Simpson's Land Rover bounced and jostled its way down the dirt path from the camp to a marginally better road, and turned right at the intersection. He drove with Thabo's directions and a map in the seat beside him, alternately scanning the landscape and consulting his guides. Twice he swerved out of the way to miss oncoming buses, each one loaded to the gunwales with people and possessions, crates and luggage and adventurous riders even strapped aboard on top. Once again he turned, off of the branch road and onto another "road," an impacted dirt path, really, that would take him to Motumbo's village. He was surprised to see that it was not as far as he had feared. Two hours of careful driving brought him at last to the village.
If he had imagined grass huts or mud shelters, he was mistaken. Western culture had infected Africa, along with the strange economic patterns it had introduced that turned so many once self-sufficient societies into famine-prone market economies linked to far-off stores in Europe and the States. The village was a collection of structures made of wood framing, some with grey wooden sides, some with rusted, half-painted tin or aluminum sheets for walls, corrugated iron or peeling plywood for roofs. A few houses seemed more prosperous: square, cinder-block structures with small patches of garden surrounding them, occasional stray electrical lines running here and there to a lucky few, the scent of coal fires for cooking breakfasts still lingering in the air. Some vehicles were parked next to these structures, most of them pickups, none of them new. Even at this hour, the local shebeen was open to sell beer and packaged snacks, and seemed to be the busiest location there. One or two ramshackle huts advertised themselves as cafes, and smoke curled from stovepipes sticking out of their side walls. An open air stand sold fruit under an awning. The sound of metal striking metal came from a nearby all-purpose mechanic and repair shop. Stray chickens and small children dressed only in shorts scattered here and there. Women drew water from a central pump, and men in old but clean clothing sat here and there in the shade. A few curious people stared in his direction. De Groot had been correct, months ago: life in the villages seemed to be hard, and other than the shebeen, cafes, and mechanic, there seemed to be no organized businesses or places of employment. Simpson pulled the Land Rover over and took in the scene. He could well imagine the young men of this village, and dozens like it, coming to De Groot....and now himself...for employment.
So he was here. And somewhere nearby might be Motumbo. And Simpson's heart was suddenly, unaccountably, beating hard, hard to match the hardness of his constricted breathing. Simpson, who had stalked Manhattan courtrooms like a lion, seeking whom he may destroy, was sitting alone in his vehicle at the edge of a dusty African village like a boy on his first date, afraid to go ring the doorbell. Andrew Simpson had planned his exit from his firm, he had planned the liquidation of his assets, he had planned the purchase of De Groot's operation and had made the move. But his fantasies about this moment had remained that, just fantasies. Now in the moment, he realized he had no clear plan of what to do. Perhaps he had envisioned Motumbo laid out naked and beckoning on a halfshell, ready to be scooped up and taken off. Struck with his own foolishness and utterly at a loss as to what to do, Simpson sat in the gathering heat and breathed deeply, trying to regain composure and to make a plan.
As he sat composing himself and thinking, hope appeared in the form of two teenage boys, about thirteen each, wearing clean but torn shorts and t-shirts. Padding up quietly in the dust, in their bare feet, the two materialized right by Simpson's car door, broad grins splitting their handsome dark faces with white. They had come to inspect the spectacle that had appeared near their homes. Simpson nodded at them and smiled, and then realized that he had no idea whether the people here spoke English. He had none at all of their own language, whatever it may be. Motumbo spoke some English, enough to get by..... to get by in De Groot's context.... but that might be a more specialized use than these boys were accustomed to!
"Good morning," Simpson essayed. The boys giggled and looked at each other.
"Good morning" they each replied, very carefully, even with exaggeration.... Were they mocking him or trying to get it right?
"Do you speak English?" he asked.
One of them, a little taller, with a beautiful deep dark complexion, button nose, and sparkling eyes, took half a step forward. "Yes, I learn English in school!" he said, his thin chest thrust out proudly, each word carefully molded and carefully laid in the space between them. His companion, not so brave, continued to grin and nodded vigorously.
"I am Andrew Simpson," extending a hand.
Delighted with their success so far, the taller boy scrunched up his cute features in thought and then replied, carefully, extending his own hand. "I am Thatho Ndebele. May I present to you my brother, Mthobisi Ndebele." Each word was labored over and proudly uttered, as he gestured grandly at his shyer brother who giggled again but stepped up to have his hand shaken.
Simpson smiled broadly. "Where do you go to school?" he asked, pushing his linguistic luck. The two boys stared intently at him, quickly huddled, a mixture of English and non-English words were whispered back and forth, and then Thatho grinned again, stood stock upright once more, and replied, each word its own event:
"We go to Mission School. Mission School, three miles there!" and he pointed to the east.
Simpson nodded. He stepped out of the car and summoned his courage for his next question.
"Do you know a man named Motumbo? He is tall, like this," raising a flattened palm to a little over his own height. "Motumbo," he repeated. "I.... I do not know his family name," said Simpson, feeling a little crestfallen and a little stupid at the admission. He might at least have asked Thabo before he left. "He is, maybe, twenty years old." The boys gaped at him, struggling to absorb this enormous amount of information in a strange language. "Motumbo," Simpson repeated, helplessly, wordlessly and hopelessly indicating the man's height again.
The boys scrunched up their eyes and turned to each other, whispering again in consternation. Suddenly, the shyer one's face was alight with revelation and he whispered even more urgently to his brother. There was more discussion and nodding, and then Thatho turned triumphantly to Simpson.
"We know Motumbo. Motumbo Sisele. He is our--" another pause and whispered consultation--"he is our cousin."
Simpson nodded, smiling. "Will you tell me where his house is? Where does he live?"
More whispers, then enlightenment. "Yes, we can take you. You will come?" Thatho turned as if to lead the way up the dusty street. Simpson quickly gestured toward the Land Rover.
"Would you like to ride?" he asked.
The boys reacted as if they had been invited to board the space shuttle. Grinning hugely, they gingerly entered the vehicle on the passenger side, sliding on the front seat with Mthobisi on the outside, Thatho in the middle, both sitting as erect as kings, looking left and right in hopes that their friends might see them. Simpson admired their youthful beauty and enjoyed their physical proximity, but that was not what he was here for. "That way," said Thatho, pointing down the road. As the Land Rover rolled slowly away, Simpson was aware of what a spectacle they made, and what fame the boys were gaining by being conveyed in this enchanted chariot.
The distance was not far at all, but the house stood on the other side of the little community, on the edge of the little village as it melted away into bush country. It was one of the better ones, cinder block, with a new, corrugated metal roof, surrounded by a chain link fence, a tidy garden, and wonder of wonders! its own water pump in the yard. Simpson thanked the boys gravely, and they all shook hands once more around. Fishing into his pocket, he found some money to give them--it was clear from their reactions that it was a princely tip--and the boys leaped from the car. But they did not go far. Huddling at the corner of a nearby building, they hung around to see what new drama would unfold.
Simpson wondered the same thing himself. He stepped from the Land Rover, breathing hard and slow to calm his racing heart, and stood in front of the fence gate, staring at the door. Summoning his courage, he opened the gate and shut it behind him, then took the few steps to the front door, hesitated, and knocked. He could hear a soft voice--or perhaps two--inside, the scraping of a chair on the floor, footsteps. The door opened.
Inside stood an attractive young woman of about twenty, her hair an inch-long cap of wiry black hair, tobacco colored skin that was smooth and flawless, a heart shaped face with bee-stung lips, a cute, broad, rounded nose, and a figure so attractive it almost tempted Simpson. His heart sank. He had imagined having to get reacquainted with Motumbo, he had imagined having to woo him to return to the camp, but for some reason it never entered his mind that he would have female competition. All confidence drained right out of him. Nevertheless, to avoid looking the complete fool, he found voice.
"Good morning. My name is Andrew Simpson. Is Motumbo here?"
The woman looked puzzled and curious, staring intently with her bright/dark eyes under long, curling lashes at this white stranger. Perhaps she doesn't speak English, Simpson thought. "Motumbo?" he repeated. The woman started at the familiar name and grinned, shook her head yes, said a few words in a language Simpson couldn't place, and darted back into the house, leaving the door opened but a crack. There were voices within. A moment passed, the door opened again, and there he stood.
Simpson's breath was momentarily taken away; Motumbo was as handsome as he had remembered. He still kept his hair in a short mop of twisted tufts above an hourglass-shaped face with a strong jaw, full, luscious lips and a broad nose, dark eyes shining brightly under long lashes. Motumbo had on a loose-fitting shirt and khakis that did not disguise his powerful physique, a shield-shaped chest tapering down to what Simpson knew to be rippling abs, and a tight compact pelvis with, Simpson also knew from experience, a high, rounded, firm African butt behind. The African stood tall and regally in his own doorway as if it were the entrance to a palace. Simpson was for a moment at a loss for words.
In that moment Motumbo looked blankly at him, and then a flash of recognition spread over his handsome features, followed by a look of curiosity and appraisal. Simpson recovered voice, and they spoke together, over one another: "Boss!/Motumbo, I don't know if you remember...." Both stopped, then laughed softly. Simpson continued.
"Motumbo, I don't know if you remember me. We, uh, met....we met at De Groot's a few months ago. You were, uh.....you were working there and....uh..." How to describe what had passed between them? "We spent the weekend together" he concluded, lamely.
Motumbo nodded, smiling but with an air of reserve. "Yes, Boss, I remember. I go to....I work at De Groot's maybe five, six time....not so many!" Was it an explanation, a self-justification, an apology? "Your name, Boss.....Sampson?"
"No, it's Simpson. Andrew Simpson. Please call me Andrew, not Boss," he said, extending his hand. Motumbo nodded and extended his own, enfolding Simpson's hand in warm strength. Then he released it.
"Why you back, Boss? Uh, Andrew.... Why you back? You are De Groot's again?"
"I, um, I bought the place from De Groot. He is gone now. Can we," said Simpson looking left and right, "can we talk privately? Can we walk down the road?" he asked, nodding in the direction of the dirt road that led away from the house in the direction of the bush. Motumbo also looked left and right, shrugged, said something in a soft voice to the woman inside the house, and stepped down off his porch, closing the door behind him. They walked a few steps in silence as Simpson gathered his thoughts; out of the corner of his eye, he thought he could see a flicker, the boys shifting position around the corner of the nearest building so as to continue spying on him.
Motumbo broke the silence. "You want me come work for you....Andrew? At De Groot's?"
Simpson evaded the question momentarily. "Do many men from around here work at De Groot's?"
"Oh, some, Andrew. De Groot, he ask we who work for him, find him others. They have to be," and here he smiled and ducked his head, "they have to be good to look at, you know?" Simpson nodded. "So, Boss....so, Andrew. You come here to ask me to work? I don't know, you see I got--"
Simpson interrupted him, quickly placing his hand on the thick arm of the man beside him, then withdrawing it. "Motumbo, I.... if you want to work, alright, but.....Motumbo, that's not why I came." Motumbo looked at him with interest; they were away from any houses now, and perhaps the increased privacy unlocked something in Simpson. It came gushing out: "Motumbo, since I was here, I could think of nothing but you. I know, you were working when we....when we were together last time. I know you have.....worked for other men at De Groot's. I know you have other things, other people in your life," and now a sense of futility and despair began to wash over Simpson. What was he doing here? He pushed on: "I didn't know if you would even remember me. But you, I, you were the only thing I could think of for months. In my thoughts, my dreams. Motumbo.....I know this must be embarrassing for you, but I came back because I want you. Well, I want to be near you, I mean....if you need to work for me, alright, but...." His language was beginning to fail him. He stopped, half-turned and looked at the tall, nearly coal black African almost in despair. "I came back because I want you," he half-whispered, hopelessly.
There was a silence. Not smiling, Motumbo regarded the white man deeply. Simpson held his gaze for but a moment, then dropped his head. Not unkindly, Motumbo spoke:
"Boss....Andrew.....This my life here. I got house, a woman, do a little work." Simpson nodded agreement, hopelessly. "What you think, you come back and I give up all and come with you?" It was as much an honest query as an accusation. Simpson hung his head and shrugged; it was exactly what he had fantasized, and the absurdity of his situation was growing stronger every moment. Motumbo continued, a little bit of steel in his voice now: "Boss, you not own me."
Simpson shook his head violently. "No, Motumbo, I don't and I don't want to. That's exactly what I don't want to do. I just....I just want to be with you. Maybe not all the time, I don't know. If you want work, you can....it doesn't have to be with....with other men. Your woman....." he shrugged again, hopelessly. "I just wanted to see you and to invite you to be at De Groot's. I think I assumed a lot, and I am sorry for that. But I...I couldn't stop thinking of you." His heart was twisting slowly inside of him.
Motumbo stared at him for a moment. Then he turned and walked back to his house, Simpson a step behind him. They walked in silence until they reached the gate in the fence, and then Motumbo turned to Simpson. "Boss....Andrew....I think about it, alright? I think, really, I will." Simpson looked at him directly, trying to interpret his emotions; the African's eyes were not unkind, but they betrayed no thoughts. Simpson nodded, they shook hands again--Simpson holding on as long as he could before Motumbo broke off--and then Simpson turned and slowly walked back to the Land Rover. When he got into the cab he could see Motumbo standing on his front steps now, hands on his hips, watching Simpson. He turned the key in the ignition and was about to put the car into gear when once again, the two boys popped up almost as if by magic by his side of the vehicle.
"Boss," said Thatho, "You are at De Groot's now? You De Groot now?" Simpson smiled gently and nodded. That was the whole trouble, wasn't it? He was De Groot now, and he didn't want to be, not with Motumbo anyway. How do you change the direction of a boulder once it has begun rolling downhill? Thatho continued: "You want to hire us, Boss? We are strong!" He puffed his skinny chest out, as did his brother.
Simpson couldn't help but smile, even in his grim mood. "You are a little young, yet. Maybe some day. Thanks, boys, for the help," he said, and put the car in gear. Motumbo was no longer on the step, but he thought he saw a shadow at the window as he turned around and headed back down the street.
In a shady grove of trees a few miles back toward the main trunk road, Simpson pulled over to drink some water and pick at the food that Thabo had prepared. He had no appetite. Not for the first time, the ridiculous nature of his situation had dawned on him. What was he doing here, he wondered, also not for the first time. Protected from the rising sun by the shade, he sat in the vehicle lost in thought until sleep came upon him, and he dozed.
The sun was settling in the west when Simpson awoke with a start. Time to move on before four or two-legged predators gathered. He retraced his path and eventually pulled up in front of his own gates just as the sun had dropped below the horizon. Thabo walked quickly down to let him in.
"How was your day, Boss Andrew?" Thabo asked, his face and voice carefully composed, as they drove up toward camp from the gate.
Simpson sighed. "Alright, I suppose. Thanks for the directions. I found Motumbo."
There was a moment of silence, and Thabo looked sideways at Simpson a few times. Thabo said softly, "Motumbo a good man." Simpson nodded, and all of a sudden felt close to tears. "Yes, he is," he replied.
Once inside his own lodge, Simpson washed the dust of the day off; by then Thabo had delivered his dinner. A sense of sadness and longing had come over him. But going over the conversation from earlier in the day, he realized that Motumbo had not absolutely rejected him. He just wanted to think, wasn't that what he had said? Hope, perhaps foolish hope, began to regroup within him. He sat thinking over the remains of his dinner, then decided he would take a stroll around the premises in the cool evening air.
Once again, the only lighted guest cabin was the Russians', and Simpson once more approached it stepping gingerly. He was going to give himself the guilty pleasure of spying on them once more. Sidling along the side of the building, he came again to the open, lighted window, and peeked inside. What he saw froze his blood.
Little Mandla sat naked in a chair, his arms tied behind to the back of the chair, and a cloth gag in his mouth. The young African's legs were likewise tied to the legs of the chair. And from both of his nipples a line of blood ran down his abdomen. Fear could clearly be seen in his eyes, and he was squirming against his bonds.
Both Russians were naked, fully erect. The older, fatter one carried a bottle of vodka in one hand, nearly empty now. He prowled the outer perimeter of the room, constantly slurring some words. And in his other hand he carried a knife. The younger Russian also held a knife, and was speaking to Little Mandla in what were clearly taunting tones. His penis was fully erect, a furious purple rising from beneath a dirty blonde bush of pubic hair. And then the taunts stopped and he stepped up close, held the tip of the knife to one of Little Mandla's nipples, and pressed. There was a squeal from the bound and gagged African, a violent struggle against his bonds, and a fresh line of blood began running down from his chest. The fatter Russian was now masturbating as he took in this spectacle.
Simpson was already pulling the hunting knife that he had, fortunately, not removed from his belt after the day's journey. He rounded the corner of the building and opened the unlocked door, throwing it back with a crash. The room smelled of alcohol, semen, and fear.
"What the hell is this?" he roared. Both Russians jumped back. Little Mandla closed his eyes, whether in pain or relief Simpson did not know. Simpson strode up to the bound African in two steps and began cutting at the ropes with his knife. In a flash, he was aware of movement from two directions, and looking up he saw both Russians coming toward him with their own knives extended. Simpson took a step back, certain his end had come, utterly unused to knife fighting and trying to formulate a plan.
There was a loud metallic click from just behind him and he swiveled quickly to see what new threat it meant. It was Zama, the click having come from the safety on his semi-automatic shotgun being thumbed off. The tall African meaningfully pointed the weapon first at one Russian and then at the other, as Simpson ducked down into a crouch to be out of the line of fire. Drunk as they were, neither of the clients wanted to go to a gun fight with a knife. They dropped their weapons and put their hands up, looking both sheepish and wary. From outside came the sound of quickly approaching footsteps.
Simpson rose and darted forward to Little Mandla again, cutting loose the bonds and pulling off the cloth gag. Little Mandla started up, speaking rapidly in a language not English, clutching at Simpson and then swinging around behind him, putting the white man between himself and his captors. By then Thabo had burst through the door, his hand on the grip of a 1911-style pistol in a holster on his belt. He whistled softly at the scene, then cried "Aaiiieee!" at seeing Little Mandla's wounds. He quickly took the youth by the arm and led him away, backing out of the cabin.
"Thabo, please see to Little Mandla's injuries," Simpson called after him, urgently. Then turning to the Russians, he said in a clear, cold voice. "You will leave tomorrow at dawn. Until then, do not leave the cabin." Turning to Zama, who still held his weapon on the two, Simpson said, "Zama, if you see these two outside tonight, shoot them." Zama grinned wolfishly and nodded, then disappeared out the door and into the night as quickly as he had come. Simpson looked at the two Russians and then loudly, ostentatiously spat on the floor between them, turned on his heel and left, slamming the door shut behind him.
Ahead of him, Thabo was leading Little Mandla toward the main offices. Zama had completely disappeared into the night, but Simpson had no doubt of his viligant presence. His thoughts churning, Simpson stomped, head bowed, toward his own cabin. Once inside he poured a stiff drink of whisky and threw himself onto a couch to sit, pondering.
He sat there a long time. Was what the Russians had done so much different from his own past actions at De Groot's? How thin a line was that, to "tag and bag" someone and then think you had actually come to own a wild animal of the African plains? An animal on which you could work your will in any way. Simpson slugged back another swallow of his Scotch as doubts about his own behavior vied with a return of longing for Motumbo in his head.
Perhaps an hour passed in this way, and there was a soft knock at the door. His hand on his belted knife, just in case, Simpson opened the door a crack. It was Little Mandla. "Ah!" Simpson cried and swung the door wide. The young African was alone, now wearing shorts but no shirt, scabs from the few nasty punctures forming in his nipples under a light coating of antiseptic gel. Simpson grabbed him by the hands and pulled him inside.
"Little Mandla! Were you hurt anywhere else? I am....I am so sorry," he said. "Oh! Do you speak English?"
Little Mandla smiled and nodded. "Little bit, Boss. I not hurt anywhere else, Boss, these," and he nodded at his chest, "these be OK soon." Still holding hands, Simpson nodded at the youth and then sighed deeply in relief. Little Mandla smiled hugely and then looked quite serious.
"Boss....Boss, you save my life." And then his face clouded over and he burst into a great sob. It was the tension of the close escape breaking into relief. Tears streamed down his handsome chocolate face as his shoulders heaved silently. Although about eighteen, he was basically still a boy inside. Simpson pulled him closer but slid to the side, one arm around his smooth brown shoulders and the other around his thin, meaty tube of an abdomen, to hold him gently without touching the wounds on his nipples. Little Mandla laid his head of tight peppercorn curls against Simpson as he continued to fight down his sobs, shuddering, while Simpson murmured soft, meaningless words to him.
Finally the storm passed, but they held that position. Simpson turned his face slightly to nuzzle his lips and nose into the youth's tight, crisp hair, which exuded a slight coconut aroma. Little Mandla's breathing slowed, he shuddered and sniffed, raising his hand to wipe his nose. Then he stirred and held his head up, looking directly into Simpson's eyes.
"Are you alright?" the white man asked.
Looking steadily at Simpson, Little Mandla nodded silently, sniffling. They held each other's gaze a moment more, and then Little Mandla turned into Simpson, reaching his hands up behind the white man's neck, and pulled his head slightly down. Little Mandla pressed his lips, two full rolls of brown and maroon softness, to Simpson's. His fingers clasped behind the white man's neck, fingers entwined in his silky hair. Hesitantly, then with growing feeling, Simpson's hands caressed the youth's smooth, rounded, muscular shoulders as their tongues met between lips, tongues sliding over teeth, Simpson sucking the black youth's full lips into his own mouth and feeling his own caressed in return.
Little Mandla unfastened the button on his own shorts and pulled them to the floor in one move, then eagerly unbuttoned Simpson's shirt, and then his trousers, as all the while they explored each other's lips, tongues, mouths. In a second they both stood naked. Days of pent-up lust rose in Simpson, and he felt his penis rising quickly, then stop as it met a barricade. It was Little Mandla's own long, rampant cock. Purple black and purple pink, their erect rods batted each other as the two men, now breathing heavily and softly moaning, continued to kiss. Then Little Mandla unclasped his hands from the white man's neck and brought them down to seize both their rods together, black and white tools held tightly in his double-fisted grasp, rising straight up between them.
Little Mandla took the lead, which Simpson was willing to grant him, not wanting to initiate anything that would further harm him. And it seemed as if relief and gratitude had given the African youth a powerful passion as well. The boy led Simpson quickly to the nearby bedroom, gently pushing him down onto the bed. The youth quickly swung over him, tail to toe, and held his purple black, iron-hard, leaking cock over the white man's mouth even as he seized Simpson's reddish penis in his own mouth. Looking up, Simpson took as much of the African youth's penis into his mouth as he could, as he enjoyed the view of the boy's tight, firm bottom, clean starfish of a rectum, and heavy, nearly black, rough-textured ballsack which was now drawing up tight against the African's body.
Together, the white man and black youth set up a rocking movement, riding the waves of lust, desire, and relief. Hands grasped thighs, Little Mandla slid his underneath Simpson's butt and dug into the hip muscles, while Simpson clutched the firm, tight bottom of the African hard and sucked furiously even as he pumped his own penis up and down, in and out of the full lips and warm mouth of the black youth who hovered above him. Both took care not to harm Little Mandla's injured nipples in the course of their passion. Pumping and writhing, each one moaning and unable to speak for having a mouth full of his friend's swollen dick, the two rode the rhythm of their passion. Sweat broke out in the warm African air, coating their bodies. Little Mandla broke first, his moans becoming squeals as he shuddered and bucked, pushing his long, heavy penis down into the white man's mouth, Simpson swallowing furiously and trying not to choke. And then it was his turn, the tingling electricity gathering in his thighs and loins and then shooting up to fill the sucking mouth of the African. The white man dug his fingers even more tightly into the high, firm bottom muscles of the youth, while Little Mandla's grip on the white man's bottom tightened. Each one seething, pushing, moaning, they held that position until first Little Mandla and then Simpson collapsed, spent. The African youth rolled off, panting heavily, to lie on his back on the bed, while Simpson likewise struggled to catch his breath as he gently stroked the chocolate, muscular leg beside him.
After a few minutes, Little Mandla rose and, in the outer room, extinguished the lamps. Then he returned to lie by Simpson on the white sheets in the pale moonlight that streamed in from the window. The African youth snuggled up close to Simpson, laying his crisp-haired head on Simpson's shoulder, Simpson laying his arm around the youth's back and hugging him closely. Little Mandla winced once or twice as he found a comfortable way to lie without hurting his nipples and then, his arm across Simpson's abdomen, he feel fast asleep. Simpson's head swirled a few minutes more, full of thoughts and images of Motumbo, of the two boy brothers from the village, of the crisis with the Russians and then of this moment of unlooked-for grace and bliss with Little Mandla. And then, giving it over to what was to be, he drifted off to sleep, his breathing matching the cadence of the boy in his arms.
To be continued, comments welcome: lokiaga@prodigy.net