before, finally, we came to a room that had two white guards in front it – AK-47s, full battle regalia, you name it.
‘South African mercenaries,’ O whispered.
They looked every bit the cliché: muscled, bearded and tattooed – they could have been cardboard cut-outs. I hated them on sight.
O reached into his shoulder holster and gave them his piece. I followed suit, and satisfied that we had been relieved of our weapons they opened the huge door to a darkened room. The first thing that hit me was the smell. The room reeked of human decay: of unwashed feet, rotting teeth and death – BQ’s morgue smelled like a wedding party compared to the stench that filled the room. But before I could say anything O had already stepped forward into the gloom and there was nothing I could do but follow.
As the mercenaries closed the doors behind us, and the little light it had provided was snuffed out, darkness reclaimed the room. I heard shuffling feet and curtains being drawn, then more shuffling and more curtains opening untilthe room was filled with late-afternoon sunlight. Then, from the sudden blaze of light, a sickly, balding, Gandhi-like figure wrapped in a dirty white sheet emerged, poured some water into a beaten-up pot and placed it on the wood burner that sat incongruously in the middle of the dilapidated room. Now this is some weird shit, I thought. At last I could see what O had been trying to tell me earlier – Lord Thompson lived like an African, or more precisely he lived the stereotype of the African. The slave-master lived like a slave but in his mansion. He had converted his bedroom into slave quarters.
The water in the pot came to a boil almost immediately, and I watched as Lord Thompson threw in some tea leaves and sugar from two huge sacks next to the stove. A couple of minutes later he reached into a churn next to the wood burner and came out with a cup of milk that he added to the pot.
‘Fresh from the farm,’ he cried out to us as he stirred the pot a couple of times before lifting it from the fire and placing it on the dirty cement with his bare hands, flicking his fingers in the air to cool them down. ‘Some tea, gentlemen?’ he asked.
Lord Thompson poured his tea into two huge tin cups before producing a loaf of bread, which he promptly tore into three pieces using his bare hands – old, spotted and dirty. We had been standing all along, but once he had finished with his tea and bread, he waved us towards a number of three-legged stools arranged around the wood burner.
Once we had seated ourselves, and Lord Thompson had handed O and me our tea and bread, he sat down next to me, reached into his overalls and produced a pair of eyeglasses, to get a better look at me, he said.
‘When I heard there was an American policeman on ourbit of the earth, I thought, why not invite him over?’ Lord Thompson began. ‘As my people say: He who does not leave his home thinks his mother is the best cook. I wanted you to taste my cooking before you return to your mother’s.’ His accent was very much like O’s, but I could detect an English accent under the African one. ‘I was expecting a white man,’ he continued. ‘But you, you surprise me.’
I hadn’t thought that someone reading about me in the paper wouldn’t be able to tell from my name that I wasn’t white. I didn’t ask him why it mattered – perhaps it was a calculated slight.
‘And I must thank you for your hospitality,’ I said as I tore into the bread and took a sip of tea. The tea was amazing! Who knew tea could taste like this? Fuck my coffee back in that dingy little café in Madison, I thought. I was moving on.
Lord Thompson surprised me because he wanted to know how the US economy was faring. He talked about the dollar in the world market and declared that the enemy of the United States was not Japan, which was buying America up, but China, which was buying up the treasury.
‘So, Ishmael.’ It took forever before the
‘South African mercenaries,’ O whispered.
They looked every bit the cliché: muscled, bearded and tattooed – they could have been cardboard cut-outs. I hated them on sight.
O reached into his shoulder holster and gave them his piece. I followed suit, and satisfied that we had been relieved of our weapons they opened the huge door to a darkened room. The first thing that hit me was the smell. The room reeked of human decay: of unwashed feet, rotting teeth and death – BQ’s morgue smelled like a wedding party compared to the stench that filled the room. But before I could say anything O had already stepped forward into the gloom and there was nothing I could do but follow.
As the mercenaries closed the doors behind us, and the little light it had provided was snuffed out, darkness reclaimed the room. I heard shuffling feet and curtains being drawn, then more shuffling and more curtains opening untilthe room was filled with late-afternoon sunlight. Then, from the sudden blaze of light, a sickly, balding, Gandhi-like figure wrapped in a dirty white sheet emerged, poured some water into a beaten-up pot and placed it on the wood burner that sat incongruously in the middle of the dilapidated room. Now this is some weird shit, I thought. At last I could see what O had been trying to tell me earlier – Lord Thompson lived like an African, or more precisely he lived the stereotype of the African. The slave-master lived like a slave but in his mansion. He had converted his bedroom into slave quarters.
The water in the pot came to a boil almost immediately, and I watched as Lord Thompson threw in some tea leaves and sugar from two huge sacks next to the stove. A couple of minutes later he reached into a churn next to the wood burner and came out with a cup of milk that he added to the pot.
‘Fresh from the farm,’ he cried out to us as he stirred the pot a couple of times before lifting it from the fire and placing it on the dirty cement with his bare hands, flicking his fingers in the air to cool them down. ‘Some tea, gentlemen?’ he asked.
Lord Thompson poured his tea into two huge tin cups before producing a loaf of bread, which he promptly tore into three pieces using his bare hands – old, spotted and dirty. We had been standing all along, but once he had finished with his tea and bread, he waved us towards a number of three-legged stools arranged around the wood burner.
Once we had seated ourselves, and Lord Thompson had handed O and me our tea and bread, he sat down next to me, reached into his overalls and produced a pair of eyeglasses, to get a better look at me, he said.
‘When I heard there was an American policeman on ourbit of the earth, I thought, why not invite him over?’ Lord Thompson began. ‘As my people say: He who does not leave his home thinks his mother is the best cook. I wanted you to taste my cooking before you return to your mother’s.’ His accent was very much like O’s, but I could detect an English accent under the African one. ‘I was expecting a white man,’ he continued. ‘But you, you surprise me.’
I hadn’t thought that someone reading about me in the paper wouldn’t be able to tell from my name that I wasn’t white. I didn’t ask him why it mattered – perhaps it was a calculated slight.
‘And I must thank you for your hospitality,’ I said as I tore into the bread and took a sip of tea. The tea was amazing! Who knew tea could taste like this? Fuck my coffee back in that dingy little café in Madison, I thought. I was moving on.
Lord Thompson surprised me because he wanted to know how the US economy was faring. He talked about the dollar in the world market and declared that the enemy of the United States was not Japan, which was buying America up, but China, which was buying up the treasury.
‘So, Ishmael.’ It took forever before the
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