gladiatorial nature of most societies?
"I am announcing the plan." he said, feeling guilty for injecting business into the happiness of the moment. "The one we talked about. Lutalo has been reinforced."
"You must do what you must do." she said, kissing him on the cheek. "I will support you. When you say your say, my voice will cry out the loudest in your favor."
"I know." he said, "But I thought you should be warned. A lot of people will disagree."
"I have faith in you, Marcel. All will turn out well." she smiled that wide, toothy smile that always got to him. He wanted her now. Not just her presence, but all of her.
"Do you think you could come home for a moment, or are you needed here?" he asked.
She bit her lip. "Let me tell the girls. I'll meet you there." He smiled, and they parted. He went ahead.
The sound of hammers and chattering of workers came from a nearby build-site as he exited into the open air. He went to their home, a small house under the palatial hill, consisting of a small front room, a kitchen, and a bedroom barely large enough for the bed. The decor was bare. It was not a true home after all, but a war-time hideout. Getting attached to it would not do.
She entered and flung herself into his arms. Their mouths met, and they started undressing each other with excited arms, half-naked by the time they reached the bed. Her breasts fell out when he took off her shirt. She grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into bed.
--
The sun was setting when the free people of Fort Portal gathered on the palatial hill to discuss their future. It happened outdoors, when the humid air was starting to cool, and the insects beginning their song in the yellow light. Marcel and Grace sat in the center along with their captains. Those captains were no sign of creeping authority; they were elected by this very council, the soldiers and their families choosing them by popular acclaim. The people surrounded them on all sides, gathered together in a great crowd, the healthy standing, the unhealthy sitting down in chairs that'd been dragged out from nearby homes.
"Is the assembly of the people present in this field?" he shouted, his voice carried, deep and low. Several hundred ululating shouts and cries came in response. He smiled. "Good. Now, what do we have to discuss?"
A sheep-like crowd, untrained in the art of deciding things, like those found everywhere else in the world, would become a hollering mass at this moment. The first few attempts at such a meeting had been just that. Marcel's style of democracy was born in the Askari rebellion, forged between disciplined comrades with a common goal. When he came to Fort Portal and applied that practice here, it'd been a confusing mess. But Marcel was patient with his people, and he trained them how to conduct democracy. Conversations in cafes, in the back of patrol cars, and in the family home oftentimes drifted to public policy. People chose spokesmen. Those speakers brought objects with them to hold up, and waited until they were chosen. When Marcel asked the people what they had to discuss, planks of wood, sticks from trees, cooking pans, and even rifles appeared above the heads of the crowd. Marcel climbed onto his chair and chose a waving rifle first.
"Our patrol spotted an elephant herd twenty klicks to the southwest. It would be no struggle to harvest their ivory and move it to market north or south. Such a thing would be a boon to our cause."
Marcel was impressed. "Good find, comrade. What is the opinion of the people?"
A mighty clamor came from them, a fierce roar and show of hands. There was no question, the motion had passed. Marcel held out his hands. "What else is brought before the people?" A plank went up before anybody else. Marcel motioned for the holder to speak.
"I say we applaud Marcel Hondo-Demissie's victory over the enemy in the battle of the tree men. Without you, we would be lost."
Marcel didn't have time to speak before the crowd shouted agreement again, this time their voices lasting longer, so that he could only smile and wait. When they'd stopped, he spoke. "I share that applause with the men who fought against the enemy that day. It was a victory they won and bled for. And we have all fought and bled for the final victory. So let us remember that. The people are great, and the martyrs for the people are the best of all." Another ululating shout. He held his hands out, and motioned that he was going to speak. They people became quiet.
"We have another issue to speak of, before we can get to the rest. We have won many great victories, but we have not won the war. Our enemy gathers his strength now that Mombasa has fallen, and his strength is great. We cannot fight this war alone. We need allies."
The crowd buzzed. A stick went up. "What allies can we have? There is no one near who shares our values." the speaker shouted when pointed to.
"This is true." Marcel agreed, "It is an unlucky truth that we are surrounded by tyrants, but what can we do? We can lament our fate and die like martyrs, but what do we gain by such a thing? We do not fight for death. We fight for life! The life we have created for ourselves! We live in a world of devils. What do we do? We make deals with those devils, and we survive." The people began to murmur now, but Marcel continued "The Free Army of God, and the King of Buganda, share the same fate with us if Lutalo wins. They are reactionaries, I know this, but they are our only potential allies, so far from everything and inaccessible to the world."
The muttering crowd became loud. Objects were raised above their heads. Marcel knew their objections would be similar enough. He picked a man in the front. "Many of us fled from the King of Buganda. Some of us have family who are suffering in the north. The Free Army of God murders Muslims in cold blood, and so many of our people are of that faith. We cannot sell our own people to these monsters. Better die at the hands of the communists than be murdered by the King of Buganda or crucified by the Free Army."
Marcel responded. "We approach them because we are their only hope. We have leverage over the reactionaries. Who is it who has won victories against the Communists? Only us! When we die, the reactionaries die too. They cannot ask anything more from us than to fight with them so we all might live."
Another response, from a man holding a stick. "When we finish the communists, we will be finished too. The Free Army and the King of Buganda will see us as the biggest threat, and we will be destroyed by them. What is the gain?!"
"More time to live, to grow, and to plan." Marcel said, "I have faith that our revolution is the right one. Why have the Communist revolutions failed to spread like the wildfire they were supposed to be? Because they are not true revolutions at all! Hou is an Emperor! Villeneuve is a King! Priscilla is a President! They are statesmen, not revolutionaries. This is the revolution! And when we make victories, we will spread our revolution, and the people who suffer under the reactionaries will join us. They will be allies at the beginning, but they will be ours in the end!"
The people cried out. He had them. In the declining light, the singing insects were joined by the hymns of revolution.
June 20th: Fort Portal, Watu wa Uhuru held Swahili People's Republic
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The flag of the Watu wa Uhuru was not the red and black of the European anarchists. Marcel Hondo-Demissie rejected those colors, the hues of blood and death. He did not dream of violence. It was true he conducted it, but violence had been forced upon him, and he did not wish to serve under its banner. The flag of the Watu wa Uhuru was pearly white, a dove dominating its the center, an olive branch in its beak. It whipped proudly in the wind above Fort Portal.
(Optional Listening if you can read and listen at the same time)
Marcel was there when the farmers arrived to deposit their harvest in the granaries. He loved this work the best. He helped the common soldiers unload the trucks full of corn and millet into large wooden barrel-like structures held up off the ground by wooden poles. It was hard work, but it made him feel close to the earth, a part of the honest process of feeding the people. The farmers were not paid for their work in money. Instead, he gave them the right to replenish their supplies and equipment as needed whenever they delivered a load. Any man caught abusing this right and reselling the products of the revolutionaries risked losing Marcel's protection, becoming carrion for the warring factions in the so called Swahili People's Republic.
He was shoveling grain into a bin when Captain Ami approached, the tattered blue robes of the Force Socialiste hanging from the man's shoulders. His expression was grave. Marcel stopped working and waited for the hammer to drop.
"The Revolutionary Army is moving from Kisumu. They will be in Revolution-Town soon."
"Lutalo will use them." Marcel replied airily. "Don't worry. We knew this day would come. We must prepare our defenses."
"Can we defend against their entire force?"
"There is something we can do. It will be discussed at the meeting of the people tonight. I have a plan."
Ami smiled. When Marcel said he had a plan, worries went away. Marcel knew half of a good General's ability lay in his reputation. What had Joan of Arc used to retake France but reputation? His men fought hard expecting miracles. The burden on his shoulders was to keep his reputation and use it in service to his people and their cause.
He returned to shoveling corn, his hands tightening around the wooden grip of the shovel. He could feel his muscles tense in his arms. It was true that he had a plan, but he did not like it one bit.
"This is a boon crop." Marcel slapped the shoulder of the old toothless farmer when they were done. "How is your truck?"
"It is holding on to life. God willing it will survive me."
"It could use work." Marcel looked it over. It was a dented old rusting thing. The tires looked were nearly bald, and torn in some places showing the steel belt. "We have a mechanic. Your crop feeds that man, he won't mind helping you in return."
"I try to do my own work. But... I guess it won't hurt."
"Good health." Marcel sent the man off.
Fort Portal was a small colonial town in the green hills of western Uganda. Its centerpiece was the Palace of the Tooro Kingdom. The death of King Karamagi at the hands of the Communist revolution left the seat vacant, and Marcel's Congolese anarchists filled the void. The Palatial hill was now the meeting place of the Anarchist democracy; The Watu wa Uhuru Commune. That hill, peppered with a few scarce trees, watched over the humble streets of Fort Portal like a medieval mote and bailey.
Marcel went to the Maisha-Marefu Hospital, looking for the love of his life, longing for the comfort he derived by simply being in her presence. The mudbrick building held the only window air-conditioners in Anarchist territory, and their growl could be heard from the other side of town when all was quiet enough. He passed through the door. The place smelled like sauce and fresh fruit. The building was mostly open save for the quarantine ward and surgical theater. He saw Grace serving wine to the patients, and the sight of her warmed him down to the soul.
Grace Odinga was a Ugandan, a shapely woman with an infectious smile, who'd won his heart when he came to this land in the heady days of its early revolution, when he naively though of James Lutalo and Thomas Jefferson Murungaru as potential friends and comrades. They had disappointed them, but Grace had not. She held her hair up in a hair scarf now, making her look matronly.
"Where did you get those bottles?" he asked her.
"One of our raiders gave them to us. He said the the sick need comfort more than he does."
"Our people are a good people." Marcel said, his heart fluttering with pride. How much of acts like this could he take credit for? How much was innately human, freed from the gladiatorial nature of most societies?
"I am announcing the plan." he said, feeling guilty for injecting business into the happiness of the moment. "The one we talked about. Lutalo has been reinforced."
"You must do what you must do." she said, kissing him on the cheek. "I will support you. When you say your say, my voice will cry out the loudest in your favor."
"I know." he said, "But I thought you should be warned. A lot of people will disagree."
"I have faith in you, Marcel. All will turn out well." she smiled that wide, toothy smile that always got to him. He wanted her now. Not just her presence, but all of her.
"Do you think you could come home for a moment, or are you needed here?" he asked.
She bit her lip. "Let me tell the girls. I'll meet you there." He smiled, and they parted. He went ahead.
The sound of hammers and chattering of workers came from a nearby build-site as he exited into the open air. He went to their home, a small house under the palatial hill, consisting of a small front room, a kitchen, and a bedroom barely large enough for the bed. The decor was bare. It was not a true home after all, but a war-time hideout. Getting attached to it would not do.
She entered and flung herself into his arms. Their mouths met, and they started undressing each other with excited arms, half-naked by the time they reached the bed. Her breasts fell out when he took off her shirt. She grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into bed.
--
The sun was setting when the free people of Fort Portal gathered on the palatial hill to discuss their future. It happened outdoors, when the humid air was starting to cool, and the insects beginning their song in the yellow light. Marcel and Grace sat in the center along with their captains. Those captains were no sign of creeping authority; they were elected by this very council, the soldiers and their families choosing them by popular acclaim. The people surrounded them on all sides, gathered together in a great crowd, the healthy standing, the unhealthy sitting down in chairs that'd been dragged out from nearby homes.
"Is the assembly of the people present in this field?" he shouted, his voice carried, deep and low. Several hundred ululating shouts and cries came in response. He smiled. "Good. Now, what do we have to discuss?"
A sheep-like crowd, untrained in the art of deciding things, like those found everywhere else in the world, would become a hollering mass at this moment. The first few attempts at such a meeting had been just that. Marcel's style of democracy was born in the Askari rebellion, forged between disciplined comrades with a common goal. When he came to Fort Portal and applied that practice here, it'd been a confusing mess. But Marcel was patient with his people, and he trained them how to conduct democracy. Conversations in cafes, in the back of patrol cars, and in the family home oftentimes drifted to public policy. People chose spokesmen. Those speakers brought objects with them to hold up, and waited until they were chosen. When Marcel asked the people what they had to discuss, planks of wood, sticks from trees, cooking pans, and even rifles appeared above the heads of the crowd. Marcel climbed onto his chair and chose a waving rifle first.
"Our patrol spotted an elephant herd twenty klicks to the southwest. It would be no struggle to harvest their ivory and move it to market north or south. Such a thing would be a boon to our cause."
Marcel was impressed. "Good find, comrade. What is the opinion of the people?"
A mighty clamor came from them, a fierce roar and show of hands. There was no question, the motion had passed. Marcel held out his hands. "What else is brought before the people?" A plank went up before anybody else. Marcel motioned for the holder to speak.
"I say we applaud Marcel Hondo-Demissie's victory over the enemy in the battle of the tree men. Without you, we would be lost."
Marcel didn't have time to speak before the crowd shouted agreement again, this time their voices lasting longer, so that he could only smile and wait. When they'd stopped, he spoke. "I share that applause with the men who fought against the enemy that day. It was a victory they won and bled for. And we have all fought and bled for the final victory. So let us remember that. The people are great, and the martyrs for the people are the best of all." Another ululating shout. He held his hands out, and motioned that he was going to speak. They people became quiet.
"We have another issue to speak of, before we can get to the rest. We have won many great victories, but we have not won the war. Our enemy gathers his strength now that Mombasa has fallen, and his strength is great. We cannot fight this war alone. We need allies."
The crowd buzzed. A stick went up. "What allies can we have? There is no one near who shares our values." the speaker shouted when pointed to.
"This is true." Marcel agreed, "It is an unlucky truth that we are surrounded by tyrants, but what can we do? We can lament our fate and die like martyrs, but what do we gain by such a thing? We do not fight for death. We fight for life! The life we have created for ourselves! We live in a world of devils. What do we do? We make deals with those devils, and we survive." The people began to murmur now, but Marcel continued "The Free Army of God, and the King of Buganda, share the same fate with us if Lutalo wins. They are reactionaries, I know this, but they are our only potential allies, so far from everything and inaccessible to the world."
The muttering crowd became loud. Objects were raised above their heads. Marcel knew their objections would be similar enough. He picked a man in the front. "Many of us fled from the King of Buganda. Some of us have family who are suffering in the north. The Free Army of God murders Muslims in cold blood, and so many of our people are of that faith. We cannot sell our own people to these monsters. Better die at the hands of the communists than be murdered by the King of Buganda or crucified by the Free Army."
Marcel responded. "We approach them because we are their only hope. We have leverage over the reactionaries. Who is it who has won victories against the Communists? Only us! When we die, the reactionaries die too. They cannot ask anything more from us than to fight with them so we all might live."
Another response, from a man holding a stick. "When we finish the communists, we will be finished too. The Free Army and the King of Buganda will see us as the biggest threat, and we will be destroyed by them. What is the gain?!"
"More time to live, to grow, and to plan." Marcel said, "I have faith that our revolution is the right one. Why have the Communist revolutions failed to spread like the wildfire they were supposed to be? Because they are not true revolutions at all! Hou is an Emperor! Villeneuve is a King! Priscilla is a President! They are statesmen, not revolutionaries. This is the revolution! And when we make victories, we will spread our revolution, and the people who suffer under the reactionaries will join us. They will be allies at the beginning, but they will be ours in the end!"
The people cried out. He had them. In the declining light, the singing insects were joined by the hymns of revolution.
