{"id":7975,"date":"2017-07-21T09:46:04","date_gmt":"2017-07-21T08:46:04","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=7975"},"modified":"2017-07-21T09:57:08","modified_gmt":"2017-07-21T08:57:08","slug":"the-last-pantheon-part-1","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=7975","title":{"rendered":"The Last Pantheon<\/em>, part 1"},"content":{"rendered":"

Prologue<\/center><\/h4>\n

February 18, 1979
\nSahara Desert, Africa<\/strong>
\nMy hands are deep in sand, and there is blood on the snow.<\/em>
\n          He did not know why there was snow.
\n          He tried to rise, but it was not time. His breath came in ragged gasps, a death rattle? His ribs grated on each other when he inspired. His jaw felt heavy and swollen. More drops of blood on the snow, from his face. He tried to move his tongue, but it had grown snug inside his mouth and did not budge.
\n          He was on all fours. He could tell that now, but his right arm was crooked maybe broken. The left arm held all the weight. Another warm dribble down his face. He pulled the left arm out of the snow and wiped it across his face. It came back smeared red.
\n          He tried again to stand, but it hurt, a pervasive pain that he had never experienced, his nerves screaming for respite. It seemed like he could feel the individual vertebrae in his backbone.
\n          What happened? What did I do? What did we do? Why is it snowing?<\/em>
\n          He managed to stand. The horizon wobbled and turned, or he may have been turning. It was difficult to tell. Blood still streamed out of him, dripping on his chest and landing on the snow. He felt neither heat nor cold, but the crisp air helped to clear his head and stabilise his vision.
\n          There were depressions in the snow, footsteps, ending in a lump of a man about fifty yards away. Head bowed, arms by the side, kneeling. His enemy.
\n          Snowflakes gently dropping to earth.
\n          Oh, mother. What have we done this time?<\/em>
\n          He could not find any hatred inside himself, not anymore. He was done. This was over.
\n          He tried to fly away, but his feet stayed linked to the earth. He could not jump because each movement was agony, especially for his right arm.
\n          Maybe he was dying.
\n          He focused on the weather. It should not be snowing. He closed his eyes, coaxed the clouds, and asked the water to disperse. You didn\u2019t force weather; you just eased it into doing what it wanted. You said, please don\u2019t form precipitation. Sometimes, it listened.
\n          The snowfall stopped but the clouds would not move. Not yet.
\n          Breathing heavy now. The next part would hurt, but had to be done. He held his right forearm and twisted counter-clockwise sharply.
\n          He screamed, and almost passed out again.
\n          His enemy did not stir.
\n          Bastard.
\n          Maybe there was some hatred left after all.
\n          He took strips of his enemy\u2019s cape and made a crude sling; then he walked away.
\n          After an hour he came to a gaggle of Algerian troops. By then the sun had returned and the snow had turned to slush. They recognised him and eased safeties off their weapons. He took their fear, absorbed it and fed it to his body for healing.
\n          He spoke Arabic by drawing it out of their minds. \u201cI surrender,\u201d he said. \u201cTake me to prison.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Chapter One<\/h4>\n

<\/center><\/p>\n

2015 (thought we may as well bring it up to this year )
\nLagos, Nigeria<\/strong>
\nKokoro had aged well, he thought, but then he missed the question she asked. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, could you repeat that?\u201d he said.
\n          \u201cI said the blogsphere wonders why you chose crime with your abilities, rather than more noble actions like that of Black-Power.\u201d
\n          \u201cAh…I see. Well, I don\u2019t think anyone wakes up and decides to be a criminal, Miss Kokoro. A number of things happen, inconsequential nudges, impressions, and time passes. One day you wake up to find out that you are not the hero of your own story. When the newspapers describe you as \u2018the international criminal known only as the Pan-African\u2019 you realise you\u2019ve been cast and typecast even. There is a power in naming things. You become the name and you convince yourself that it fits like an old coat.\u201d
\n          Behind the lights technicians in the studio moved, dark shadows keeping the television machine going. He saw his own image on one of the monitors. He sat opposite Elizabeth Kokoro and to his left the network had erected a massive black-and-white poster of him taken from 1975 in his Pan-African war paint. He sported an Afro back then and his expression was feral, possessed. He had a fury that time and prison leached out of him.
\n          No, it wasn\u2019t prison that took the rage away. It was that last time in the Sahara.
\n          \u201cThunderclap344 from Zimbabwe asks why you didn\u2019t break out of prison,\u201d said Kokoro. He wondered why she had no tablet or clip board. She had told him this segment of the interview would be a live Q & A from the web. Where was she reading the questions from? Probably the producer was feeding her by a plug in her ear.
\n          \u201cI had no reason to. From the moment I retired I was determined to rejoin society. That meant taking responsibility for what I had done. I surrendered to the Algerian authorities, but it turned out that I had never really committed any crimes in Algeria besides illegally crossing their borders and violating their airspace. They were quite nice to me, considering. Extradition was a nightmare. South Africa tried to claim me, but the whole Apartheid thing meant nobody listened to their noise. Nigeria began extradition proceedings but gave up in 1983 because there was a coup. Ghana, Morocco, Gambia…so many prisons, so little time.\u201d
\n          Kokoro adjusted her skirt. She knew all this, but managed to maintain an expression of curious interest. Good interviewers had that quality of not representing themselves, but the listener.
\n          \u201cI ended up incarcerated for thirty years in Edo City.\u201d
\n          \u201cWhen did you leave jail?\u201d
\n          \u201cI\u2019ve been free since 2003.\u201d
\n          \u201cWhat have you been doing since then?\u201d
\n          What indeed.<\/em><\/p>\n

2003
\nEdo City<\/strong>
\nThe clerk was old, way past retirement, and officious. He had one of those Mugabe moustaches that reminded you of Hitler. id13399928 If he knew who the Pan-African was he did not indicate. He passed forms through the gap in the window with large blue \u2018X\u2019s marked at the points requiring signature or thumb print.
\n          \u201cWhat\u2019s this?\u201d asked the Pan-African.
\n          \u201cThis confirms that your personal effects were returned to you in the same condition as the day you entered, with the exclusion of any perishable goods and age-related changes.\u201d
\n          \u201cI didn\u2019t enter with any personal effects.\u201d
\n          \u201cSo nothing was returned to you. Is the nothing in the same condition?\u201d
\n          The Pan-African stared.
\n          \u201cThat was a joke,\u201d the clerk said, in a flat voice.
\n          \u201cI see.\u201d
\n          \u201cYou still have to sign.\u201d
\n          He signed.
\n          The clerk gave him sixty-five American dollars.
\n          \u201cWhat\u2019s this?\u201d
\n          \u201cSomething the government gives to rehabilitated offenders to help them start off in their new life. Congratulations. Your debt to society is paid. Go forth and live a virtuous life.\u201d
\n          The clerk stamped a final form and handed it to him.
\n          Outside. The gates lurched shut with an electronic whine.
\n          Nobody waiting. No friends, no family.
\n          Edo City Prison was technically outside city limits, but nobody cared as long as the degenerates were out of sight. All around him was bush, bisected by a single black-top road which led to civilisation.
\n          I am Tope Adedoyin. I used to be called the Pan-African. I was in prison, but now I am free. I have a piece of paper that says I am free. It has an official stamp on it. I\u2019m free.<\/em>
\n          He looked at his feet. Black Hush Puppies from aeons ago, fashionable if he were someone\u2019s grandfather. He tested something, focused, and left the ground behind. Two, three feet in the air, hovering, testing. Then he fell back down. It was like swimming; you had to relearn how to hold your breath.
\n          He started walking north along the side of the road. Cars and lorries swept past, dusting him. He considered trying to hitch a ride, but thought better of it. He wanted to be alone and charity brought with it the necessity to reciprocate with conversation.
\n          He stopped to relieve himself and noticed a footpath, partly obscured by weed growth, but definitely a walkway. He zipped up and followed it, not knowing why. A whim, a notion of delight or despair. The sound of traffic faded. He passed a yellowed wooden sign, a placard rendered blank by acid rain. He soon came to a settlement. It was a rag-tag collection of shacks, shanties and lean-tos.
\n          It was probably illegal. The shanty town could not be seen from the road, which meant no taxes or police. There were no estates close by, no legitimate citizens for them to contaminate, and there was no impending property development. These were the criminals, the drunks, the dangerous psychotics, the detritus of society, both victims and perpetuators. The poor were the greatest sinners in a free enterprise society.
\n          Would it be a violation of his parole if he lived here?
\n          He encountered the insensate form of a drunk, which he stepped over. The first dwelling was a beer parlour with \u2018No Cridit\u2019 stencilled in red paint. A lone male customer drank kai kai<\/em>, local gin, which was more wood alcohol than ethanol.
\n          \u201cGood evening, uncle,\u201d said Tope. \u201cMay I join you?\u201d
\n          \u201cGood evening, my son,\u201d said the old man. He pulled a seat out by way of invitation. \u201cSadia! Bring another glass.\u201d
\n          Tope sat down, accepted one glass and drank in silence. He called to Sadia and asked for a Stout and another half-litre of gin for the old man. If they noticed his distorted arm they did not draw attention to it.
\n          \u201cI\u2019m looking for a place to stay,\u201d said Tope.
\n          \u201cThat\u2019s what I said when I arrived here,\u201d said the old man. \u201cI was twenty and I had just killed a man. Have you killed anyone?\u201d
\n          Tope had a flashback. He…he…
\n          He bunched the ridiculous cape in his left hand and pulled Black-Power towards himself and punched his head into the desert sand. Black-Power\u2019s arms twitched in an epileptic fit. The Pan-African stamped on that head. The sand became red with blood.<\/em>
\n          \u201cNo,\u201d said Tope. \u201cI haven\u2019t killed anyone.\u201d
\n          Over the next few days he built a house out of wood from trees he chopped down himself and nails he scavenged and corrugated iron he found. He didn\u2019t mind. It kept him busy and was not taxing at all. At first they did not know who he was, but a boy saw him levitating in order to reach a difficult part of his roof.
\n          Once they knew the Pan-African was among them, his power grew and he fixed their weak and wobbly dwellings. He helped till the land on their untaxed farms. The sheer number of the diseased among them complicated matters and added a dark shade to his power. The hepatitis and AIDS dementia, the heart failures and septic abortions. The power from the sufferers was tainted, sick power that could turn him to mischief again if he let it. <\/p>\n

2015
\nLagos, Nigeria<\/strong>
\n\u201cI just kept busy with this and that,\u201d said Tope.
\n          Elizabeth nodded. \u201cAnother question from the forums: what did you learn from your days as the Pan-African?\u201d
\n          \u201cCrime does not pay, stay in school, and never, ever, get into a fight with a man who wears a rainbow coloured cape because such a man is insane.\u201d
\n          \u201cNow you\u2019re just being flippant.\u201d
\n          \u201cOnly half flippant. Seriously, have you looked at the costume that idiot used to wear? I almost killed him with the damn thing.\u201d
\n          \u201cThen why didn\u2019t you? You fought many times and both walked away to tell the tale.\u201d
\n          \u201cI wasn\u2019t trying to kill,\u201d said Tope. \u201cI was trying to teach.\u201d
\n          \u201cTo teach what?\u201d
\n          \u201cThat Black-Power, with all his good intentions, was part of the problem, not the solution.\u201d
\n          \u201cWe\u2019ll come back to that, but I have another question, this from Powerfan565. She asks why you were called the Pan-African Coward in 1975.\u201d
\n          Tope sighed. He knew this would come up.
\n          \u201cI don\u2019t remember.\u201d
\n          \u201cPowerfan565 says, was it not because the first time you bumped into Black-Power you ran away?\u201d
\n          \u201cNo comment.\u201d
\n          \u201cDid you run away from him?\u201d
\n          \u201cNo comment.\u201d Tope took a sip of water from the glass beside him. He maintained eye-contact with Elizabeth.
\n          \u201cThis is supposed to be frank interview,\u201d she said.
\n          \u201cI can explain,\u201d said Tope, \u201cbut I\u2019m not going to. No comment.\u201d
\n          \u201cWe have a caller on the line. Caller you\u2019re live on Flashback. Go ahead.\u201d
\n          The voice came through on the studio speakers and chilled Tope to his core. He could actually feel pain in his chest where he had received the hardest hit in the desert.
\n          \u201cPan-African, is there something you think you\u2019re qualified to say about me?\u201d asked Black-Power.<\/p>\n

Chapter Two<\/center><\/h4>\n

2015
\nCape Town, South Africa.<\/strong>
\nPain, there was always the pain.
\n          Detective Sipho Cele grunted as he stood up from his desk, holding his arm tightly over the right side of his body. Such an action muted the sharp reminder of shattered ribs from decades ago, the pain at least dulling with the spread of his stomach and the slow creep of age.
\n          He stepped around his broad desk with its bronze name plate, littered with photos and files of low lives, murderers, rapists, and tsotsis<\/em>. The scum of the Earth, so many of them, a never ending wave that he had spent his life fighting against. But, like the hydra, you take one down and two more step into their place.
\n          Making his way to the window, he smiled at his clever classical allusion; he was no wet-eared plaasjapie<\/em>, as the boere<\/em> used to say, no, he was urban smart\u2014and old.
\n          Much older than he looked, even though his hair was starting to pepper with grey.
\n          As he stared down seven stories onto the milling street below, he felt yet older still. Offices stretched high into the sky, glassed front, left and right, inscrutable\u2014but the street itself below was teeming with people; trade and spill-off from the nearby tourist trap of Greenmarket Square.
\n          Of Table Mountain itself, there was no sign, hidden behind tiers of stone and glass.
\n          He watched the people move and bustle, a dance troupe setting up in the paved boulevard, Adderley street flower sellers spilling across for more business as an impromptu crowd gathered.
\n          And, with vision an eagle would have been proud of, he noticed a thin young man spiralling around the crowd\u2019s edge, deftly picking back-pockets and coats.
\n          Tcchhaaa, small fry!
\n          There was a time when he would have shown no mercy, when his tolerance was ever set at zero.
\n          Those were old times, gone times.
\n          Sipho turned away with a growl of fury, making his way back to his desk, accidentally brushing past a lurid black, green and yellow cape hanging on the coat stand. He felt a faint frisson of excitement.
\n          No.
\n          Gone times.
\n          Now, at least the pain was dull, hovering in the background, in places he could ignore.
\n          The smaller desk in the corner of the room, with its tiny black swivel chair, was empty.
\n          Where the hell was she? Thembeka took off too much time to go shopping; he would chide her when she got back. He could see the lights on her phone console glowing hot with waiting calls or people depositing urgent messages.
\n          The door opened just as he reached his desk and was about to sit down. He hesitated, flexing his biceps involuntarily as she stepped into the room.
\n          Sure, she was short and on the plain side, but old habits die hard. Still, he\u2019d had to be careful; this new generation of women seemed increasingly less impressed with his towering physique and charm\u2014it could even cause trouble.
\n          And, of course, she was a Xhosa, so not a real Zulu woman.
\n          \u201cWhere have you been?\u201d He growled, suddenly and irrationally bored with this dull city.
\n          \u201cGetting information off the street,\u201d she hovered in the door, watching him with hooded eyes.
\n          \u201cSo,\u201d he sat, feeling the chair creak underneath his solid bulk, \u201cWhat information do you have?\u201d
\n          \u201cThere\u2019s a new Super-Tik factory being setup just two streets down,\u201d Thembeka said. She looked down, as if hoping for praise, but afraid to look him in the eyes.
\n          \u201cJust do your job and answer the phone,\u201d he said, turning to his desktop, which was scrolling in news from all across Africa.
\n          She sat for a moment in what felt like crushed silence and then, with an angry sigh, she picked up the phone and started speaking.
\n          But Sipho wasn\u2019t listening. A staccato burst of noise had sprung up from the street below and he knew the sound of that noise.
\n          Trouble.
\n          Big trouble.
\n          In a bound he was at the window again, gaze raking the street, missing nothing. The crowd was disintegrating rapidly, people screaming. No cops of course, a few security guards, but they were running too.
\n          There, the central drama piece, six men standing with automatic weapons, two holding the thin young man as one large man pistol whipped him, snarling.
\n          The boy had not been careful enough in choosing his victims.
\n          Too bad\u2014Detective Cele was about to turn his back too, when he noticed an old woman sidling up the street with her guide dog.
\n          Dumb fucking dog, he was leading her into Trouble Central.
\n          Without thinking, Sipho reached for the cape.
\n          One of the armed men turned and shoved the woman, who fell, crying. The dumb dog sat down.
\n          Sipho reached for the crumpled mask in his pocket, an old relic he\u2019d never quite managed to let go, a talisman to touch, but not to wear.
\n          The man was lifting his right boot; readying himself to kick the old woman.
\n          Mask and cape on, Sipho Cele threw himself through the window and fell face first in a shower of glass.
\n          \u201cShit,\u201d he thought, \u201cI can\u2019t fly.\u201d
\n          He panicked as the ground screamed in close to his head.
\n          So it was that his powers finally kicked in again.
\n          Time…
\n          …slowed.
\n          Or, rather, he sped up; spinning his body deftly to land feet first, legs braced.
\n          Fuck, those shoes had been Italian leather. They blew apart on impact, his toes splaying on buckling concrete.
\n          One, two, three steps, and he was there, catching a swinging boot before it landed against the old woman’s head. He reversed the force, feeling the man’s hip shatter as he was flung over backwards.
\n          Sipho had been gentle. The man landed only ten metres away, but unfortunately on his head\u2014and on bricked pavement.
\n          He did not get up again, nor did he make a sound, lying there like a discarded heap of expensive clothes waiting for a wash that would never come.
\n          Sipho straightened and turned to the other men, who stood stunned, guns dangling at various angles of shock.
\n          No… Black-Power straightened and eyed the miscreants with a stony-faced lack of both mercy and fear.
\n          \u201cRun,\u201d he growled.
\n          So they did.
\n          Well, four of them ran, one screaming.
\n          The fifth man stood, a large man tattooed with prison-gang numbers, his one giant hand still holding onto the pickpocket’s collar. The young man himself hung limply, spirit leaking with the blood from his broken nose. Then, abruptly, the tattooed man flung the youngster away like a crumpled piece of paper.
\n          He slowly levelled his machine gun, a reworked AK-47 by the look of it.
\n          His eyes were glowing red, with maddened power. Not just tik, must be the new Super-Tik, thought Black-Power.
\n          \u201cDie, motherfucker…\u201d the man opened fire.
\n          Black-Power covered his eyes with his left hand, bracing his body. Owwwwww, he kept the groans inside his head\u2014he was going to end up with a hell of a bruising on his body.
\n          Abruptly, the firing stopped.
\n          Black-Power removed his hand and grinned at the man\u2019s furrowed frown, his gaping mouth.
\n          He gently turned around and picked up the old woman, a little so-called coloured woman, folded in fear.
\n          \u201cYou\u2019ve been a bad boy,\u201d he said, \u201cSay sorry to mamma\u2014It\u2019s time we all learned to respect our elders again.\u201d
\n          The man snarled in frightened rage and rushed forward to launch a punch with his right hand.
\n          Black-Power covered the woman softly with his arms and thrust his face forward to meet the blow, feeling knuckles crumble against his right cheekbone.
\n          The man screamed and stepped backwards, nursing his right hand under his left armpit; his shaved head bobbing as he bounced up and down in pain.
\n          Black-Power straightened even more. \u201cRun.\u201d
\n          Within seconds, the man had disappeared.
\n          Black-Power put the woman down, and slipped the dogs lead into her hand.
\n          \u201cYou\u2019re safe now, mamma!\u201d he said.
\n          The woman smiled and nodded gratefully. Black-Power gave the dog a nudge with his toe and they wandered off quietly down the street again.
\n          Sirens started to screech in the distance. Time to go; there was no need to compromise his identity, hidden for so long now.
\n          But a quick and small crowd had already gathered around him.
\n          \u201cWho are you, mister?\u201d an awed youngster asked.
\n          Black-Power noticed the young pickpocket crawling away out of the corner of his eye. He\u2019d more than learned his lesson, by the look of him.
\n          Someone was standing behind him, looking at his cape, which had been relatively undamaged.
\n          \u201cBP,\u201d read the man aloud. \u201cBritish Petroleum probably, with those colours? All done as an advertisement maybe?\u201d
\n          The crowd glanced around, looking for cameras.
\n          \u201cBlack-Power!\u201d he snarled, bending his legs, readying himself, scanning for his broken office window above.
\n          Then, with a massive launch of his calves and thighs he was airborne, rocketing upward with explosive power.
\n          \u201cShit,\u201d he thought again, crashing through the remnants of his office window, rolling to a halt against the far wall.
\n          Slowly, he untangled himself from his cape and stood up, glass crunching underneath his shredded socks.
\n          Thembeka was standing on her desk, palms across her mouth, looking frightened.
\n          \u201cWho are you?\u201d she whispered, \u201cWho are you really?\u201d
\n          He offered her his hand.
\n          \u201cPower,\u201d he said, \u201cBlack-Power.\u201d
\n          He took her shaking hand, his slightly sweaty palm brushing her skin, and gently lowered her to the floor. \u201cAnd I think you and I have some Super-Tik factories to visit.\u201d
\n          She smiled softly, gaze dropping shyly.
\n          He saw her startle.
\n          He looked down. Sure, his skin was just about invulnerable, but his clothes obviously weren\u2019t. There\u2019d been no time to dig his durable bodysuit out. There was very little left of his shirt and trousers.
\n          \u201cOops,\u201d he said, turning around to her embarrassed giggle.
\n          It was then that he heard… him.
\n          He\u2019d know that smooth, honey-tongued voice anywhere. His PC had locked onto a broadcast, somewhere further up the African continent.
\n          He stepped across to his desk, it was an interview from the sound of it, and a sweet feminine voice was chiming in.
\n          Old and very bad pains starting to leach back into his body at the sound of the man\u2019s voice. His ribs shrieked and his head ached, so much so, it was hard to focus on the picture of the man and woman, seated across from each other, in what looked like intimate conversation.
\n          Thembeka stood unnoticed at his shoulder, watching too.
\n          That woman, the interviewer, he thought, she\u2019s, she\u2019s … Beautiful… He struggled to focus on the words being exchanged between them.
\n          Then he heard his name mentioned.
\n          Without thinking, he reached across for the phone, dialling the number scrolling across the screen.
\n          “….you\u2019re live on Flashback,\u201d he heard the interviewer\u2019s soft words, \u201cgo ahead.\u201d
\n38862 \u201cPan-African,\u201d he breathed.
\n          Pain, there\u2019s always pain\u2014this time, though, he would rise to greet it.<\/p>\n

\fChapter Three<\/center><\/h4>\n

2015
\nLagos, Nigeria<\/strong>
\nBreathe. Breathe. In, out, in. Not difficult, you\u2019ve been doing it all your life.<\/em>
\n          Tope hated this, the nerves. Others might call it fear, but he had already proved himself against Black Power. Besides, this was verbal conflict, not physical.
\n          Elizabeth Kokoro snorted, a brief, feminine gesture, almost missed but certainly dismissive. She had always favoured Black-Power over the Pan-African and indeed there were rumours. Black-Power had been a pussy hound back then.
\n          \u201cHello, brother,\u201d said Tope, voice calm.
\n          \u201cI am not your brother,\u201d said Black-Power, voice vibrating through the studio. Did he sound out of breath? Like he\u2019d been running? \u201cI am Zulu, you are Yoruba.\u201d
\n          \u201cAnd yet I still call you \u2018brother\u2019,\u201d said Tope.
\n          You know why<\/em>, he thought.<\/p>\n

50,000 B.P.
\nWhat would later become Southern Africa<\/strong>
\n\u201cThey are barely conscious,\u201d said the elder. \u201cI can hear their left and right cerebral hemispheres arguing with each other. They think it\u2019s a god, or what they will come to think of as such when they have that concept.\u201d
\n          \u201cI don\u2019t know if it qualifies as consciousness,\u201d said the younger. \u201cAt least they have tools.\u201d
\n          The primates had taken a ruminant and were gutting it. One male primate held its side where the ruminant had gored him with its horns. The elder knew he would be dead within a week from infection. They did not have an idea of religion or even the afterlife yet.
\n          \u201cI think we can help them,\u201d said the elder. \u201cI want you to-\u201d
\n          \u201cNo.\u201d
\n          \u201cWhat?\u201d
\n          \u201cI do not wish to take instructions from you anymore. I\u2019ve done that long enough. This settlement is yours,\u201d said the younger. \u201cI\u2019m going further north.\u201d
\n          \u201cYou do not wish to stay together?\u201d asked the elder. He sounded surprised and perhaps hurt.
\n          \u201cWe\u2019ll be on the same continent. I will not leave the landmass or planet without letting you know, brother.\u201d
\n          \u201cDo not let them begin to worship you,\u201d said the elder. \u201cWe are not gods.\u201d
\n          \u201cI won\u2019t,\u201d said the younger.
\n          But he did.<\/p>\n

2003
\nEdo City<\/strong>
\n\u201cUncle Tope, why is your arm twisted?\u201d asked the boy.
\n          \u201cI broke it one time. It didn\u2019t heal well,\u201d said Tope. He hammered a nail while he spoke. On a whim he switched the hammer to the right and continued. \u201cWorks fine, though, right?\u201d
\n          \u201cRight.\u201d
\n          “Pass me the box of nails.\u201d
\n          He stepped back and gauged the horizontality of the cross bar. He looked at the boy who nodded.
\n          \u201cWhy do you help people?\u201d asked the boy.
\n          \u201cWhy do you ask so many questions?\u201d
\n          \u201cMy mother says I\u2019m a question bank.\u201d
\n          \u201cIndeed you are,\u201d said Tope. \u201cI shall call you \u2018Bank\u2019 from now on.\u201d
\n          \u201cMy mother has tribal marks,\u201d he said.
\n          Tope looked across the way where Bank\u2019s mother tried to dredge the sluggish stream for something of value. She was twenty-four going on forty and had three horizontal scarification marks and three vertical on each cheek. It was unusual. Nobody had those any more.
\n          \u201cDo you want to hear a secret?\u201d Tope asked.
\n          Bank nodded. He was seven and had already realised that the world of adults was full of secrets. Secrets were the portal between being a child and growing up.
\n          \u201cYou see the bar codes on the goods you buy? The black lines?\u201d
\n          \u201cYes.\u201d
\n          \u201cYou know how the creation story of Yoruba people is Olodumare lowered Oduduwa down to the earth with sand and a chicken. The sand became the landmass and the chicken rooted around in it, scattering it all over the earth.\u201d
\n          \u201cI\u2019ve heard this story in school, Uncle Tope.\u201d
\n          \u201cWell…it was a space ship. Oduduwa had something that looked like a barcode on his cheeks. There were already humans here. They saw the code and tried to copy it with their crude instruments. The barcode became the tribal marks.\u201d
\n          Bank looked sceptical. \u201cHow do you know this?\u201d
\n          \u201cI was in the space ship. I was crew.\u201d
\n          Bank squinted, not at all filled with credulity, but still child enough to wonder.
\n          \u201cI\u2019m kidding!\u201d said Tope, though he was not.
\n          He heard someone call his name. It was a verbal call, not a thought, and he looked up. A man was running towards the house he was repairing.
\n          \u201cTope! There are tractors and police!\u201d
\n          \u201cCalm down,\u201d said Tope. \u201cShow me.\u201d
\n          There were indeed tractors and police, but in addition there were armed Area Boys, who were local toughs usually employed by politicians to beat up the opposition. At the head of the procession was a guy in a black suit sweating in the sun, waving a sheet of paper and speaking through a megaphone.
\n          The feedback was such that Tope could not make out what he was saying.
\n          \u201cWhat the fuck is he saying?\u201d Tope asked the man.
\n          \u201cHe says we should all pack up and leave within the hour otherwise the people behind him will forcibly eject us and destroy our dwellings.\u201d
\n          \u201cHmm.\u201d Tope pondered a moment, then said, \u201cDon\u2019t worry about it. Tell everyone to return to their homes and go about their daily business.\u201d
\n          \u201cWe have nowhere to go,\u201d said the man.
\n          \u201cYou do not need anywhere to go,\u201d said Tope. \u201cThis is your home.\u201d
\n          He walked to the side of the road, under the shade of a palm tree, and he sat down, staring at the column invading the settlement. He began to breathe regularly, timing each inspiration and expiration. He allowed his mind to reach out.
\n          All gods are telepathic. This is how prayer works.<\/em>
\n          Sadia brought him a tall gourd of ogogoro<\/em> without knowing why. He drank it in one long swallow, enjoying the burn, feeling the relaxation and disinhibition. Better than Jonnie Walker<\/em> and Southern Comfort<\/em> combined.
\n          Now then.
\n          The official.
\n          Father of three, professional bureaucrat, one mistress currently pregnant, mortally afraid of his boss. A great love for his job, although he did not enjoy inflicting suffering on the less fortunate. Use that<\/em>. The official stopped shouting into the public address system and shouted Marxist slogans, ordering the police to arrest the Area Boys.
\n          Tope spread his mind further.
\n          The Area Boys became confused. They could all see a swarm of flying ants in the air, and they scattered.
\n          Tope nudged the police, and they ran after the Area Boys.
\n          The machine operators screamed as the tippers and tractors became dinosaurs of the carnivorous variety.
\n          The alcohol warmed Tope\u2019s belly. He called Bank to him and returned to his carpentry.<\/p>\n

2015
\nLagos, Nigeria<\/strong>
\n\u201cI am Zulu,\u201d repeated Black-Power. \u201cI am not kin to you.\u201d
\n          \u201cYou\u2019re a fucking idiot is what you are,\u201d said Tope. \u201cYou weren\u2019t helpful in the seventies and you\u2019re not helpful now.\u201d
\n          \u201cHang on,\u201d said Elizabeth Kokoro. \u201cBlack-Power was a hero in his time. He was recognised all over the world. He addressed the United Nations. He saved millions from natural disasters, accidents and criminals such as yourself. How can you justify your statement?\u201d
\n          \u201cMisdirection,\u201d said Tope.
\n          \u201cWhat are you talking about?\u201d asked Black-Power.
\n          \u201cWe\u2019ve had this discussion already,\u201d said Tope. \u201cYou were too thick then and you\u2019re too thick now. You prance about in your cape and mask, a copy of your colonial master\u2019s masks by the way, not drawing inspiration from the African tradition of masking. You fly around in bright colours, puffing up your chest, chasing what, drug dealers, bank robbers, cannabis cultivators? A volcano goes off and Black-Power is there to save the day. Whoopie. What did you do that was of any long-standing significance? Not one thing. What did you do for social justice? Did you change the injustices that create the petty crime that you policed? No. Do you remember our discussions about Idi Amin? The Congo? Black-Power do you remember me telling you that Murtala Mohammed would probably be assassinated in 1976? What about Kapuuo in 1978?\u201d
\n          \u201cWhat are you trying to say?\u201d asked Black-Power. He did not sound so certain.
\n          \u201cI\u2019m saying that you\u2019re not a hero. You were a tool of the status quo government systems. You kept the poor people in line and turned a blind eye to the real offenders. You allowed the CIA to operate with impunity throughout the continent.\u201d
\n          \u201cYou could have stopped those same things.\u201d Black-Power sounded defensive now.
\n          \u201cI was not and am not a hero. I never claimed to be.\u201d
\n          \u201cI didn\u2019t know if-\u201d
\n          \u201cMotherfucker, don\u2019t you dare. You knew<\/em>. You knew because I told you.\u201d
\n          \u201cDo not make me come over there, Pan-African.\u201d The edge in his voice made Tope\u2019s momentum dry up and he could not think of anything to say. Elizabeth recovered.
\n          \u201cBlack-Power, these are serious accusations. Do you have any comment? Any mitigating factors?\u201d
\n          \u201cI have a question for the Pan-African.\u201d
\n          \u201cI don\u2019t go by that name anymore.\u201d
\n          \u201cNevertheless, I have a question.\u201d
\n          \u201cProceed,\u201d said Elizabeth.
\n          \u201cHow much are you being paid to appear on television?\u201d
\n          \u201cI-\u201dTope started.
\n          \u201cThat information is confidential, Black-Power. He signed a contract of non-disclosure.\u201d Elizabeth uncrossed and crossed her legs.
\n          \u201cI understand. But he is getting paid, no? Is this an instance of crime finally paying off? You criticise my record, but you spent your entire career trying to accumulate money. Without success, I should add. I was always there to beat you down.\u201d
\n          \u201cExcept one time,\u201d said Tope.
\n          \u201cHow\u2019s the arm?\u201d
\n          \u201cHow\u2019s your fucking chest?\u201d
\n          \u201cLanguage, gentlemen. There are children listening,\u201d said Elizabeth. \u201cI have a question for both of you. Biohazard344 wants to know which of you is more powerful.\u201d
\n          \u201cIt depends,\u201d said Tope.
\n          \u201cIt depends,\u201d said Black-Power.
\n          \u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d asked Elizabeth.
\n          \u201cIt means if we fly to the moon and fight we could crack it in two and still not know who is more powerful,\u201d said Black-Power.
\n          \u201cSpeak for yourself. On the moon I would kill you,\u201d said Tope.
\n          \u201cFool, you don\u2019t even have my permission to dream or fantasise about such a fight.\u201d
\n          Elizabeth clapped her hands. \u201cWow! Exciting stuff. Black-Power and the Pan-African, at each other\u2019s throats again. Stay tuned: we\u2019ll be back after these commercials. If you can\u2019t wait log on to our website for behind-the-scenes streaming content.\u201d
\n          The producer said something and they were all given five minutes off air. Elizabeth came straight for him.
\n          \u201cThat stuff you said, was any of it true?\u201d she asked. She wore Chanel, but he didn\u2019t think it suited her.
\n          \u201cAll of it was true.\u201d
\n          \u201cCan you prove it?\u201d
\n          \u201cNo. Maybe. I think he was employed by the South African government at some point. I have some information that he draws a pension, but it\u2019s buried deep.\u201d
\n          \u201cYou\u2019re quite the dark horse, aren\u2019t you? I feel we may never really know everything about the Pan-African or his motives.\u201d She flicked a hair strand and turned away.
\n          Was she flirting with him? <\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\fChapter Four<\/h4>\n

<\/center><\/p>\n

2015
\nCape Town<\/strong>
\nDetective Sipho Cele was breathing heavily. No, he must remember, Black-Power was breathing heavily, even though his small fracas with the drug gang was receding into the history of the day.
\n          His PC had moved on, circulating others news from Africa in a torrent of chaotic themes; crime, pleasure, sport, business\u2014and money, always money, as the African economic giant awoke slowly, starting to face off the Chinese and the fading Yanks.
\n          But she<\/em> hadn\u2019t moved.
\n          Gradually, he became aware of her small but focused presence. Thembeka, his assistant, breathing heavily at his side too\u2014he turned to look at her.
\n          \u201cWas any of that true?\u201d
\n          \u201cNo,\u201d he said, \u201cThey\u2019re just lies from a master criminal of the past. Pan-African\u2019s super-powers, formidable though they are, don\u2019t even come close to the devious sharpness of his deluded brain.\u201d
\n          She smiled, but he could see she didn\u2019t quite believe him.
\n          The history of the day was just a flicker of moth wings to him.
\n          But deeper history\u2014well, Pan-African had reminded him of what he was ever avoiding.
\nTime and accountability.<\/p>\n

1961
\nKwaMashu, near Durban, South Africa<\/strong>
\nNow that was a bad year.
\n          Actually, that was an esabeka<\/em> year, a year so bad it gave him nightmares still.
\n          The year opened gently, with no hint of the tremors and traumas to come. But there were rumblings up North and\u2014although he was growing comfortable in his Native Affairs job as a clerk in kwaMashu, near Durban\u2014he finally decided that with great power, comes at least some small accountability.
\n          There was a good man\u2014an important man\u2014in trouble, and he needed help.
\n          A new black president, democratically elected as the Continent had started to sweep its way free from former colonial masters. There had not been enough sweeping in this country though, up north, where the Belgians and the Yanks remained in place conniving to keep their source of uranium and precious minerals intact for their Frigid Global War.
\n          The Congo Crisis, they called it, capturing the first democratic president of that country.
\n          The president\u2019s words rolled across the subsequent decades: \u201c…what we wanted for our country\u2014its right to an honourable life, to perfect dignity, to independence with no restrictions\u2014was never wanted by Belgian colonialism and its Western allies…\u201d<\/em>
\n          So it was with that Gatsha Mchunu\u2014as he called himself then\u2014took leave and headed North. He moved rapidly, partly hanging on the backs of trains, other parts leaping across borders at night with great strides that took him hundreds of feet into the air.
\n          His face was masked; his body encased in a plain black body-suit for night time camouflage.
\n          Black-Power, he thought, I shall call myself Black-Power.
\n          He looked down at his body and thought again, Black-Power.
\n          And so, at last, Black-Power arrived in Katanga province of the newly independent Congolese Republic.
\n          Elizabethville, generally a quiet and sleepy copper town he\u2019d heard, was humming with activity and military convoys moving in and out. He saw some white faces, overheard some South African accents and knew there were mercenaries and probably South African military, as well as Katangese secessionist forces about.
\n          By this time he was dressed in a poor, ill-fitting jacket and trousers, scuffed shoes and hat crammed down on his broad head. Masks would only attract unnecessary attention.
\n          He was given wary directions to the airport by a few locals, who appeared to mistrust both his accent and his size.
\n          The airport was cordoned off, so he waited for night, in nearby bushes. Wet from a sudden furious burst of late afternoon warm rain, he changed out of his sodden suit.
\n          Masked, suited and booted, he waited.
\n          A few distant flashes of lightning lit up the dull runway.
\n          The gods must be about.
\n          It was then that he saw a plane had already landed.
\n          There was no more time to wait.
\n          He hurtled over the fence, bounded once on the tarmac and smashed through the back door of the plane.
\n          It was a small plane, but he could smell blood on board.
\n          Only one man stood facing him, looking startled and bemused. A white man, dressed in pilot overalls, who spoke in French.
\n          \u201cWhat do you want?\u201d The man looked wan and tired, as if he had been ill recently.
\n          \u201cWhere is he?\u201d
\n          The pilot shrugged, \u201cThey have taken him somewhere, I don\u2019t know…\u201d
\n          Black-Power looked outside, his gaze scanning the horizon for movement. There was a flicker in the distance, a jeep heading off road.
\n          Night fell fast in this area of the world.
\n          He stepped outside, crouched and leapt. In one furious bound, he was soaring over the perimeter fence.
\n          A few troops below opened fire on him, bullets whistling past in the deepening gloom.
\n          As he soared through the air, he watched.
\n          The jeep was parked by a ramshackle house, roof crumbling in disrepair.
\n          He was coming back to Earth.
\n          Gunshots.
\n          Within<\/em> the house.
\n          He crashed through the roof and landed, boots buckling wooden floorboards beneath him.
\n          He could smell death.
\n          Warm and recent death.
\n          Patrice Lumumba lay, broken by boots and bullets, crumpled on his back and bayoneted too, just for good measure.
\n          The other men in the room recoiled as dust and roof debris continued to cascade down.
\n          Black-Power took the scene in, with a cool and gathering rage.
\n          The group were Belgians and Katangese, although they also had the background stench of the CIA hovering about them. Two other men lay dead nearby. The man holding the bloodied bayonet was a Katangese government official he vaguely knew.
\n          \u201c…They have corrupted some of our countrymen; they have bought others; they have done their part to distort the truth and defile our independence. What else can I say? That whether dead or alive, free or in prison by orders of the colonialists, it is not my person that is important…\u201d<\/em>
\n          With one step forward, Black-Power had snapped the man\u2019s neck with a flick of the fingers on his right hand.
\n          He caught the dropped rifle and with one smooth motion had slung the bayonet in and through the torso of a Belgian official, one who had looked the most senior, perhaps even in charge.
\n          The man coughed bright and bubbling blood.
\n          No one moved, stunned and frozen in disbelief.
\n          Without a word, Black-Power stooped and cradled the dead President Patrice Lumumba in his arms.
\n          \u201c…Neither brutal assaults, nor cruel mistreatment, nor torture have ever led me to beg for mercy, for I prefer to die with my head held high, unshakeable faith and the greatest confidence in the destiny of my country, rather than live in slavery and contempt for sacred principles.\u201d<\/em>
\n          With a scream of fury, Black-Power crashed through the roof again, hurtling skywards, wishing he could fly away, far away, from this chaotic, damaged Earth.
\n          Instead, though, he finally found and secretly gave the President\u2019s body to his widow, who was grief-faced and quiet, dry of tears, having already received his last words:
\n          \u201cMy beloved companion: I write you these words not knowing whether you will receive them, when you will receive them; and whether I will still be alive when you read them…
\nDo not weep for me, my companion; I know that my country, now suffering so much, will be able to defend its independence and its freedom. Long live the Congo! Long live Africa!<\/em>
\n          – Patrice\u201d
\n          Nineteen Sixty One, yes, now that was indeed a terrible year. The Sharpeville Massacre in South Africa had followed in March; the white apartheid State of South Africa withdrew from the Commonwealth and called itself a Republic at the end of May; the UN Secretary-General Dag Hammarskjold\u2014he secretly knew\u2014had indeed been shot down in skies that were to become Zambian in September of that year, but no, he would not let the litany of that dreadful year to go on and on and on. Back to now.
\n          \u201c…History will one day have its say; it will not be the history that is taught in the United Nations, Washington, Paris or Brussels, however, but the history taught in the countries that have rid themselves of colonialism and its puppets. Africa will write its own history and both North and South of the Sahara it will be a history full of glory and dignity…\u201d (Lumumba, Patrice, 1961)<\/em><\/p>\n

2015
\nCape Town<\/strong>
\nHow he hated<\/em> history and Pan-African\u2019s reminders to him of how little he had changed the course of political events within Africa.
\n          What had he<\/em> done, himself, apart from grow fat on his crime?
\n          But Black-Power knew his was an old justification, his fear that taking sides so sharply would end up making the political bloodshed even greater. He had dreaded the sense that he might end up carrying so much more directly the vast weight of a multitude of dead souls, who might have followed him into an ensuing and even greater conflagration.
\n          So, instead he had straddled ideological fences through the following decades, concentrating on protecting the innocent from the smaller struggles of crime and the moral simplicities of natural disasters.
\n          But, in the process, he had increasingly grown more doubtful of his own mission and sense of self.
\n          The Saharan Battle in the late seventies had been the final straw\u2014broken in body more than he would have liked to admit, he had disappeared into retirement.
\n          Until now.
\n          \u201cBlack-Power?\u201d Thembeka\u2019s touch on his arm was gentle, querying.
\n          He realised with a start he had been slumped in his chair, brooding, lost in a year that had stripped his hopes and dreams away.
\n          He smiled at her.
\n          \u201cWe have a drug-factory to break up, don\u2019t we?\u201d
\n          She grinned back at him and his heart lifted.
\n          He stood up, old aches reminding him of history yet again. \u201cPan-African,\u201d he swore to himself. \u201cNext time I will finish you once and for all!\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\fChapter Five<\/h4>\n

<\/center><\/p>\n

2015
\nLagos, Nigeria<\/strong>
\nThe show was over. It fizzled out after the telephone fireworks with Black-Power, but Elizabeth seemed pleased. She kept taking phone calls and was unable to keep a smile off her face. Tope presumed her friends and co-workers were congratulating her. He sat in the same chair as technicians dismantled the set. They looked bored, as if they had done it a million times. A few people brought him items to autograph; a Wanted poster, an old newspaper article, a 1977 Black-Power comic showing him and Tope locked in combat with a caption that read \u201cTHIS TIME\u2026 TO THE DEATH!\u201d He smiled when he signed that.
\n          \u201cNostalgia?\u201d asked Elizabeth. She was at his elbow and he hadn\u2019t noticed her walk up.
\n          \u201cNo, not really. Just amusement. These comics were propaganda tools.\u201d
\n          \u201cHaba<\/em>! Now you\u2019re being completely paranoid. The comics were harmless fun aimed at children. At most they can be said to be evil for perpetuating bad art and repetitive, clich\u00e9d storylines with simplistic moral lessons.\u201d She took the comic, with its yellowed paper and handed it to the engineer, then looked up into Tope\u2019s eyes.
\n          \u201cYou\u2019re a journalist, Miss Kokoro-\u201d
\n          \u201cCall me Elizabeth.\u201d
\n          \u201cElizabeth. You\u2019re a journalist. I expect better. Examine the facts. I did.\u201d He halted the engineer and took the comic back. He flipped open the first page and showed Elizabeth the copyright strip at the bottom. \u201cSee this? MKD Press. Do you know what that is?\u201d
\n          \u201cNo.\u201d
\n          \u201cI checked.\u201d Tope dismissed the engineer. \u201cMKD Press had no local offices. The copies of Black-Power comic were shipped in regularly in large quantities on Thursday every week from England. MKD Press did have a London office, but no association with Fleet Street or United Kingdom press establishment. I followed the money. It led to Langley, to the CIA. MKD Press was generated out of Project MKDelta. Do you know what that is?\u201d
\n          \u201cNo, I\u2019ve never heard of it.\u201d
\n          \u201cHave you heard of MKUltra?\u201d
\n          \u201cYes, mind control experiments that the CIA ran in the sixties and early seventies? Trying to create Manchurian Candidates, perfect assassins, human automata.\u201d
\n          \u201cExactly. Only MKUltra was domestic, within the United States. MKDelta was the same program, but for foreign countries. They didn\u2019t even try to hide the association much because they didn\u2019t think anybody would look into their under-priced children\u2019s comics.\u201d
\n          \u201cWhat made you suspicious?\u201d
\n          \u201cThe details of the storylines were similar to encounters that Black-Power and I had. Watered down, simplified, but with facts that only he or I could know. Black-Power got his abilities from aliens and I got mine when I was struck by lightning as a child. Bullshit. Then I found what I suspected to be subliminal messages in the dialogue. I analysed the paper, the print, the ink, even the poses and body language of the characters. Many of the issues were impregnated with chemicals that might be classified as mind-altering. The comics were not harmless fun, Elizabeth.\u201d
\n          \u201cI think I need to know more,\u201d said Elizabeth. \u201cDo you have time for a drink?\u201d
\n          \u201cI do.\u201d
\n          \u201cGive me some minutes. I\u2019ll meet you at reception when I\u2019ve taken off this.\u201d
\n          \u201cYou look quite attractive in that outfit.\u201d
\n          She waved this away. \u201cStage craft. I\u2019m better in my own clothes.\u201d
\n          While he waited Bank came up to him. The young man had developed a habit of walking with his face glued to his tablet, assuming he knew where he was going.
\n          \u201cBank, put that thing away,\u201d said Tope.
\n          \u201cThe money is in your account,\u201d said Bank. \u201cThese people keep their promises at least.\u201d
\n          \u201cThat\u2019s reassuring.\u201d
\n          \u201cShall we go home?\u201d
\n          \u201cThere\u2019s no hurry. Find us a hotel and you can take the rest of the night off.\u201d
\n          \u201cWhat are you going to do?\u201d
\n          \u201cSee the sights.\u201d
\n          \u201cYou\u2019re lying.\u201d
\n          \u201cGo!\u201d
\n          \u201cYes, sir.\u201d With a mock salute Bank spun and left. He had not made eye-contact once during the conversation. The boy was in love with his computer.
\n          \u201cAnd call your mother to say you\u2019re not coming back tonight. I do not want her wrath.\u201d
\n          They had excellent seats in a bar that projected out on to the lagoon. The floor-to-ceiling windows showed the water glittering with the reflection of the city lights. Elizabeth wore a sleeveless jumper and khakis. He appreciated the tautness of her muscles and the smoothness of her skin.
\n          She drank a gin and tonic; he drank mineral water with a twist.
\n          \u201cNo alcohol?\u201d she asked.
\n          \u201cIt\u2019s a school night,\u201d he said. \u201cMind if I ask you a question?\u201d
\n          \u201cGo ahead.\u201d
\n          \u201cI\u2019m not going to be so uncouth as to ask your age, but you were a reporter back in the seventies. You must be pushing sixty, but you look about thirty. What is your voodoo and how can I get some of it?\u201d
\n          She laughed like a girl. \u201cFiendish exercise, a personal dietician, workaholism and a very expensive team of plastic surgeons.\u201d
\n          \u201cExpensive, then.\u201d
\n          \u201cI forgot to add two ex-husbands.\u201d
\n          \u201cI\u2019m sorry to hear that.\u201d
\n          \u201cDon\u2019t be. One was a cheat and the other was gay.\u201d
\n          \u201cI\u2019d have thought they\u2019d have been more discreet.\u201d
\n          \u201cThere\u2019s no such thing, Tope. If it\u2019s in the airwaves, if it\u2019s digitised, if it\u2019s been typed, I can get to it. There are no secrets from me.\u201d
\n          \u201cExcept in people\u2019s heads.\u201d
\n          \u201cExcept in people\u2019s heads,\u201d she said. \u201cBut you can access that data.\u201d
\n          \u201cSometimes.\u201d
\n          \u201cHave you read my mind?\u201d
\n          \u201cNo.\u201d
\n          \u201cRead it now.\u201d
\n          Tope got an image of a parrot with an enormous human penis growing on its back. \u201cOh, you are so juvenile,\u201d he said.
\n          She laughed. \u201cI had to see if you were for real.\u201d
\n          \u201cYou couldn\u2019t imagine pretty flowers and chocolate?\u201d
\n          \u201cBoring.\u201d
\n          \u201cI suppose.\u201d
\n          \u201cTope, why did you do the interview?\u201d she asked, serious.
\n          \u201cFor the money. You came to me, remember?\u201d<\/p>\n

2013
\nEdo City<\/strong>
\nTope was drinking at the beer parlour with Bank who was just old enough for liquor and a few men whose names he could not remember. They argued about the Olympics and Usain Bolt\u2019s merits when compared with Carl Lewis.
\n          This townie girl came up, followed by a cloud of catcalls and whistles. She wore shorts and burdened under a backpack, but there was steel in her eyes. On closer look she wasn\u2019t a girl, but her beauty was uncontested.
\n          \u201cWhich one of you is Tope Adedoyin?\u201d
\n          \u201cI\u2019m Tope,\u201d said Bank.
\n          \u201cNo, I\u2019m Tope,\u201d said a man drunk from oguro<\/em>.
\n          A few others identified themselves as Tope and the woman sucked her teeth and turned away, generating a roar of laughter. Tope got up and went after her.
\n          \u201cMiss? Miss, don\u2019t mind them. I\u2019m the one you\u2019re after. Can I help you?\u201d
\n          She stopped, stared him down, and squinted. \u201cDo you remember me?\u201d
\n          \u201cNo, sorry,\u201d Tope said, dragging the syllables out in his uncertainty.
\n          \u201cKokoro.\u201d
\n          \u201cAhh, from…you used to do those reports on Black-Power.\u201d
\n          \u201cYes, that\u2019s right.\u201d
\n          \u201cWhy are you here?\u201d
\n          \u201cI want to do a biopic on the Pan-African. It\u2019ll be-\u201d
\n          \u201cFuck off.\u201d Tope turned away and went back to his drink.<\/p>\n

2015
\nLagos, Nigeria<\/strong>
\n\u201cYou are so stubborn! I\u2019ve never seen a person so unwilling to be handed buckets of cash,\u201d said Elizabeth.
\n          \u201cI didn\u2019t need any money,\u201d said Tope. \u201cI only decided to do it so that Bank and a few of the other kids from the settlement can go to university.\u201d
\n          \u201cHow is it that the government hasn\u2019t bulldozed that settlement to the ground anyway?\u201d
\n          \u201cThey\u2019ve tried. Strange maladies come upon the men who carry out the orders. Sooner or later, squatters\u2019 rights will kick in. Some of this money is going to a good lawyer too.\u201d
\n          \u201cWhat happened to all the money you stole when you were the Pan-African?\u201d
\n          \u201cI didn\u2019t actually steal a lot of money.\u201d<\/p>\n

1975
\nSouth Africa<\/strong>
\nWhen the dust settled in the vault, Tope inclined his head and the men loped inside to fill their bags.
\n          \u201cIgnore the Rands and concentrate on the gold,\u201d said Tope. \u201cBe quick. We should be out of here within ten minutes.\u201d
\n          The bank officials and security guards seemed oddly calm, and he would have suspected that they had set off an alarm, except, he scanned their thoughts and no such thing had been done. There were no approaching police.
\n          Tope was confused and tired. He had been fighting alongside Cubans and Chinese specialists against the South African Defence Force over Angola. He had spent the last year observing the Angolan independence from the Portuguese. When the whole quagmire descended into civil war it was impossible to decide what side to fight on. MPLA, FNLA, UNITA, what the fuck? Jonas Savimbi was a canny operator, taking support from Communist China and the United States as it suited him.
\n          In the middle of all of this there were starving, diseased and displaced women and children. Tope had decided to help them, but he would need money, hence the excursion south to a Cape Town bank.
\n          He heard gunfire and shattering glass.
\n          He left the vault, went into the main banking hall and saw Alamu on the floor, skull caved in and trailing a long smear of blood that led to broken glass doors. His assault rifle was still in his hands, twisted in on itself like a strip of barbed wire.
\n          \u201cWhat\u2019s happening?\u201d said Paulo.
\n          \u201cYour job is to load the gold,\u201d said Tope. \u201cI\u2019ll deal with this.\u201d
\n          Outside on the street the van they had planned for the getaway was flattened, like a car in a junk yard compactor. There was a man standing on it. He wore a mask and black cape and a skin-tight body suit. And he was familiar.
\n          \u201cIf you surrender now, you won\u2019t taste the might of Black-Power!\u201d said the man.
\n          It was all Tope could do not to laugh. \u201cBrother, is that you?\u201d
\n          The masked man approached and recognised Tope. \u201cWhat the hell is wrong with your hair?\u201d he said.
\n          \u201cIt\u2019s called an Afro. You know, like the Jackson Five.\u201d
\n          \u201cIt looks ridiculous.\u201d He looked beyond Tope and saw the rest of the men. \u201cAre you robbing this bank?\u201d
\n          \u201cBrother, will you not greet me with a kiss? I haven\u2019t seen you in-\u201d
\n          \u201cYou were supposed to stay up north.\u201d
\n          \u201cI know. Things happened. I have been travelling around the world. I have much to tell you.\u201d
\n          \u201cYou can tell me from jail. There can be only one penalty for breaking the law.\u201d
\nBlack-Power stamped his foot and the shock wave cracked the floor and disabled the robbers, except Tope.
\n          \u201cBrother, there is no need for violence. This money is going to feed women and children in Angola.\u201d
\n          Black-Power\u2019s eyes crackled with energy and dark intent. Tope scarcely recognised him. He was heart-broken that his brother would even contemplate aggression.
\n          \u201cYou\u2019ve been with the humans too long,\u201d said Tope. He levitated, flew out and up, away from Cape Town.<\/p>\n

2015<\/strong>
\nThe waiter refilled his glass.
\n          \u201cWhen they reported it I was some kind of super-criminal coward. The men felt left behind, so perhaps there was some truth to it, but there were tears in my eyes,\u201d said Tope.
\n          \u201cBecause you were brothers,\u201d said Elizabeth.
\n          \u201cYes.\u201d He paused. \u201cHe looked so ridiculous in that fucking cape.\u201d
\n          \u201cIt was kind of stupid, wasn\u2019t it?\u201d
\n          They both burst into laughter, loud brays of it which startled the other patrons and drew frowns from the genteel waiters.
\n          \u201cSo what did you do?\u201d
\n          \u201cDo? You know what I did. I made a costume of my own and fought back.\u201d<\/p>\n

End Part 1<\/h5>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Prologue February 18, 1979 Sahara Desert, Africa My hands are deep in sand, and there is blood on the snow.           He did not know why there was snow.           He tried to rise, but it was not time. His breath came in ragged gasps, a death rattle? His ribs grated on each other when he inspired. 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