On Conspiracy Part 3

Over twenty years ago Martin Jacques - editor of Marxism Today at the time - accused me of 'gross anti-intellectualism' at a London District Committee. He was presenting a paper on the future of MT which had been circulated beforehand. I challenged the basic concept of the magazine being, in his words, 'hegemonic' and got slapped down. Now I'm accused of 'intellectual elitism' from another leftist. Blimey, how confusing.

The reason for it this time, besides me being a nasty person?

I Lewis 'Scooter' Libby, a card carrying member of the neocons has been indicted for perjury - lying - along with other charges. The chief of staff to Cheney had been caught out trying to dissemble under oath to a grand jury and the FBI investigating the outing of a CIA agent, Plame. A lot of play is being made about a possible conspiracy amongst a cabal that includes the neocons usual suspects - Cheney, Rumsfeld, Wolfowitz, Perle et al. I am not convinced.

The neocons policy has been public knowledge since at least the late '90s via policy-papers written for the Project for a New American Century and other rabidly right wing 'think tanks' and magazines. PNAC itself was established in 1997, quite late compared to others.

On 25.02.03 - a month before the war - Information Clearing House carried an article by William Rivers Pitt which clearly shows the centrality of imperialism to the thinking of PNAC. In Sept 2000 PNAC published a White Paper titled 'Rebuilding America's Defenses: Strategy, Forces and Resources for a New Century'. This document is the 'essence' of the neocons militarist ideology. Stories about its publication were published in the European press at the time if I remember correctly.

The architects of this policy achieved positions of power in the Bush administration following the stolen 2000 election. One was even on the ticket and elected Vice President. It may seem strange that an elected official should put into practise policies with which he is publicly associated, but not unknown.

"Once policy is decided organisation is all." A quote associated with both Lenin and Stalin. My preference is Lenin as it is the foundation of 'democratic centralism', the organising basis for the Communist Party and the Trotskyite grouplets which followed.

Whats Lenin and Trotsky to do with war on Iraq?

The neocons contain in their ranks many ex-Trots and those claiming to have been influenced by his disciples. Leading neocons like Irving Kristol and Seymour Martin Lipset are ex-Trots. Others follow the politics of Shachtman, an American Trot whose final ideological home was the Social Democrats USA which supported the war in Vietnam. Perle and Wolfowitz were young acolytes of Shachtman, in fact Wolfowitz was a speaker at Social Democrats USA conferences during the '70s.

On 15th January 2004 Mother Jones (via ICH) carried an article about the establishment of The Office of Special Plans at the Department of Defence by Robert Dreyfuss and Jason Vest headlined 'The Lie Factory'. Even before Bush's formal inaugeration Wolfowitz was pulling the team together that evolved into the OSP. It was from here the lies whipping up fear and support for the invasion of Iraq were concocted.

All of this information has been in the public arena for quite some time before, or 10 months into, the paramount crime committed when the Anglo-American coalition invaded and occupied Iraq. It is inconceivable that this part of the process leading upto the war can be described as a 'conspiracy' it having been so open.

Patrick J. Fitzgerald, the Special Counsel has not pursued the path of conspiracy at this point for a reason. That reason, I think, is to do with the forged 'yellow-cake' documents eminating from Rome via the Niger embassy/consulate there. If that criminal act of forgery can be found to have originated from the OSP then you may have a case of conspiracy by establishing the existance of a secret parallel organisation outwith the state apparatus. A parallel organisation whose reach could include the state apparatus in Italy, Britain, Niger and the USA. But why use conspiracy when treason will do.

Probably the first thing I ever learnt when joining the army aged 15 was that 'ignorance is no excuse'. It is a concept that applies to every adult in every situation. Both the American and British publics could have used their own volition to acquire the above knowledge. Being ignorant of what is being done by your government when the information is in the public domain does not make it's decisions and actions conspiritorial.

Not being a conspiracy phobe, but recognising its use by the state's courts as a means to quash opposition with the admission of hearsay as evidence (see previous post), I have always been wary of labelling anything a conspiracy.

During a period of activity in the Trades Union movement I used to attend CP meetings of members from the same union. A caucus or a conspiracy? Harold Wilson when he was Labour Prime Minister thought this form of organising was 'a conspiracy of tightly knit men'. I don't. I think it's a legitimate caucus. A place where people with a semblance of a common political attitude can discuss and plan how to further the interests of their union members as well as spread the CP's ideas and influence in the union. This was common knowledge amongst non-CP trades union activists. The Trots, the right and the 'broad left' all held, and I assume still hold caucus meetings and which are not outwith the majority of British Trades Union rules.

Two scientists meeting and discussing their latest research could even be considered a conspiracy if some peoples definitions were applied, but that would be ridiculous. Though not to a paranoid state that places bans on people meeting in two's or more.

A couple of years ago I completed what I hoped was going to be a novel. It didn't work as a novel - to autobiographical as some friends who read the completed manuscript thought as well as some parts of the story being 'horribly and vividly evoked'. Being over biographical was confirmed with a pile of rejection letters from publishers. My Mum thought it 'full of resentment' because of the critique of my father. I was considering some of the advice that suggested I try and publish a few short stories or travel journalism pieces that can be found in the manuscript.

The reason for writing it was to try and gain an understanding of what was happening to me following the diagnosis of MS and, at the same time, a campaign by the state to deliberately initiate a massive relapse (see previous post). A campaign that I thought had ended. But obviously not now the blog is up and being read.

It seems that 'Empathy is not a colour' or extracts from it - probably taken out of context - have now appeared on a list server. I did send out some CDs with it on and was told it was copied to a hard drive for safety. It could have come from there or the time I spilt tea over my lap top, frying it. A shop sent it off to get fixed and refused to tell me who they had sent it to after I discovered some emails missing on its return, one a reply from Ron Jacobs. Also old correspondence files to my bank had been opened. The shop did say somewhere in Derbyshire. But who knows. I emailed the relevent chapter to my daughter at least a year ago. She's assured me that it wasn't forwarded anywhere.

The manuscript contains a lot of my history - the good, the bad and the downright disgraceful. If I could apologise to all those I've hurt, damaged or slighted in some way I'd be in an elite of one. There is a period in my childhood that I did apologise for twenty years ago. It is something for which I've carried a deep remorse since it happened. The acceptance of my apology has since been recinded.

This year in Britain it is the 400th anniversary of the Gun Powder Plot, a celebrated 'conspiracy' in British history. A group of affluent catholics were supposed to have conspired to blow up King James 1 and all members of Parliament. All it produced was an anti-Catholic pogrom and because of that it is also believed the 'conspiracy' was a set-up by the King's advisors. Whatever. The usefullness of conspiracies is that they are open to infinite interpretations. The Gun Powder Plot is the classic bourgoise conspiracy and case in point. The Aristocracy/Establishment in Britain are fond of their conspiracies, it's the way they think the world goes round.

Now I'm to believe that in an attempt at feminisation of the left, conspiring is a legitimate organising principle in the movement. Nonsense. The practise of conspiring is fundamentally elitist in that it is conducted in secret, is exclusive - 'we will do it for you'. Whoever 'you' is. Conspiritorial organising has a clear correlation with the urban terrorist groups that plagued Europe through the '70s. They are open to infiltration and manipulation (see previous post). The 'false flag' suicide bombings attributed to Al Qa'ida in Iraq show how 'conspiracy theory' is being exploited to divide and rule in Iraq and couch the illegal occupation for the control of oil as a 'war against terrorism' to the rest of the world.

'False flag' operations are not restricted to Iraq. They are also being conducted in Britain and the USA through 'left' organisations and the blogosphere. 'Full spectrum domination' includes the internet. It would be foolish to think otherwise.

'Heroic' figures can attract the young, politically inexperienced and easily influenced who are starting to see the contradictions of capitalism become more pronounced and who are seeking answers. But they are still affected by the propaganda from Hollywood, TV, schools and press that emphasis the violent individual hero and not mass non-violent participation in civil disobedience as the motor for change. Ex-military hero's claiming to have changed sides will have 'added value' for the starry-eyed idealist.

There is a certain attractiveness to conspiritorial politics for some young people with a romantic view of revolutionary politics. That they are in the know, have new and special knowledge while the rest of us are to ignorant and cannot be included in the discussions and decisions taken on our behalf.

No. It is not secret cabals that change the world but the mass participation of those who grasp and turn an idea into a material force. Progressive movements develop and grow with honesty and openness from those who claim to lead them. Not with hidden agendas or ulterior motives (two of the reasons Communist Parties around the world fell). People change their ideas and practise when involved in struggle together with others and their history and actions criticised in the open, collectively. Everything else benefits the bourgoise state.

Those who know me, who I have worked with on campaigns, in the Trades Union movement, community politics or the CP will know the affect the womens movement had on my thinking and practise during the '70s and '80s. It changed who I was. Not enough I know, but it changed me all the same.

I now am also to understand that the 'no hands operation' that has been conducted against me over the past few years is a feminist conspiracy. That the deliberate relapsing of my MS and 'psychological torture' is accepted practise within the womens movement. Ludicrous. No, this is the State conducting an operation against somebody they don't like posting critical articles against the war in the blogosphere and using a spurious claim to feminism as cover. The blogosphere is after all an arena of struggle which Imperialist forces are trying to control and deny access to.

A couple of days before the article I'm responding to appeared on the internet and the day after I posted a piece partly about my erstwhile friend Charles Clarke, the Home Secretary, an American male turned up in the cafe I visit for my breakfast of tea, nicotine and the daily paper. It wouldn't have been unusual but for the glare I received from a flat, stoney face and the intimidatory body language - exactly the same as someone who attempted to 'befriended' me over a six month period last year. I also noticed the same behaviour from various others through June to Aug 2004 when I was still living in London. I can only assume they must have trained together and/or America and Britain have exchanged information on psychological torture techniques, which is more than likely. My political history leaves me open to this I suppose but it must be costing them a fortune.

Everything I have been trying to do with this blog since starting it has been to re-iterate the need for extra-parliamentary, non-violent, mass political activity to remove those responsible for the instigation of the war - the paramount crime - from power. To find the widest unity possible amongst the poor, the oppressed and the disenfranchised to achieve this. It's why I promote the Declaration from the World Tribunal on Iraq as the top link on this blog. The principles and guidlines for action the WTI have put forward for the international anti-war movement is the only game in town for civil society in America and Britain.

So what do I do now? The following 15 posts are the manuscript. Some of it is excruciatingly difficult for me to re-read but somebody might get something from it. It could do with a bloody good edit and if there are any out there get in touch. Unless of course you think it totally destroys your political credibility being associated with it.

You didn't think I'd leave it there did you?

Empathy is not a Colour. Chapter 1

“Its cream and scum that rise.”
A Russian Proverb





It started up the Brow.

Blunt had had a fairly easy first spell. Short and fairly easy. Not to many pratts to have to deal with. He had worked out that one percent of London bus passengers were arseholes and ten percent the sort that made the day worthwhile with a please, a thank you and a smile. The rest were decent, quiet people trying to get to work, or shops, hospitals, cinemas and clubs, relatives, school, and all with the least hassle. The eighty-nine percent who helped humanity rub along.

Eight hundred people a day would go through his bus and eight would be foul. As if driving London traffic wasn't hard enough, he was sworn at, threatened with violence, spat at, by men, women, children, black, white, whatever. And to top it all, if robbed of the days fares the driver would have the amount he had taken in fares, taken from his wages by the company. Beaten up and robbed then shat on by the company.

Somewhere in London a bus driver will be assaulted today. He's seen as fair game. Just a bus. Not human but mere driver/bus and who can't respond to insult and disrespect because if reported, he would lose his job, income or worse. Prendergast, a driver out of Blunt's garage with a family to support and five years driving, had been confronted with racist abuse, vile and rabid, and he snapped, lost it, met the red mist. He was sent down for 18 months for GBH on one percent scum.

But that morning Blunt had a laugh at a passengers expense for a change. A young man, vain in his youth, had asked for a fare with a sneer and an Italian accent. Blunt liked Italy, enjoyed the hospitality but responded with a curt witticism, equating the youth with 'Il Cavalero', Italy's neo-fascist Prime Minister Berlusconi, the political buffoon of Europe. The Italian was visibly upset. A few stops later 'Il Cavalero' got off, strolled with a macho shoulder roll to the front of the bus and started giving Blunt the finger. As he was walking ahead, fingering while looking behind over his shoulder, Blunt and the bus watched, waited, gave him no sign, no warning. The Italian hit a lamp-post mid-stride. He didn't bounce but a ripple cascaded from head to toe. The whole bus heard the crack and rocked, mocking his embarrassment. It made for a laugh in the canteen during the break.

He was still enjoying the warmth of natural justice at the start of the second spell.

It was the first stop after taking over. He went through the usual routine, indicate, mirrors, ease up to the stop, handbrake, open back door, open front door, CCTV. Half a dozen passengers milled around - queues had vapourised eons ago - and started to board. A busy afternoon, Pensioners, women shopping and hauling kids, school students and the last, two young women. 16, 5 foot 7, or there abouts and still at school. The leading one, Fame Academy pretty and light skinned, flashed her pass and handed £1.00 to her friend for fare. She had a fierce glint in her eyes, her features sharp and glistening purple-black, handsome, proportioned, athletic and coiled. He thought he recognised her, but before it gelled he was hit with a blast of pre-meditated insult.

“Forty!” came out her mouth with all the bile, all the venom and spite usually reserved for the headlines attacking paedophiles in the News of the World. The Antipodean's vicious, racist press.

Putting on an ugly face she threw the £1 in the tray. Blunt had four hours ahead of him and didn't particularly want a ruck and stress this early on, so kept his response low key. Proportionality would be escalation.

“I would prefer you didn't throw your money in the tray”, he said with well concealed restraint.

Low key had no hope. Escalation was her aim. “I DIDN'T THROW IT".

Blunt still proceeded to get her ticket and change.

“Yes you did and why are you shouting?” He asked, starting to firm his voice. Gave her change and pointed to the ticket. As she went past the cab she spat out, “FUCK YOU.”

That was it for Blunt. He switched off the engine.

“This bus goes nowhere with you on it". The words following her up the stairs.

Blunt sat and waited. Not a murmur from the other passengers. An elderly black couple, pensioners in their grey haired dignity sitting very quite to his left, had taken in the scene. The young women could have been their grand-daughters. He thought they must be enjoying the boot on the other foot, having had this sort of abuse regularly for their last fifty years at least.

She came down a few minutes later demanding the 40p back. It was to late. The ticket machine only allows 60secs to annul a ticket. The 40p would have to come out of Blunt's pocket. No chance. He was not going to be insulted and abused then pay for the privilege. Her friend joined her, tense and aggressive, almost in tears and added to the noise.

A woman, black and in a blue dress, motherly, tried to intervene, sounding sympathetic to Blunt's plight.

“Stop doing this. Do you know what his licence is. It's his employment. His income.” The woman in blue pleaded. It had no impact what so ever on the young women.

What it did do was to bring a twenty-something black man wearing a black string vest into the melee. He came from upstairs and started to shout at the woman in blue.

“He's doing this to get out of a bad second spell. I know why he is doing this.” The black string vest shouted above the confusion. “You weren't even down here so can't know what happened”, Blunt tried to reason. Thinking the young women must have wound him up while upstairs.

The black string vest said, “I'm going to mash your face in. I'll be at your garage waiting for you to come off early and mash your face in. I know were your garage is. I know what you drivers are like.”

Blunt pressed Code Red, gave his location and asked for Police assistance. He then sat back, a bit stunned and waited while the passengers squabbled, the woman in blue still argueing his corner.

No police after five minutes so he pressed Code Red again. The din was getting louder if anything. This time when they responded he was more forceful in his demand for assistance.

“Can you hear what's going on down here. Get me some assistance before it really goes off!". He kept the mike open for thirty seconds so control could hear the cacophony.

“OK. They're on their way.” The TfL controller said finally recognising the seriousness of the situation.

The man in the black string vest got off the bus and came round to Blunt's window threatening again.

“I'm going to mash you up”, He said.

It was at this point that Blunt could finally see his eyes. They weren't wild from drugs or adrenalin, but clear and sharp, calculating. He was acting. Working? The Police arrived and he hurried away. The significance of the eyes wouldn't register for a few months. But it would.

All the while the pensioner couple remained seated absorbed in the mayhem, keeping council with their quite dignity.

Blunt didn't come off early but finished the spell. As he was driving through the gates back into the garage, Valerie Hancock was standing there with the youngest of her two daughters, Judith. 14 and painfully shy. Valerie was on permanent late shift. She worked rest days as often as she could and was always to be found hanging around allocations. The extra money always handy with two girls to raise on her own. He'd only ever seen the Hancock's in three's before.

Rachel, her oldest daughter was not with her. A thought occurred but got stuck. A flash of recognition had lit up a synapse in his brain, but instantly hit a plaque and was dissipated before it could materialise, exist, become concrete. But it would.

“Hello". Blunt called.

“How's your day been”, Valerie responded.

“Bloody awful”, he replied.

She tried to stiffle a giggle but failed.

Blunt put in an incident report the following day and made copies. One for the union branch's equal opportunities officer for her information. He gave another to the chair for it to be added to the union files.

He didn't know it then, but he was in a relapse. The first since the official diagnosis of multiple sclerosis six months before.

Poor Blunt. The next eight weeks would be the weirdest he ever experienced. No marijuana, could equal this. Highs and lows succeeding each other a minute, or an hour, an eon. He soared, euphoric amongst the stars, to the cutting edge of light and parted the curtain of time. Or he wallowed in a black hole of depression and the bone stretching pain at gravity's singularity.

But worst of all his personality regressed. He became needy. Fearful. Child like in his denials and his wants. Easy prey to be played with, be exploited, harmed and have his reputation trashed.

The storms would gradually ease. Not occur so often or be so intense. It allowed for short periods of rationality that got longer as time progressed. It was in these respites that the signals he noticed but ignored and the duplicitious signals he acted on, started to coalesce. The thoughts that had been blocked found ways through, connections were re-routed and bye-passed the plaques. They became concrete. Existed. But not a material force.

He began to make links from his time with the company and the incident. Fragments at first, building molecule by molecule to the certainty that they had organised the incident. The events of the day had been orchestrated. The onset of severe stress would release rogue prions to flood his central nervous system, attack the myelin. Make the attack acute. Viscious. It produced psychological storms and physical damage as his nerve cells scarred, disrupting the
transmission of electrical and chemical messages across the synapse.

They wanted rid of him and as damaged goods.

Blunt kept working for another six weeks, not realising that his auto-immune disease was active, when a hologram appeared in his eye. He knew then that he was in a relapse. The optical neuritis had told him. It occurred three days in a row. He went sick. It was the physical signs, which always came after the psychological disturbance, that had initially indicated he may have multiple sclerosis. Made him seek medical advice. The rogue prion attack showed itself with a vengence. The numbness down his left side deeped. A bit like a local anaesthetic before it finally wears off. This long ache had spread to his right arm. A patch on his back that flared was now larger and hotter. His balance was awry and he stumbled a lot. Only after this relapse would he recognise past episodes of psychological storms and the destruction they caused. The friends lost, the lovers spurned and the damage done. But then nobody knew he had multiple sclerosis till recently. What happened up the Brow and its aftermath was like nothing that had occured before.

They terminated his employement for health reasons sixteen weeks after the incident. There had been some re-myelation by then and he was heading toward remission, but Blunt was angry. Angry with eyes of blue hot steel and an ugly face. He knew he couldn't act rashly, so kept his council, didn't ruck when told they were terminating his employment, despite the provocation and the role of the man who dismissed him.

Empathy is not a Colour. Chapter 2

At Vauxhall Cross, in a new HQ building, all post-modern with a

thousand windows twitching, Elizabeth Boro and Jon Peters had

been called to a morning meeting with Protheroe, their Controller.

It was the same day that Blunt started his bus training and the

day after the Blair Government had taken the decision to support

an American invasion of Iraq. March 2002. The propaganda, the

lies, the surveillance and the dirty tricks were being put in place.


"You have a target." Was Protheroe's opening remark, "His names

Blunt and you have to learn to drive a London bus."


"What?" The surprised question came in unison.


"You heard. You have to learn to drive a bus. It has been

arranged that you start in April. If you fuck this assisgnment up then

you can get a real job as a bus driver. The target used to work for the

Communist Party and the files in front of you have everything you

need to know. Be back here in 4 hours after you have read it and

we will go through the operation. Don't leave the building with the

file." Protheroe walked to the door as he was finishing, indicating

that this stage of the meeting was over.


Elizabeth Boro and Jon Peters picked up the 2inch thick files and

headed for the canteen.


"Christ. My old man's a bus driver and its sent him fucking mad."

Peters said to Boro.


"Don't blaspheme." Elizabeth Boro had already decided that she

was going to put on a religious front for this job. It would keep a lot

of people away from her. She was beautiful. Not pretty. Beautiful.

Skin - red hued black burnished flawless. An oval mouth, small

with a curve in her upper lip not quite closing with the lower, the

peltrum hinting at infinite pleasures in a kiss. Fathomless jet-black

eyes deep as coal. To learn the secrets in those eyes would take

a life-time or two. And had done. Her walk and the swish of skirt

swung heads to an ass J-Lo would die for. Most men in the canteen

couldn't take their eyes from her and were jealous of Peters close

proximity. The women just looked in awe or with the green eyes of

envy.


He was pleased that at least this job meant he was working with her

again, though he knew he had no chance. The last time they had

operated as a pair she had kicked him in the balls for making an

advance. Her feminism came with steel capped boots.


"Well. What do you think?" Said Protheroe as the meeting

reconvened.


Peters was the first to respond. "He was done in Germany for

dope. Can't he just be picked up and done for suppling then

stuck in prison? It should be easy to fit him up."


"No. You've obviously not seen the obvious." Was Protheroe's

curt response. "Well Elizabeth?"


"I noticed that he seemed to have a nervous breakdown after the

break up of a relationship and took to stalking her. He is accessing

a lot of internet porn so I suppose I could hook him and get sex

crimes involved." She replied sneering at Peters.


"Exactly. But it's better than that. We now know that he has

multiple sclerosis and the event you referred to was a very severe

relapse. He didn't know he had it at the time and the diagnosis still

hasn't been confirmed but our medical experts are 99% sure. The

porn sites he is visiting on the Internet are free ones, so he has not

used his credit card. No kiddy stuff yet but maybe in time. Elizabeth

you hook him when we say, get him watched by sex crimes and

hopefully lifted, then we have discredit his politics as deviant and he

becomes fodder for the tabloids. A 'nonce' if he ever gets jailed.

Looking at his past we think he is a romantic so you probably won't

have to fuck this one."


Elizabeth Boro was relieved when Protheroe had uttered his last

sentence. Not that she had any qualms about fucking someone for

her controller. The job she was doing now was better than the life

of a sex-slave for the Nigerian gangsters who had originally brought

her to London. She was grateful that she had been saved from that

by the Secret Intelligence Services. The information about his

interest in porn made her skin crawl, reminded her of the old life and

what she was forced to do. The series of photographs of Blunt in the

file hadn't helped. They had shown that he was quite handsome when

younger but the latest depicted a tired, shop-soiled rogue and the

sex for her would just be mechanical, not enjoyable. She wanted to

enjoy her work.


"Peters, you will act as a decoy. The details still have to be sorted.

OK, you have a month between now and training which lasts a month,

so get to know the target as per the training manual, then report back

here in two months for the final briefing before joining Blunt's garage.

Goodbye, and pass the test. That's an order." Protheroe was impatient

to end themeeting. He had other operatives to brief and targets to

destroy.




“How have I got to here?” Elizabeth Boro was deep in introspection,

driving, crawling with the traffic and on auto-pilot heading for bus

driver training.



Born an Ujowbi in Warri 37 years ago and named Rosemary Oritse.



For hundreds of years the Ujowbi had lived in the Niger delta around

Warri.



The town was founded in the 15th Century by the Oba of Benin. When

Portugese and Dutch slave traders arrived later that century they used

Warri as their base. The Ujowbi collaborated with them, broke with

the anamistic religion of their ancestors and converted to Catholicism.

The break wasn't absolute, much to the chagrin of the Portuguese

missionaries but they was a realism attached to their obscurantism, and

they rationalised an acceptance to this Africanisation of Christ. It was

the age of discovery and they weren't in Lisbon or Rome but in Warri

at the edge of their known world. Some of the Ujowbi's traditional

beliefs and practises were squeezed between the cracks, the crevices

of doubt that inhabit the acceptance to a new spiritual culture. It is still

quite common for men to bring a log of wood in tribute to the family of

a new born girl and seek her betrothal. As long as they were not

cousins of the same clan and with a common ancestor - a taboo stronger

than European familial incest - the suitor stood a chance.



Collaboration with Europeans had been a useful political strategy in

maintaining some control by the Oba over Ujowbiland and in the

continual struggles against, and shifting alliances with, the Yoruba in

the west and north and the Ibo in the east. Great politicians and

warriors, the Ujowbi.



200 hundred years of growth and increased wealth from collaboration

helped Warri win independence from Benin in the 17th century, and

with it came the elevation of an Oba of Warri.



When the British supplanted the Portugese and Dutch in the

nineteenth century, they found the Ujowbi easy to deal with. Four

centuries of being told that black people were inferior had left its

pyschological mark on them. They came to believe it and lost any

semblance of self-esteem.


The super-profits extracted from the slave trade and its denigration

of a people to the level of the unter-menschen, the sub-human,

had been invested in the reseach and development that produced

the Industrial Revolution in Britain. By the time Britain had abolished

slaving in its colonial territories it was the pre-eminent industrial and

Imperial Power. It could afford to forego slavery's profits, and this

helped with cementing the collaboration of the Ujowbi to British

interests.



Collaboration had been successful for 400 years - a long time in

politics. But then, towards the end of the 19th century and the

heightening of imperial rivalries between France, Germany and

Britain the agreements of the Berlin West Africa Conference in

1884-85 were formally signed in an attempt to avert war. Africa was

divvied up, spheres of influence agreed and lines drawn on maps

that sundered great tribes, extensive nations, the millenial culture

of ancestors. Official colonialism now existed. No African chief from

any African tribe was ever consulted. Not the Oba of Warri.



Collaboration was now redundant, stood in the way of maximising the

short term profits demanded by laissez faire's fraudulent economics.



Victorian Britain acted. To consolidate her hold on the vast tracts of

West Africa ceeded to her by other European white states, the

Imperial Mother's military came out to play her favourite game -

Slaughter & Rape - and turned on the Ujowbi. Stole the Ujowbi's

cultural artifacts to display as booty in the British Museum. Exiled the

Oba after a rigged trial. Banned the centuries old democracy of the

Ujowbi's politics and forbade negotiations or treaties with Yoruba and

Ibo. They were now mere administrators of their land following the

orders of the Royal Niger Company. Collaborating with the Victorian

British ended this way where ever the British went. A once great

civilisation, The Ujowbi were reduced to a small corner of Nigeria

and subject to a foreign Queen. With a very British sense of gallows

humour they named Warri a 'Protectorate'.



“Why?” The Oba had asked.


“Because I can.” Replied the Imperial Mother.



By the time Rosemary Oritse was born, Warri was a big city. A

decade before her birth, oil had been discovered in the delta and

Warri had grown expotentially. It was already a major transshipment

point between the River Niger and the Atlantic. Shipping rubber,

palm products, cocoa, groundnuts, hides and skins. An energetic

industrial sector was developing, assembling bicycles, processing

rubber and repairing ships. Oil came with a rush and at a cost. Great

slums grew on the promise of work and food, the dream of the poor

and hungry. Sanitation couldn't meet demand. The retching stench of

sewage drapped the streets. It flowed with the mud to the creeks and

rivers, mingling with the seeping oil, the 'black tears'. Polluting.

Fishermen lost their fish. Tilapia and catfish were decimated and

fishermens families added their numbers to the city slums. Refuse

could hardly be called collected, more like dumped on the nearest

empty plot. Dogs scavenged and vultures circled casting shadows.

Gastrointestinal disease flourished, some years it scythed down a

years cohort of children.



She was lucky as a child. Warri is in a wet, low-lying marshy region

and home to the Anopheles mosquito. The drone, the stilleto

harbringer of malaria. It kills one child in three. Not one day would

pass without her seeing some poverty striken human writhing at the

side of the road after an attack. Their malnourished body wracked

with the tremors and deliriums of the disease, lying in pools of sweat.

Ice would course through their veins and arteries as their bones

calved icebergs amongst the body's soft tissue. It didn't matter that

the temperature was 40c - they were wrapped in a glacier. As the

tremors leave them they would be weak, lie were they where for

hours or days, pathetic and benumbed, unable to call for help.



Six months before she was born an Ujowbi in Warri there had been a

coup followed by a counter-coup in Nigeria. Six months after she was

born, civil war broke out. A hundred miles to the east of Warri,

Biafra had seceeded from Nigeria. During the previous twelve months

tens of thousands of Ibo had been returning to the ancestral home in

the eastern delta from all over Nigeria, running scared after the

Hausa in the far north had slaughtered 20, 000 of them. Muslim versus

Animist/Christian, again. This was partly the reason for the

secession and war, but oil was its driving force. Just as it was the

main reason behind the military coups. When ever oil seeps to the

surface it brings it's 'black tears' to cultivate corruption. Not wealth

but poverty it's footprint.



Within a month of the outbreak of war, the city had been raided and

overrun by the Biafran/Ibo Army. Two and half months of terror, her

mother, Isabella remembered. Col Benjamin Adekunle's 'Black

Scorpion' Division drove the Biafran army out of Warri. Then

another slaughter of the Ibo began. 5, 000 were murdered by the

'Black Scorpions' and local mobs in Warri, Sapele, Agbor, Benin.....

It didn't matter if an Ibo family had been in Warri for generations,

lived next door to Ujowbi for years and had broken bread together,

or had intermarried. They were still Ibo and Ibo were Biafrans, the

cause of her family's terror. She didn't know of the pogram at the

time being only six months old and carried on her mother's back. She

still doesn't fully know. No Ujowbi ever mentions it, though she has

a memory trace from two years later, a distant echo of being scared

at her mother's furious voice.



“We didn't kill enough of them, ” Isobella screamed as Warri was

bombed by mercenaries flying for Biafra.



The words are not exact (when is childhood memory ever exact?),

but they carried her mother's sentiment. That and the animosity her

brothers and sister had for Ibo, infected her over the years.



With access to the sea denied by the Nigerian Army and Navy over a

million Ibo would be starved to death by the end of the war. In the all

to human words of Col Adekunle, “I want to see no Red Cross, no

Caritas, no World Council of Churches, no Pope, no missionary and

no UN delegation. I want to prevent even one Ibo from having even

one piece to eat before their capitulation. We shoot at everything

that moves and when our troops march into Ibo territory, we shoot

at everything even at things that do not move....”



Into this she was born, lucky to survive her infancy. But not so lucky

with her family. She was betrothed two days after she was born.



Her father, Umukoro Oritse was a business man and tribal politician.

A wheeler-dealer in export-import who made more than he lost when

loose with the law and scruple. Like the British, the military regime

banned Ujowbi politics, but his intellectual grasp of the complex

interaction of clans and families, of who was obligated to whom and

why, which clans were fueding, and how to use had been noted prior

to the coups. He had moved quickly through the heirarchy. Making

alliances and deals. Building business on the way. Enemies came with

his looseness for the law and scruple.



He had read the signs following the coups and knew that his enemies

would attempt to undermine him. His alliances were good and strong

in Ujowbiland but he lacked contact in Lagos and thats where the real

danger now lived. To ensure his business' survived he needed a

powerful ally there, and found one. A cousin of his was obligated to

by Akinyemi Ola. It was a small obligation only capable of an

introduction when passed onto him. But that was all he needed.

Empathy is not a Colour. Chapter 3

He thought himself all of 22 until he looked in the mirror. There he

saw a kind of reality. His eyes were still sharp blue, the slight

dullness at the edges from the one to many spliffs the night before

fast disappearing. The face had enough creases to give it some

character and deepen the mark of his lineage. Typically English - a

hotch-potch of Anglo-Saxon, Celt, Roma, and Jewish features that

somehow fell agreeably once. He hoped that the closely clipped salt

and pepper beard and greying temples offered a distinguished touch.

He wasn't sure of that. His weight was good at the moment, at his

lightest since twenty-two, but not as lithe. His handsome 22 was not

before him and it was only now that he knew he was handsome then.



“Fuck. I'm fifty”, he admitted. Then, totally unconsciously as he

turned from the honest mirror, withdrew the confession and

reverted to thinking 22.



“Why am I up at 6.30? Oh, of course". Today is important. It's the

start of his training as a London bus driver.



“How had I got here?” He wondered while getting dressed, and his

thoughts turned to the long-stowed cargoe of his story and a

neglected re-appraisal.



Seven years a soldier. From 15 to 22. A boy soldier in the RAMC

untill posted to the regulars at 18. What a con. He'd already done

three years as a boy soldier before the nine year contract kicked in.

His old-man must have known when he told him to sign without

reading. But being to big to hit anymore, his dad had to get him out

of the house somehow and lying by ommission comes easy. Not that

he was an angel. Far from it. The catalyst for the forced enlistment

had been an assault on a class-mate at school and, following his

expulsion, a little spree of shop smash 'n' grab - larceny in the

language of the court. The class-mate was hospitalised and he wasn't

the first or last to feel Blunt's temper. But he was sensitive boy for

all that. The macho stance hid his shyness and lack of confidence.



The last year at school had been awful. He had made the wrong

choice. It should have been art with his line, perspective, a pencil

and a brush. Instead he crumbled under the father's insistance on

science, despite the evidence of the termly reports. Maths was not

bad but chemistry, the periodic table. Yeah well. The only thing he

learnt about physics was that it was heavy and/or light relatively.

Cutting up dogfish in biology was very interesting, but the teacher's

casual violence - a knuckle to the top of the head - was not. A

years failing culminating in expulsion from a Grammar and appearance

in court. He had found Dylan by then. 'The Times They Are A

Changin' spoke directly to him, gave him justification to rebel. But

his rebellion was not constructive, not thought through, more

self-destructive.



Ridicule and pain are the bully's refrain. Ridiculed at five the first time

he opened one of his fathers books. A book without pictures only

words.



“You can't read. You're just a fool.”



“That's for nothing. Wait till you do something”, accompanied by a

clout round the ear and laughter, was the usual greeting when his

father came in from work.



The father probably thought he was being funny, but for Blunt it was

fifteen years of fear interspersed with times of terror. Beaten with

anything to hand - broom or belt - for some minor infraction of a new

rule invented to justify a loss of temper. The father's anger regulated

the family atmosphere.



Blunt's father came from a mining family. Treorchy, the Rhonnda

Valley. When four he lived the General Strike and then the aftermath

of the miners defeat. The grinding pinch of poverty. The dramatic

narrowing of horizons. The depression. His mother handed out the

beatings, the only way she understood of holding a seven member

family together in such circumstance. She learnt it from her father

who had been 'in service' with it's attendant poverty, and done the

same to her. Welsh, and his father sang well in an operatic tenor,

but could not stand on a stage. What dreams he had of conquering

stage fright were lost in the brutalities of WWII North Africa.



When he was thirty, Blunt's parents informed him that he had an

older brother. His mother had had a boy by an American GI just after

WWII. Kicked out of the family home for bearing a bastard, she had

initially found work as a Capstan Lathe Operator. That didn't last

long. Skilled craft needed for the war effort was no longer for

women. Not when the Boys came home victorious from war. She

could then only find night work and all her earnings went on rent and

childcare. She hardly ever saw him. After eighteen months she had to

give the boy away, isolated and shattered. A cousin had agreed to

take him on the condition that she never made contact but that he

would be told who his birth mother was when old enough. She never

made contact and the cousin never told the boy his heritage. In the

event it was obvious he was different. He did a search and renewed

contact thirty-one years later to her great joy.



Stripped of her first child by a cruel father, Blunt's mother could be

social again and three months later she married his father. A year

after losing one boy she gave birth to another. She received

occassional reports from her sisters about the boy, his progress and

health, and the news would always help raise her spirits. Make her

grin. Lift her head from the drudge. She was always loving, but it

was at these times Blunt adored his mother and he didn't understand

why. The boy, David, was academically successful at school. Has

become a Professor and Barrister/Partner in the Inns of Court.



At thirty Blunt understood his mother more. A husband who, with

mental and physical bullying dominated her environment. Left her

marooned. Without the deep tactile affection she craved and lonely

with her grief at loss, made for a psychological cleft. She was

distraught, left home when he was 4 and 5. Walked out on her

husband and son and daughter. Her emotional needs and undoubted

intellect stymied by circumstance and men, and desperate for a way

out. The children were introduced to fostering. Each time she

returned after a few weeks having no where else she could be. Finally

falling into the addiction of 'mothers little helpers' . Her twenties a

haze. It took hospital admissions to get her clean and fostering for

her children again and again. 'Mothers little helpers', a misnomer for

a straight jacket. Prescription drugs issued by lazy GP's in their

billions, that confined millions of emotionally and intellectualy

frustrated young mothers in a chemical cosh. 'Man works and woman

looks after the home and family', was the mantra of the times. If

women found it hard to restrict themselves to the role then there is

something wrong with them.



“You are not real women.

You are ill.

Take the drugs.

Be quiet.

Accept your lot".



The revolution of the contraceptive pill came to late for his mother.



Being clean didn't last long. Her thwarted dreams no less painful, an

alcoholic in her thirties. She finally succeeded in getting dry in her

fifties and became a nationally respected councillor to junkies and

alcoholics. A former 'Valley of the Dolls' wife gaining satisfaction

from using her intellect at last. Her becoming had taken a long time.

He has been proud of his mum these last twenty years.



To his father, David was a parallel child for Blunt to be judged by. A

competition he didn't know he was in. Tests he didn't know he was

taking and with no chance of passing. He may have been his father's

first child, but he was the second of his mother's. Anger instilled by

his own mother and jealousy of an American GI fuelled the father's

violence, made vicious when co-inciding with good news about David.

The frustrated tenor's songs echoingly corrupted to the wailing,

screaching agonies of his son.



Through families and down generations, violence has a habit of

replicating itself. Blunt lived in fear until 10 and his puberty. Anger

and violence reared their heads amongst the hormones. His sister

was the first to get it. He tried to fuck her. The nearest and

weakest to him being passed the baton. Protheroe terrified his sister,

fucked up her life and the abuse only stopped when they were given

their own bedrooms three months after it started. Guilt has been his

constant companion since. His father has only recently found out

about the 'incestuous' son. The final failure. Has banned him from

ever “stepping foot in his house". Barring Blunt from his mother. His

father still does not get it. His own culpability never questioned. As

dogmatic in his self-righteousness as the Stalinism he learnt in The

Valleys.




They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

This Be The Verse Philip Larkin




Blunt's mother had insisted on the Royal Army Medical Corp not the

infantry and the killing. Up in court the day of his enlistment. In front

of the beak at 10.30am, on the train by 11.30am. The Magistrate was

the wife of the Headmaster who had expelled Protheroe a month

before. Doing her civic duty, she sentenced him to a conditional

discharge for the smash 'n' grab'. Odd the ways of educators and

justice.



The army was an escape of sorts. From one bully to Ranks of them,

but, in a contradiction to the army's rationale, with less violence.



He indulged his passion for rugby. Rugby, the premier contact sport.

Short - 5' 6”, and stocky - 11st 7lb, upper body strength, a low

centre of gravity and short, fast-twitch muscle fibres make for a good

scrum-half. But still three inches to short and two stone to light for

an excellent scrum-half. His talent was in his balance and explosive

speed over the first ten yards. Practise and play brought skill.

Side-steps off either foot, a dummy out of either hand. A flat spin

pass to left or right or reverse. A knock down hit in the tackle.

Good times. And respect amongst the men. His violence hadn't left

him but was being constrained, channelled.



Still a virgin at 18 (the attempted fucking of sister didn't really count

in his reckoning). What humiliation. Still untested by love. Still not a

man really. Then came Christine from Llantrisant, with love and the

minting of a man. From her he learnt to give, engage his finer

emotions and his fumblings started a journey toward refinement.



Six months of blissful pride as he danced around beauty and her smile.

Snatching sex in hidden corners at a rush. She taught him sex was

good. All moist and synchronised, pushing, wrapping, gripping,

sweating, tasting. But rare the chance to sleep the night and find that

point where time slows, extends, stretches. All six months. The

army posted his nurse, tenderer to love, to hot and humid Singapore.

He was left alone amongst dull amd monosyllabic men in the

oppressive drizzle of a Woolwich winter. They wrote for a while.

Eventually word came back that she had found another to love her.

Never to meet again sharing smiles. Never skin to skin again.



Routine and rugby filled the vacumn. After a while he found himself

again looking for love. One-night stands had made for passing fun and

a gradual easing of grief, but not love.



Not long after losing Christine from Llantrisant and at 24hrs notice he

made aquaintance with Kenya. Emergency medical cover for the

Coldstream Guards on a two month jungle and bush exercise. Their

Medical Sergeant had broken his leg skiing, poor sod. Lucky Blunt.



The equatorial sun was fierce. Sharp pulsing daggers of light flaying

any tender white skin exposed in their path. One Guardsman, thicker

than most, didn't listen about the need for gradual exposer to the

Kenyan sun - shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow for only ten

minutes on the first full day, twenty minutes the next day and so on.

Thirty minutes after taking off his shirt on the first full day in

Nanyuki, the Guardsman's back was one big blister. Blunt drained it

with the biggest syringe in the kit, strapped the injury then put the

Guardsman on a charge of 'self-inflicted injury'. What a pratt. The

nick-name, 'Blister', stuck.



One night while he was sleeping in the medical tent, the tent was

stolen from above him. He woke to the so-so-high African skies.

Bliss. Then his brain worked and he cursed, “Bastards". He spent all

morning trying to get a replacement, but to late. A dust-devil, a

miniature tornado, a whirllygig tore through the medical centre and

scattered all the dressings, drugs, equipment and notes across the

arid plains of Samburu. The vast Kenyan bush. Hours to reclaim or

bin. Did he get a bollocking and did the squaddies laugh! He found

out a few weeks later that the Blister had done it. Got his own back

for all the kitchen pans he had had to scrub as punishment for his

self-inflicted injury. Not so thick.



The so-so-high African skies and open, generous people humbled him.

He adored Kenya and the ochre of its earth but was appalled by the

poverty and embarrassed at the stupidity inherent in the soldiers

racism. The soldiers were rich by comparison and young women

would prostitute themselves to it, desperate to fed families. Most

Guardsmen who took some pleasure there didn't see this. They were

just “jungle-bunnies to fuck and cheaper than the whores around

Chelsea Barracks".



Blunt will admit he took some comfort there. The 7 day course of

sulphadimidine he took after cured the soft sore.



Away from Nanyuki in the bush at Smalls Farm, an elderly Kikuyu

woman was brought to the medical tent with a badly gashed leg. A

machette had sliced to the bone and left a six inch long wound on her

left calf that needed a lot of detailed and deep muscle stitching. The

injury was at least three days old. She had walked for two days to

get there. A tough Kikuyu matriarch.



A Sandhurst trained bum-fluffed 2nd Lieutenant ordered him not to

treat her. It took a lot of persuading, but finally he managed to get

the use of a landrover to transport her to the regional hospital near

Nanyuki. It saved her another days walk. She never uttered a word

throughout, but the reproach in her tearless eyes at the callousness

of the Sandhurst trained bum-fluffed 2nd Lieutenant remembered

Mau-Mau and spoke thunder.



Part of his job was to regularly check the refuse dump and ensure it

was not a health hazard. It was just a bloody big hole in the ground

where all the kitchen refuse was dumped. It would be covered with

earth when they left. The MO accompanied him on his tour one day.

Fuck. They found a Kikuyu elder in the pit loading up with food. With

the usual profligacy of the army, whole fresh loafs had been discarded

that morning after breakfast. The poverty of pasturalism make people

take where they can find. The MO though was having none of it and

started yelling at the Kikuyu elder ordering him out of the pit and

away from bread. The look in the eye of that affronted, disrespected

Kikuyu elder remembered Mau-Mau and spoke thunder. The MO was

as one with the Sandhurst trained 2nd Lieutenant and expats. Where

his Hippocratic Oath and his attention to the whole man.



She was petite with wide-set ice-blue eyes. Auburn freckles where

her hair had flecked her face, a constant smile and always in demand.

A Womens Royal Army Corp ambulance driver for the A&E where he

worked when with 12 Coy back in Woolwich. Effervescent Fitz. A

Tyke Dyke who came to him thinking he was the man who could make

her straight and kill the guilt welded to her soul. He married her out

of some twisted macho logic. Three tempetuous months and it was

over.



Blunt had finished a Casualty night shift and returned to the flat to

find another just leaving. A lesbian lover/friend who had stayed the

night by the state of the bed. Thwack. He hit Fitz. That was the end.

Still emotionally immature, caught in the cleft of being a John Wayne

man and sensitivity, he had failed her. Little did he know then that it

would be another four years till confident enough to kiss again and

that a pattern to his relationships had started. Difficult women would

be his attraction, short term the pattern but never to hit a woman

again.



She changed him, his psych and dress. He started wearing Levis. Still

not divorced and Fitz still in the closet. Odd the ways of love and

sexuality.



It seemed every time he lost a love he won a posting.



The UN and medical cover to the Royal Irish Rangers on Aphrodite's

stunning Cyprus. The failed lover on the island of love. Cyprus

where the Irish taught him how many ways there are to drink and that

Orangemen were wrong. Cyprus, an island divided in itself and

policed by soldiers from another. Cyprus slowly-slowly awaiting a

Turkish invasion and a new twist to the antique relationship between

Greeks and Turks.



The 'Troubles' in Northern Ireland permiated the Rangers. Made

them fractious. Understandable when considering the composition of

the regiment. The other ranks were raised from both north and

south, with the catholic south having a slight majority. The

Regimental Police, those that run the 'Glass House' and regimental

discipline, were Protestants from the North. Except the senior Glass

House Sergeant who was from Cork. A Catholic, and very proud that

his father had volunteered as a fascist Blue Shirt serving Franco in his

war against Spanish democracy. The Officers were Anglo/Irish of

course.



The Battalion HQ at Limassol was build by Kitchener. With the

imagination of military intelligence it was called Kitchener Barracks

and the architect had built the POW camp in The Great Escape. All

wood on a concrete plinth. Cold and uncomfortable. The church was

multi-denominational and also built of wood. One sectarian

Regimental Policeman decided that he didn't like Taigs worshipping in

the same place as Prots, so burnt it down. Fucking nuts. Court

Martialled to six months imprisonment in Colchester's Military

Correction Training Centre and soldier on. The worst of all

outcomes for him - he was hoping to get kicked out of the army.

For once military intelligence got it right. It was preferrable to keep

him soldiering than let loose on the streets of Belfast.



The latrines were 8ft deep thunder boxes. Emptied once a week by a

local Cypriot farmer with his sludge gulper. The stench within a

hundred yards of him was acrid. Destroyed the sense of smell for the

day. He was paid to collect it and fed this Irish shit to his Cypriot

fields, turning Guiness into wine. A fucking genius.



Blunt lost a man in Limassol. A heart attack. A twenty-two years

service man on his last posting before retirement and a pension. 42

and his heart goes. Despite the pumping and mouth to mouth for an

hour, he lost him. The autopsy revealed a massive myocardial

infarction and no matter what he did, he would have lost him. It

didn't assuage his guilt much. What did was another soldier saying

with pride,



“No matter where we go around the world, no matter how long we

stay, the Royal Irish Rangers always leave someone.”



He felt drawn into part of a tradition and the guilt slowly dissipated.



His violence surfaced again. Two bottles of cheap Cypriot brandy and

Blunt could kill the world. Not the world but a fellow medic was the

recipient of his fists. A supercillious, arrogant pratt of a

lance-corporal. No excuse though and 28 days in the Guard House cells

under the authority of the Catholic fascist from Cork.



At the end of the six month tour the Rangers were relieved by one of

the Parachute Regiments. This was a few months after Bloody Sunday

and the massacre of unarmed demonstrators on the streets of Derry

by the Paras. The advance guard who came to secure stores and sign

the hand over, had a torrid time. Three of them were 'captured' one

night and thrown down the deep trench latrine. The Farmer hadn't

been for six days and they weren't found till morning when the sludge

gulper turned up. One of them was very ill and rushed to hospital but

made a recovery. They were subsequently charged for being late on

parade. The stench hung on them for a while, creating an invisible

bubble that no one dared penetrate. They had only themselves as

company. Blunt had to monitor them for a while, ensuring they

recovered and were disease free. Everybody else had refused to

enter the nasal exclusion zone.



From Nicosia a sojourn to Israel and Jerusalem. He hobbled around

Jerusalem with his leg in plaster. He'd broken his foot playing rugby

for the Rangers against the army hospital in Dhekelia. Typical. He's

playing for the Irish against old team-mates from Woolwich and

breaks his foot in Cyprus. But three weeks later he's in Jerusalem.



It was the first time he had seen the ancient Medina in a Middle

Eastern city, and he was stunned. No word he'd read, no film or

picture he'd watched or seen, no sound he'd heard had prepared him

for this. In the narrow lanes the cacophony, the babel of voices near

overwhelmed him. The animated cadences of barter; the running

giggle of children weaving in and out, in and out the throng; the

ubiquitous laughter and the occassional shrill arguement when all

combined, put in the mix, contained an antique rhythm that gave the

city its vibrant beat. Lock-up shop after lock-up shop lined the lanes

in ranks. Keffiyahed and jalaba'd Palestinians, smiling stall holders,

were looking to deal, to commerce. Shafts of light like shards of

mirrored glass danced across their wares. His excited eyes darted

here and there unable and unwilling to settle. They leapt to a glint of

lapis lazuli caressed by a beam, snapped at a flash of bronze fish,

sprung to a swirl of gold thread blazing through a bolt of turquoise

cloth. Exotic aromas from every known spice and herb had him

salivating in unconditioned reflex. Barrels of thyme and mint, ginger

and cardoman and chilli, cumin and coriander. His tongue has never

been the same since. The soft sensuality of camel leather crafted into

bags, saddles and belts seduced his fingers into constant strokes.

'This city belongs to all humanity and their every sense', he thought

enthralled by its vitality.



But this is a land at war. The negotiation for space is conducted with

the tank, the bullet and the bomb, the Bible, the Torah and the

Qur'an. Animosity and assume-the-worst is the atmosphere between

Jew and Muslim and Christian. Gaza and the West Bank under illegal

occupation is patrolled by fundamentalist settlers with machine guns.

Like Scripture - Dangerous.



Any residual religiosity died here. Here in the Holy Land. A land and

a city where three words collide. Bible, Torah, Qur'an.

Human-made words cynically exploited by theocratic fascists to justify

the imposition of an absolutist world view and the murder of 'other'.

Paper tectonic plates throwing up great volcanoes, that spew out

intolerance as a shroud of toxic words choking progress around the

world. Intellectually vaquous ravings. Mumbo-jumbo.



I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
where I used to play on the green,

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.

Garden of Love William Blake

Empathy is not a Colour. Chapter 4

Elizabeth Boro and Jon Peters had passed the bus driving test to

the relief of Protheroe. He didn't have to reorganise.


"Well done." He had said on their arrival for the next briefing. "Peters,

it has been arranged that within the next couple of months you will

be relieved for your break from the bus by Blunt. We want you to 'sell

on', recycle a used ticket just before the change over. An Inspector

for the bus company will get on the bus the next stop that Blunt makes

after taking over. It will be obvious that Blunt was not responsible but

it should act as a decoy for Elizabeth. You will be sacked and back in

here for another job.


"Elizabeth, you will bide your time. Blunt will at some point approach

you. He is not slow at coming forward when he sees a beautiful woman.

Be very cool to him and try and involve the other women in garage.

You know, disparage him to them. We will not be acting against him

until next year then we want you to hook him. OK any questions?"

Elizabeth Boro was the first to respond. "It sounds quite easy, but

what is multiple sclerosis?"


"It's an auto-immune disease of the central nervous system. The

bodies defence mechanism against disease has turned on the body

and is attacking it. In this case the brain and spine. He goes nutty

when in a severe relapse." Said Protheroe. "OK thats the end of the

briefing. Go and do it."


Both Elizabeth Boro and Jon Peters got up and left. Peters was

pleased he would only be driving a bus for a few months.


Elizabeth/Rosemary's thoughts turned to her history.


Umukoro Oritse had heard of Akinyemi Ola. Whereas he was loose

with the law and scruple, Akinyemi Ola bought the law and had never

made acquaintance with scruple. Ola, as his name, was wealthy. A

Lagos mobster with a veneer of respectability from a semi-legitimate

bus business. He controlled the city's prostitution and had a

substantial interest in the nascent marijuana export business. Now

55, Akinyemi Ola had stayed atop the heap for the last 15 years,

from colony to independence to military rule, by applying the three

rules of gangsterism. Have enough thugs to keep enemies at bay and

'friends' subdued. Buy police and politicians. And luck.



Pre-independence had been fairly easy for Ola to progress as mobster.

The Yoruba administrators that he corrupted had originally thought

that they were helping undermine the colonial power and speed

independence. It didn't take long to realise otherwise and that what

saying anything could mean. The cash helped dull the conscience of

most.



A rumour about one conscience striken clerk with the Lagos

transport department became legend. Travelled the bye-ways, the

open sewered high-ways. Ran along the quicksilver - the rapid

changing tongues of Lagos' slums.



At the end of a days work, as the story goes, the clerk went to his

immediate superior to confess his part in a licencing scam that helped

put one of Ola's bus competitors out of business. His boss listened

then suggested it would be better to speak to the boss' boss in the

morning as he didn't have the authority to deal with such a serious

accusation or the clerk's error of judgement. That was the white

boss' responsibility. The rumour has it that the conscience stricken

clerk and his whole family; wife and children, mother and father,

sisters and brothers and nieces and nephews, uncles and aunts, the

ubiquitous cousins - his whole extended clan throughout Yorubaland

- were disappeared that night. Everybody knew the conscience

striken clerk but nobody could recall his name. The Lagos transport

department hadn't reported anybody missing from work, which,

unintentionally helped fuel the rumour. 'They're all corrupted and

scared by Akinyemi Ola', was hurried along in whispers. The clerk

was urban myth, embroidered with each re-tellers phobias. He had

crossed Akinyemi Ola so his family were feed to the pigs, buried in a

refuse dump or after being skinned alive were staked out as carrion

for hyenas and vultures to squark, squabble and laugh over. In Lagos

people spoke Akinyemi Ola's name in awe and fear. Or not at all.

The rumours served Akinyemi Ola so well it could be thought he had

instigated them.



Ola's string of girls traded services for information or just passed on

a stupid policeman's casual remark about being up early for a raid. But

Akinyemi Ola's prize corruptee and informant had been a British

police officer seconded from the Mother country to the Nigeria Police

Force. He had, bold as brass, walked into Ola's office at the bus

company unannounced and in uniform. He had dumped his escort

outside and ordered everybody in the office except Ola to join them.

He then proceeded to offer Akinyemi Ola a deal. He would take 5%

of the profits from the prostitution in return for information of any

planned raids on Ola's brothels. It came as a shock to Ola and he was

suspicious. He mumbled something about being a legitimate business

man, at which point the police officer interrupted and pointed out

that he was not asking for a cut from his marijuana business but he

could be helpful, or not, at it's destination when his secondment

finished. Ola was getting worried that this could be a sting originating

from London. He would have to stall, make enquiries.



Dai Jones, a Valleys lad moved to London, was unusually slim and tall

for someone with Welsh antecedents. The gait of his six foot frame

more a slither than a stride. He had risen to the rank to Detective

Sergeant, two rungs up the ladder in the Met's Flying Squad. But that

would be as far as he could climb. The Nigeria Police Force

secondment was a 'punishment' posting. There were questions

about a failed raid he was involved in that had caused political

embarrasment to the Met. The target, a notorious London firm, had

to have been tipped off to have escaped. Nothing pointed to him

directly, he was to astute for that. It was all conjecture and no hard

evidence, hence secondment not prosecution. His innocent minions

had been transferred to Uniform and Traffic with marked records and

reputations fucked.



A quick learner marked for fast-track promotion, Jones' 5 year

service had taught him well the ways of the force and how to

manipulate it. If his superiors had known the depth of his corruption;

the bungs, the lost evidence, the re-selling of drugs and the fit-ups

that trailed a slime stain his past 3 years in the Flying Squad, they

would have locked him in Pentonville, leave him alone with the

convicts and let their justice for ex-cops take its course.



What prats they were Jones had thought three months on. Two years

secondment in Nigeria and he could do what he liked on his return.

The lead up to independence made for many opportunities and it

hadn't taken long to identify Ola as the one to approach and start the

exploitation and graft.



He could see by the body language - crossed arms, crossed legs and

cold fixed eyes - the suspicion in Ola at his offer. He suggested

that Ola make enquiries about him and he would call, not visit in a

month for an answer.



When Jones had left Ola hit the phone, arranged a tail on Jones and

spoke to his most senior contact in the Nigeria Police Force, a

Sergeant in admin, to get what information he had. Ola had never

previously taken much interest in the colonial police officers before

because they were not as desperate for the money. They didn't have

to shake-down the poor to get a living wage. Ola took pride

in the belief that his corruption was doing a social service for the

poor by keeping the poorly paid black police off their backs. He was

the original Nigerian Robin Hood, or so he liked to deluded himself

occasionally. And anyway, he thought his network kept him up to

date on anything the white officers said and what plans they had that

could affect his operations. His Sergeant told him enough to interest

him, not whet his appetite as such but generate the hint of a

possibility. He gave the Sergeant a dressing down, verbally abused

him because he, Akinyemi Ola had to ask for the information.



The other colonial officers seemed to keep a distance from Jones.

This was the way with new boys, but it only lasted for a week or so

before they were drawn into the force's white camraderie. With

Jones it hadn't happened after three months. He was abrupt,

disrespectful and rude to his Nigerian colleagues just the same as the

others. But the Sergeant had overheard a conversation a while ago

about the force getting a 'right bastard, but nothing provable' from

London. He didn't get a name, but Jones' arrival date seemed to fit.

Dai Jones' reputation had arrived before him.



Akinyemi Ola's last call was to his second son, 25 year old Akin,

ordering him to the office. Akin Ola ran the thugs, the warrior

enforcer of his father's will in Lagos. Five foot nine, thirteen stone

solid, fearless when needed and intelligent enough to know when and

when not to fight. A flashy dresser, he took his style from Harlem.

The zoot suit king of Lagos and a Roue. A charming and ruthless

young man when following his dick. He was partial to a joint.



Akinyemi Ola told his second son that he was being sent to London to

visit his uncle Omotunde and his third son, Amari, to convey

instructions and bring back a report. He had two weeks. Akin was

told in no uncertain terms that he would have to change his attire for

the visit. Conservative business suits. It cut across the flamboyant

grain but this was London and business, not Lagos and enforcement.

No arguement. He would have preferred going to New York to visit

Adan, his older brother and Akinyemi Ola's first son. He could have

packed the zoot suits for forays in Harlem, his cultural capital.



Amari Ola had been sent to London 6 months before to help his uncle

with the British arm of his father's prostitution and dope business.

More cerebral than his brother and as ruthless as his father. 22 and

six-foot-one, he did circuits for an hour each day. Fit and strikingly

handsome with a deep red-black hue. Amari could become a

formidable enemy. Already his friendships were transactional and

political. He favoured the classical lines of Italian suits and silk shirts

to Akin's loud Black-Americana. A broad face and high forehead, his

right eye slightly squint, disconcerted those he first met. It gave him

an advantage he seldom lost. Akin was pleased Amari wasn't in Lagos

as competition for the girls.



With Amari's group in London, led by Omotunde Ola, were a choice

of Lagos' able worst - men and women. A couple, the Eweji's were

set up in a small grocery store in Shadwell, a mile from East India

Dock. It was just a corner shop specialising in African/Caribbean

goods for the small but growing Black population in London. Excellent

cover for importation and distribution of the weed in a drugs naive

London. The Eweji's were the accountants. The windows were put

out a few times by local white school kids wound up by their elders

and 'betters', scared of colour in their drab and drizzly city. But the

Ola cover held.



The rest of the staff were chosen for their other skills, whore,

lawyer, and all were at home as soldier enforcers. A house in Pimlico

was bought to use as a brothel.



The 'Madam', Dada Acacia, had been with the Akinyemi Ola business

for 20 years. One of the first in Ola's stable, it was her labour that

laid the groundwork for the Ola empire. Discovered as a Lagos street

walker and promoted when her looks and figure started to fail, and

her cunning, intellect and loyalty to Ola could better be seen. Rising

to London Madam. Viscious. At least three punters dead when she

street-walked Lagos. Skewered by her knife after being rolled when

drunk. The punters were no threat. She just didn't like them. Of her

half dozen girls in London, four were black from Lagos and two were

local white recruits. They were governed by fear. They had all heard

the stories or knew the victims of her control. A girl, Adetoun, had

tried to hold back some money from a punter and been discovered.

Before she could blink Dada Acacia had opened a 3 inch wound from

mouth to ear, destroying Adetoun's looks and income at a stroke.

But that was not enough, a lesson had to be taught. Dada Acacia

took an eye. Adetoun was last seen begging the slums of Lagos,

offering fucks for food and more often than not, refused.



It had taken two years for Omotunde Ola to find and cultivate a

market for the dimba, ganja, bhang, kiff or any other of the

hundreds of marijuana nick-names. The prostitution and grocery had

kept them afloat after remittance to Lagos. The herb part of the

business was turning a profit by the time Amari Ola arrived.



Local London firms had been slow in recognising the potential profit in

marijuana, relegated it to that 'nigger smoke', and had written off

the 'Beat' scene, its jazz and blues clubs, as places for 'poetry

poofters'. The Ola's marijuana business co-incided with the rise of

British Beatniks who took their musical references from American

Negro culture and actively sought it out. (Negro was how Black

people were known by the middle classes then. How quaint). The

original white counter-culture before the Hippies. The weed was the

drug of the clubs and the Beats adored it. Marijuana use, especially in

London mushroomed. It had even penetrated the Teddy Boys.



It didn't taken long for the London firms to realise their mistake and

try to muscle in on the African and Caribbean gangs trade. One of the

firms, the Robinson's had been eyeing the Ola's prostitution

operation but hadn't moved against him, judging it more trouble than

it was worth. But with dopes growing use by whites they recognised

its potential. The Ola enterprise now looked economically worth the

bother. They tried some strong-arm tactics. A short war, for ever

known as 'Dada's War'. After two dead, both white with throats slit

by Dada Acacia after being caught acid etching her most expensive

black girl - only Dada Acacia was allowed to hurt her girls - an

arrangement was arrived at. The Robinson's got a good deal on bulk

purchase, turf was assigned and outlets defined. A mutual aid pact

was signed. Ola got an excellent deal. A regular bulk outlet,

formalised relations and respect. The Robinson's were quicker than

the rest of the white firms to learn that profit supercedes colour.

Knowledge that came at the cost of three replaceable pawns. Cheap.



Three days after leaving his fathers officer, Akin and his minders

were in London soberly dressed. He was met at Heathrow by

Omotunde Ola and Amari. Omotunde Ola was robed. His shirt a

loose green buba, embroidered in gold around the neck, his sokoto

or trousers were a matching green. Over this he wore his agbada.

Emerald green stretched to the ground, billowing, the printed eagle

motif taking flight. Gold thread was embroidered down the lapels and

along the hem. He wore his fila on his head with nonchalance. The

round cap was gold with emerald green embroidery. He looked

impressive and not one white traveller missed his passing. He was at

his best to met his brothers envoy and enforcer. Amari was sharp in

his charcoal grey Italian suit and mohair coat. Looking the business

adviser to the second chief. He grinned at the awkwardness his

brother Akin obviously felt in conservative pinstripe, but marvelled at

his discipline.



It was Akin's first visit to London and on the drive to Pimlico all he

could do was gawp. His uncle and brother recognised themselves in

Akin's dropped jaw from their first time in London, so left him stare.

Fill his eyes and colour-in those sites he recognised from black &

white 'B' movies. Unfortunately London was its typical slate-grey

autumn and most of the colour was vibrating off Omotunde Ola as if

he was the only element painted, frame by frame, in the film.



At Pimlico, Akin took half an hour to unpack - no zoot suit - and

freshen up. After a meal where presents were given and the

conversation full of stories about family and old friends, Omotunde

Ola, Akin and Amari took a stroll to the Thames. It was 5.30pm and

the tide was high, the river full with Lighters cutting swirls through a

gentle rising mist and the ebbing light. The Lighters busy transporting

goods to and from the wharfs of Chelsea and the docks further east.

They walked east along Millbank, watching the continuos flotillas of

coal barges queuing to unload at Battersea power station, past the

Tate which Amari pointed out and suggested a visit by Akin while he

was here.



In an almost deserted Victoria Tower Gardens they sat at a bench in

front of Rodin's anguished 'Burghers of Calais'. Little wonder the

Burghers look dejected, in 1347 after a years seige by the English,

they surrendered Calais to Edward III and didn't get it back for two

hundred years. This was totally at odds with the confident smiles and

conversation of the Ola's who would get their land back in a couple

years after only 60 years of direct rule from London.



Under the doleful eyes of the Burghers, with the Houses of

Parliament to the front and MI6 over their left shoulder, Akin relaid

his message. Explained the offer by Dai Jones and the need for as

much information on him as possible. He had to be back in Lagos

within ten days, so in reality they had just a week. Omotunde Ola

couldn't place Jones' name but had heard rumours that a Flying Squad

officer was tight with the Robinsons. He would check with them

tomorrow when they came for a collection at Shadwell.



Within 24hrs they had all the information they needed about Dai

Jones. The Robinsons were the firm that Jones had forewarned about

a trap laid by the Flying Squad and that had had him seconded to

Nigeria. The Robinsons had planned a big diamond heist in Hatton

Garden, got warned the day before and didn't turn up. A couple of

youngsters on push bikes were sent to check the target on the day,

and sure enough, hundreds of coppers. It had exposed a nark

amongst them. He was quietly throttled, disposed of in a south

London glue factory, his family exiled from the East End. The only

criticism of Jones was any gangsters usual moan, he was a bit

expensive.



Akin leapt at the news. Pleased. Seven days freedom in London. He

called his minders and told them they were all free for seven days but

he expected them to accompany him around town. Omotunde Ola

released Amari from his duties for the week. He insisted Amari show

Akin the sites, visit the museums, theatres and cinemas, the parks

and clubs, not just get stoned and jiggy-jiggy all day. The girls time

was to valuable for freebies. Akin was up for it and Amari could at

last visit the British Museum, view the Benin Bronzes he had heard

legends of. Akin had read a report in the Lagos Daily Times last week

about the British Museum de-acquisitioning some of the bronzes to

help establish the National Museum in Lagos and was interested.



For Yoruba there maybe histories of wars with Edo and their Oba of

Benin scanning centuries, but they shared a cultural tradition in

creating bronzes of outstanding beauty since at least the 13th century.

Even Akin's minders, more muscle than intellect, were impressed

when they saw them. The stories of the Benin Bronzes had been true.

They are unique. In Europe, no sculpture had been produced between

the Roman Empire and two centuries after the first birth of these

bronzes from their casts that can stand comparison. The style,

virtuosity and sophistication astonished the unprecedented crowds

throughout Europe that visited the exhibitions. Picasso and Braque

could not have conceived Cubism without them. All modern European

art is their legacy.



The emotions of this small group of Yoruba men as they left the

British Museum flew between euphoria and rage. Euphoria at seeing

great African art that expressed a millennia of complex culture. Rage

that they had been stolen and black peoples histories denied.




Time,
For those Black,
Began with their slavery,
So the history teacher said.

By Ommission Les Skeates




Amari's rage was hot, sticky and viscous like the magma in a

volcanoes heart. Since being in London a day had not gone by when

some ignoramus would whisper abuse as they passed, try to shoulder

him if bigger than him or when with others, over charge him in the

shops and bar him from the pubs. “No Dogs, Irish or Niggers”, the

unwelcoming sign on many a lodging or pub. The only place he had a

semblance of comfortability with anybody white was in the Beat clubs

listening to Big Bill Broonzie, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee sing

the Blues. True the whites there were as high as kites on his dope,

but at least they tried. His rage was in danger of dismissing even

these as not worth the candle and stereotyping a race. It wouldn't

take much for him to be suckered into a quagmire of hate. The dull

eyed and dull brained minders were.



The more Akin thought about the bronzes the less he thought of the

power and wealth in their meaning than their monetary value. His

rage subsided quickly. Now some had been returned to Lagos, and

well, he was Yoruba and the bronzes Edo.



Akinyemi Ola's hint of a possiblity with Jones was starting to expand.

Akin had reported to him on his return about Jones and the working

relationship Omotunde and Amari had developed with the Robinsons.

His political weakness was his lack of officers in the military on his

payroll and Jones could be a way in. Identify those to approach or

entrap. He was warming but there still remained a nag. Jones

association with the Robinsons could prove a problem when he gets

back to London, produce divided loyalties. But any serious thinking

about that could wait.



With the lead up to Independence, Ola needed military allies and he

didn't have any. The way the British were maneuvering the 1959

pre-independence election, the way they had set up a federal

structure that in reality made for tribal and religious differences to

dominate the election, was a recipe for chaos. Divide and rule - an

effective imperial concept would be carried over into neo-colonialism

- for the benefit of British economic interests but not unity of the

new Nigerian state. At some point down the line the military would

surely have to intervene. He needed them. A risk would have to be

taken.



Six years later, the military had intervened and Jones had proved

worthwhile. The intelligence he had passed on was a bit expensive but

always proved profitable to Akinyemi Ola. Jones' contacts in the

military gave Ola the in he needed and his return to London at the end

of the secondment was even more lucrative. Jones' association with

the Robinsons no problem. Odd the alliances between black mobsters

and white policemen.



The day after Rosemary Oritse was born her father was ushered into

Akinyemi Ola's office by a petit and pretty secretary. He was not

alone. Two of his 'soldiers' were sitting on a sofa at the far end of

the room, quietly talking together. Ola's desk was at least 7ft by 7ft

of fine grained mahogany. Umukoro Oritse was impressed by its size

and shine. Its massive weight and bearing doing what it was designed

to do. The walls were decorated with what looked like the Benin

Bronzes from Lagos' new National Museum. The had to copies

thought Oritise.



Ola's businesses had all prospered. There was so much cash coming

in from the prostitution and dope smuggling that his accountants had

insisted he start sinking the money into property and shares. He

know held a portfolio through a myriad of legitimate companies that

covered property in New York, London and Lagos. On paper he was

worth legal millions. Some of the money had been used to rebuild the

garage and expand his bus fleet. He still kept his office at the garage.



“My obligation to your Uncle will be spent once this meeting is over.

What can I do for you Umukoro Oritse?” Straight to the point, as

usual with Akinyemi Ola.



“I have come to see you about a political matter and ask for your

support”, Oritse responded, sounding more confident than he felt.

The birth of Rosemary the day before had made him happy and it

carried in his voice.



“Since the coups my political and business rivals have been denouncing

me to the new Military Government so as to take over my business. I

have heard you have influence with our new rulers and would like you

to intervene with them by supporting my character.”



A muffled laugh came from the far end of the room as he ended.

Oritse couldn't work out if it was the 'soldiers' cracking jokes

between themselves or in response to what he had said. It didn't

matter, Ola was talking.



“I don't know your character. We have only just met. But I do know

about your business. The exportation of rubber and the importation

of bicycle parts are your main area of income. A few small fields you

own produce some rubber, but not enough. So you act as Broker for

other rubber producers. You need more clients. The bank has just

written to you I believe and want a meeting about your overdraft.

The business is only just staying afloat and any trouble with our new

rulers will sink it.”



Umukoro Oritse was worried and it showed. How had he known

about the bank and their hard letters?



“Don't worry, ” Ola kept talking, quick to see the nervousness arise

in Oritse. “I always do background checks on people who want to

see me and redeem an obligation. Here is what I'll do. It takes three

parts. One; I will put trade your way for export that will clear your

debt to the bank within a month and make you wealthy. Two; you are

invited to a party at my house this evening where you will be able to

met the military governor for Warri. He can make judgement on your

character. Three; as what I am offering you so far for redemption of

my obligation to your uncle excedes that obligation substantially, you

will welcome my son Amari to your house tomorrow and accept his

offer of a log of wood.” Akinyemi Ola paused for effect.



Now Umukoro Oritse was shocked not just nervous. What Ola

wanted was for him to betroth his baby daughter, Rosemary, to 30

year old Amari. He had not been expecting this.



“You do not have to make a decision now. Come to the party tonight

where you can also meet Amari and let me have your answer then.”

By his tone, body language and call to his secretary, Akinyemi Ola

indicated the meeting was at an end.



Oritse rose from his seat at the desk saying, “Thank you for your

time today and the invitation to the party. I will of course attend and

give you my decision then. Good day.”



He was escorted from the office all the way to the street by Ola's

secretary. She kept up a constant flow of small talk that Umukoro

Oritse didn't hear. At the street she raised her voice loudly enough

to work its way into his head.



“The car will take you to your hotel and pick you up this evening to

take you to Mr Ola's home. Goodbye.” She said, turned and

sasheyed her way back to Ola's office.



A black 1962 Rover P5, a brute of a car and the official vehicle for

British Prime Ministers during the 60's, was waiting with the driver

holding the front passenger door open. Only Ola sat in the back.

Stepping into the car Oritse was welcomed by a deep red and

comfortable leather seat that twenty years later would be recycled as

chic designer seating for Thatchers loft dwelling generation. The dash

was veneered walnut, kept shiny by the diligence of the proud

Chauffer. Heavy as a tank and with the illusion of space inside it

conveying security. He didn't notice any of this when first seated in

the car, but by the time he reached the hotel Oritse's head was no

longer befuddled, he thanked the driver and complimented him on the

car.



At the hotel he started to give serious thought to Ola's offer. Some

Ujowbi still practised the ancient tribal tradition of betrothal, had

absorbed it into their Catholicism. Even new born daughters could be

betrothed so it was an acceptable offer in that sense. No traceable

joint ancestors existed between Ola and Oritse, no clan association

being different tribes. What bothered him was Amari's age. He would

meet Amari tonight find out what he was like and make up his mind

then. That's what he wanted to think, but in reality, and he knew it,

this was an offer he couldn't refuse. Umukoro Oritse had to find a

way to salve his conscience and convince Isabella. He could insist on

no wedding till Rosemary was twenty. 'That's it', he thought in a

eureka moment, 'now I can win Isabella to the necessity of the

arrangement'. Salving his conscience by coincidence.



Akinyemi Ola's home was a big sprawling mansion in Ikoyi, a rich and

luxoriant neighbourhood in Lagos. Home to rich Nigerians,

Europeans, diplomats and gangsters. A gated community heavily

guarded. The house was on a hill where a slight breeze eased the

stifling heat. Ten bedrooms at least and set in five acres. The

grounds were surrounded by a ten foot high wall and patrolled

discretely by armed men.



The party was for Akin's 33rd birthday and had drawn Lagos society.

Faces that Umukoro Oritse had only seen in the papers before today.

Politicians, businessmen, Military Officers and a lot of pretty little

starlets who all seemed to congregate around Akin. No Zoot suit

anymore. He'd grown tired of it as the fashion faded and Harlem's

slow decline in status as the worlds Black Cultural Mecca started.



Oritse met Amari who was at his charismatic best. Both he and

Akinyemi Ola readily agreed with the stipulation of no wedding before

Rosemary was twenty. The military governor of Warri had promised

his help against Oritse's enemies, at a cost and which Akinyemi Ola

had insisted would only be a fraction of his profits from trading with

him. Ola was right. The rages of Oritse's wife would be forgotten

within two years as the foundations were being dug for their new five

bedroom home. She would rage instead against the Biafran Air Force

mercenaries dropping bombs on Warri just as the foundations were

being dug.



He bought an automatic 1962 Rover P5 to park on his new drive way

and impress his business contacts. A purchase in honour to his

mentor.