Cruel Crazy Beautiful World by Troy Blacklaws
Authors: Troy Blacklaws
Tags: General Fiction
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foot-mortared sand behind the farmhouse. The ball is shot far beyond the rickety posts.
Jabulani follows the ball into the bundu and a shot sings past his ear. He flings himself down in the dust.
The other Zimbabweans laugh. They have all had their turn to piss their pants for fetching a stray ball without a nod from the gunmen.
The gunmen put two crates of cold beer down. Before long the upbeat banter of the Zimbabweans is about football and girls. None allude to their shot countryman. None glance at the crocodile pond for fear of sighting a bone or foot.
The cold glass is soothing in Jabulani’s skinned palms.
Beyond him he hears the yelps of the children of the gunmen cavorting in the swimming pool. He craves the thought of gliding underwater as he used to in the school pool on weekends. He hears the rhythmic dup dup of a tennis ball on a tennis court. The sound recalls the thupping of stone into hare hide.
A peacock cries caaaoooow .
Jonas swings a panga blade down. A watermelon falls into gaping red hemispheres. He deftly slices it up.
The men flaunt absurd green Picasso grins as they gnaw at the watermelon rind.
A black girl carries a crate of beer to the gunmen. She wears no shirt. She is young.
The gunmen smirk at her bobbling breasts as she twists the lids off the beer bottles. Scarface pinches her ass.
Ghost Cowboy signals to Jabulani to come over.
He jogs up to the gunmen and the girl.
– Yes?
– Yes, master, Ghost Cowboy snarls.
– Yes, master.
– Do you find this girl pretty?
– She is pretty.
– Master.
– Master.
– Would you fuck her? baits Scarface.
– She’s just a girl.
Ghost Cowboy squeezes a breast in his hand till she flinches from pain.
– She’s ripe as a mango, tunes Ghost Cowboy.
– You are not a good man, master.
All the other white men guffaw.
– Woooah . You gonna go to hell, hey? Hey, hey? taunts Scarface.
– Will I go to hell, boy? Ghost Cowboy asks.
– That is for God to judge, Jabulani murmurs.
– God? If I make this girl go down on me now, will God be a hero? Will he shoot me down with a bolt? Or maybe send an angel to kill me dead? Remember how the Nazis turned Jew-skin into lampshades and God did fuckall. If not for the Americans they’d have wiped the Jews off the planet. Now Mugabe fucks you folk over and over again and the Americans look away this time. Then, wahaaaaaa , like some crazy jack-in-the-box God pitches up to judge me .
Jabulani hangs his head.
– I shot a man yesterday. You saw it, boy. I feel zero regret. No guilt. No fear of God. Check out my hand.
He holds his hand out flat, level with the earth.
– Still as a goddamn cadaver. Hey?
– Still, master.
– Now, tell me, why don’t I shoot you? Just for the hell of it.
He forms a fist.
– I hold your life in my hand, boy.
– I have a wife and children. All I want is a job. I need to send money to them. If you let me go, master, I will walk away and forget I ever saw this place.
He unfurls his fist to wag a finger at Jabulani.
– But the thing is ... the thing is, you can’t forget my face.
The other gunmen laugh jadedly and spit in the dust.
– Tell you what I do. I let you job on this farm. I let you live. I give you beer. So maybe for you there is a God. Now, I think you’ve been rude to this girl. She has beautiful tits and yet you look down at your feet.
Jabulani shuffles his feet.
– Look at her.
Jabulani tilts his head up. He feels his isinjonjo go hard and shifts his hands to hide it.
– Your cock can’t lie. You want her. Now I want you to go down on all fours and howl for her. Howl like a dog at the moon.
Jabulani glances at the other Zimbabweans. They all have their eyes on him. Jonas nods at him.
Jabulani goes down and lets out a wavering, wistful yelp.
Scarface kicks him in the ribs.
Now Jabulani, teacher of Orwell and Achebe, howls his pain, his fury, his sorry lust in this godless dust.
15
H ERMANUS. DUSK.
I mosey along through
Jabulani follows the ball into the bundu and a shot sings past his ear. He flings himself down in the dust.
The other Zimbabweans laugh. They have all had their turn to piss their pants for fetching a stray ball without a nod from the gunmen.
The gunmen put two crates of cold beer down. Before long the upbeat banter of the Zimbabweans is about football and girls. None allude to their shot countryman. None glance at the crocodile pond for fear of sighting a bone or foot.
The cold glass is soothing in Jabulani’s skinned palms.
Beyond him he hears the yelps of the children of the gunmen cavorting in the swimming pool. He craves the thought of gliding underwater as he used to in the school pool on weekends. He hears the rhythmic dup dup of a tennis ball on a tennis court. The sound recalls the thupping of stone into hare hide.
A peacock cries caaaoooow .
Jonas swings a panga blade down. A watermelon falls into gaping red hemispheres. He deftly slices it up.
The men flaunt absurd green Picasso grins as they gnaw at the watermelon rind.
A black girl carries a crate of beer to the gunmen. She wears no shirt. She is young.
The gunmen smirk at her bobbling breasts as she twists the lids off the beer bottles. Scarface pinches her ass.
Ghost Cowboy signals to Jabulani to come over.
He jogs up to the gunmen and the girl.
– Yes?
– Yes, master, Ghost Cowboy snarls.
– Yes, master.
– Do you find this girl pretty?
– She is pretty.
– Master.
– Master.
– Would you fuck her? baits Scarface.
– She’s just a girl.
Ghost Cowboy squeezes a breast in his hand till she flinches from pain.
– She’s ripe as a mango, tunes Ghost Cowboy.
– You are not a good man, master.
All the other white men guffaw.
– Woooah . You gonna go to hell, hey? Hey, hey? taunts Scarface.
– Will I go to hell, boy? Ghost Cowboy asks.
– That is for God to judge, Jabulani murmurs.
– God? If I make this girl go down on me now, will God be a hero? Will he shoot me down with a bolt? Or maybe send an angel to kill me dead? Remember how the Nazis turned Jew-skin into lampshades and God did fuckall. If not for the Americans they’d have wiped the Jews off the planet. Now Mugabe fucks you folk over and over again and the Americans look away this time. Then, wahaaaaaa , like some crazy jack-in-the-box God pitches up to judge me .
Jabulani hangs his head.
– I shot a man yesterday. You saw it, boy. I feel zero regret. No guilt. No fear of God. Check out my hand.
He holds his hand out flat, level with the earth.
– Still as a goddamn cadaver. Hey?
– Still, master.
– Now, tell me, why don’t I shoot you? Just for the hell of it.
He forms a fist.
– I hold your life in my hand, boy.
– I have a wife and children. All I want is a job. I need to send money to them. If you let me go, master, I will walk away and forget I ever saw this place.
He unfurls his fist to wag a finger at Jabulani.
– But the thing is ... the thing is, you can’t forget my face.
The other gunmen laugh jadedly and spit in the dust.
– Tell you what I do. I let you job on this farm. I let you live. I give you beer. So maybe for you there is a God. Now, I think you’ve been rude to this girl. She has beautiful tits and yet you look down at your feet.
Jabulani shuffles his feet.
– Look at her.
Jabulani tilts his head up. He feels his isinjonjo go hard and shifts his hands to hide it.
– Your cock can’t lie. You want her. Now I want you to go down on all fours and howl for her. Howl like a dog at the moon.
Jabulani glances at the other Zimbabweans. They all have their eyes on him. Jonas nods at him.
Jabulani goes down and lets out a wavering, wistful yelp.
Scarface kicks him in the ribs.
Now Jabulani, teacher of Orwell and Achebe, howls his pain, his fury, his sorry lust in this godless dust.
15
H ERMANUS. DUSK.
I mosey along through
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