DUP - Up In Arms

GAVIN MILLS

Dup Up In Arms

The South African Arms Deal Scandal

First published by Gavin Mills 2024

Copyright © 2024 by Gavin Mills

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or localities is entirely coincidental.

Gavin Mills asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Gavin Mills has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks, and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in the book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

Fourth edition

ISBN (paperback): 9781981671458

ISBN (hardcover): 9798224187621

This book is dedicated to our continent, my country and all the incredible people who inspired this story. I thank you for touching my heart and touching my life in so many different ways. God bless Africa.

In memory of my parents, Johan Jacob & Colleen Mills

CONTENTS

Foreword vii

Part One

1 Homecoming 3

2 Challenging Lawd 14

Part Two

3 The Induction of Cade 21

Part Three

4 Roxy Swallow (Cade) 29

5 Down and Out 39

Part Four

6 Miss World 1992 - Sun City 43

Part Five - 1993

7 Opportunity knocks 53

8 Hooking a Queen 62

9 New Dawn 65

10 Time for Lebo 75

11 Cry for Freedom 83

Foreword

Although the story has been woven around the South African arms deal saga, all information and timelines referred to - and related to the arms deal - are in the public domain and freely available on the internet. My little tale is intended to entertain, and possibly make you think, but not necessarily inform.

That said, many of the characters have been inspired by people I know of or have known in my life - but most times, names and places have been changed for obvious reasons; any similarities to actual people living or dead is entirely coincidental.

For the record, while Ball/Lawd is loosely based on a real person, this individual was apparently assassinated in 1990.

Rhede, Cade and Salib however, are purely figments of my imagination.

Part One

2002 May Onwards

1 - Homecoming

May 2002: Tuesday evening - Johannesburg

It’s just after six when I stumble up to the front door and ring the bell. The sun is hanging low, the air is dusty and dry, laced with the noxious death of rush-hour smog. My back hurts like hell, my hands hurt like hell, I am dirty and I’m tired, hungry, irritable and badly beaten up. I hear footsteps inside, charging closer. Home sweet home.

‘Dup! For God’s sake… We were worried sick! Casey and I… My God!’

Shock in alarmed eyes peering over hands covering a distressed mouth. Thankfully it seems she’s no longer intent on tearing my head off. Being locked up for a few days can have fringe benefits.

‘Look at you… What have they done to you! Oh my baby…’

Tears swell in her beautiful hazel eyes, concern replacing anger. I almost want to cry. She can have no idea what I have been through, the last few days. She will never know. Thank God I am out of there and I am still alive! She reaches up to touch the pulverized skin around my eyes. I wince my response..

‘It’s okay baby. Worse than it looks. I’m okay. Promise - but a favor maybe? Could you get me a scotch… please; and something to eat. I really need to eat.’

Sure I understand why Sara would be freaked. First finding out about my ‘Salome moments’, then the pic story, and then me being arrested. She had been freaked already when the cops picked me up - that’s what loving wives do - and let’s face it, gone for three days… But thankfully things break in my favor this time, at least it was not that I was out partying.

Familiar aromas of dinner waft through from the kitchen as I stumble inside. Curry maybe, or bobotie. Normally among my favorites, but not tonight. I don’t feel like either. Sara is trying to assess the damage as I squeeze past her for the stairs.

‘Dup look at you. Shouldn’t we call someone? I mean…’

‘Who? For what baby, for what? You know they wanna know shit …about us anyway. Denzel is dead! Did they tell you? Who we gonna call, the President?’

‘But Dup, in God’s name this is not right. Why you? Everybody knows! …This can’t be happening.’

I head for the bathroom, the smell of bobotie mixed with fresh floor polish following me.

‘That bloody video. That’s why. The papers. You saw… We should have just shut the fuck up. Four years… It was done. Over!’

‘Dup what are you saying? I thought… Oh my baby.’

‘Please Sara. Can I have that Scotch?’

Sara is in a state, halfway up the stairs behind me. She goes to say more, but then thinks better of it and charges back down.

‘Scotch coming up. I’ll phone for some pizza. Oh Dup, this is insane.’

I enter the bathroom and switch on the light. In the mirror I study my battered face, torn clothes and bad attitude. Sheesh, they did me good. Real good. My face is the worst. Covered in crusted blood, and I feel filthy. I try peer into my mouth. Can’t see too good. The bathroom light-bulb is blown again. Why always the same globe? We need to get someone around to check it out.

I lean forward for a better look. A front tooth is broken off almost at the gum line. Only one thank God; two others cracked and chipped, but at the back. They can probably be saved but with the missing front tooth, I look like a hobo. I know it could have been worse. A lot worse. Small mercies no doubt, but still hurts like hell …I wonder if they hit a nerve? But nerve or not, my mouth caked with dried blood looks like I’ve been gargling with razor blades. And my nose is broken - again - and black eyes, a tear above the right one. Somehow I look like a raccoon who opened his mouth in the wrong place at a very wrong time. Bloody asseholes. Why does everyone hit on the same side? Remind me next time to cause shit with lefties.

Where does Sara keep the cotton wool; do we have a first aid kit? Fuck it. I wash my face with water. Jeez that hurts. Sara’s back with the Scotch.

‘Let me have a look at that…’

I try pull away, change the subject.

‘Do we have a first aid kit? Did you call for pizza?’

‘On the way. Come here.’

I move closer reluctantly. Here we go. I know she means well, but I’m in no mood for prodding, no matter how well intended.

‘Jeez my baby. Did they say anything about the pic? The guys in the paper… Salib the power guy and that Cade character - is he really an arms dealer?’

She’s trying to look in my mouth. ‘What did they do to you… Why?’

‘Because they’re cops and they can, that’s why.’

I decide not to tell her about my cute little remark, just before they went absolutely ape-shit.

‘I don’t know. All I do know is Denzel is dead. The shit beaten out of him - five hours after we gave him the pic. It has to be that. Which means it has to be them - in the paper. It was them. Denzel said so. His sidekick said so. And now he’s dead and they take me in. How? All bullshit I tell you, they’re fucking crazy! How long before the pizza?’

‘Do they know about the film?’

‘How should I know. Didn’t ask.’

I can see she’s totally freaked, and I don’t want her to worry.

‘Don’t stress babes, it could have been worse.’

‘How Dup? The cops are on your case, Denzel is dead …and we still don’t know a thing about …them.’

‘Well I…’ I start, unsure where to go. ‘They could have broken my legs and kept me locked up. Or even killed me. That must count for something… Thank God for Jarred. That was good thinking babes.’

I try a ‘you-done-good’ peck, but she pulls away.

‘Oh God Dup, I’m so scared. What we gonna do?’

‘Maybe sleep on it? Maybe show them the pic.’ Do I mean it? And then what?

‘Who… the police?’

‘Screw the police.’

I take off my filthy shirt. It’s scuffed bad, not just from the beating; also from spending a night in a stinking cell with the broken and the downtrodden. It’s Tuesday, late afternoon, I smell like a pole-cat, and I really need a shower.

The front door buzzes. Karma!

‘Let me get that.’

Without waiting for an answer, Sara’s gone. That’s okay with me - I hate being faffed over at the best of times. I spit in the basin. Gob and blood. I rinse my mouth. Ouch! I run my tongue over my teeth, dry my face. Shit, there’s another tooth loose. I jump in the shower, rinsing my body super fast - and hear the doorbell again. What do they expect, butlers on roller skates?

The bathroom door is open, and downstairs I hear Sara open the front door, knowing she’ll be all smiles for the pizza man - but there are two male voices. It doesn’t sound like the pizza man - or they’ve lifted their game a lot. I grab a towel and start drying off. Can wash up properly later. Curious, I sneak a peek down from upstairs. There are two guys. Orientals. Thin. In good shape. Both wearing good suits and wide mouthed, narrow eyed oriental smiles. I can see Sara is alarmed but hides it well.

‘Pizzas?’

‘Good afternoon Mrs. Du Preez.

’

Which one is talking? Whichever, his mouth hardly moves. Who cares. They look …not like the pizza man.

‘Yes?’ she says politely.

‘Is Mr Du Preez home?’

From behind the door looking down, I can see by the way he says it he knows full well I’m home. Are they watching the house? Who are they?

Sara answers stiffly. ‘Not yet, …but expecting him any moment. Can I maybe help?’

But no flies on these two. Straight in like a recitation.

‘He needs to come with us.’

‘Well he’s not here …you’ll have to come back.’

Sara retreats, starts closing the door. The door stops, prevented by a foot, gentle but firm. The choir of two have their lines all worked out.

‘It’s better he come with us. Please tell him. We will wait.’

With gentle force they ease the door back open and with typical oriental class, bow slightly and wait for her to retreat for their access. Their voices sound like trouble, drifting upstairs through gargled space, but thankfully I feel much better than when I arrived home. Amazing what a hot shower can do when you’re down. But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out something is not right. Especially after the past two days. I can feel my nerves standing up like soldiers.

Here we go again. God I love my life. That stupid film!

In a fresh T-shirt I head downstairs, drying my hair with a towel smelling like Stay-soft. I have my jeans back on, still smeared with blood and grime. Haven’t really had time to dress for this tea-party. I see Sara leading them into the lounge, off to the right of the downstairs hallway. Is it only the two orientals? I can’t see anyone else. As I make my grand, slightly harassed entrance, they are looking around nonchalantly like tourists in a souvenir shop, and I get the uneasy feeling that I am to be the souvenir.

The two men make no effort to sit as Sara turns to me and forces a smile.

‘Dup these men want to chat to you…’

‘Hi. How can I help?’

I force a smile too, feeling like I’ve got ice up my ass. The taller one speaks first.

‘Good afternoon Mr Du Preez. Pleased to meeting with you. My name is Lennox,’ and Tweedle Dum his buddy pipes up, ‘and I am Lewis.’

Lennox and Lewis? You gotta be kidding me. Where’re the cameras?

‘How can I help you?’

‘You need to come with us.’

Now I’m really tense. Three days chatting to the feds, my ex boss dead after me giving him the pic, and now Laurel and Hardy from Chinatown. How many are out to get us? One little frame from one little video for God’s sake.

‘Where are we going? Why?’ I ask.

‘It is important. We must go. You come, yes?’

‘If I said no, you would take me anyway, right?’

Are these guys born with smiles? How do they make out at funerals? Lordy lordy, the way this is panning out, maybe I find out.

‘Let me get a jacket. Will be right down.’

Sara is horrified. Her eyes glisten with badly controlled tears.

‘Dup. You can’t…’ to Lennox and Lewis like a wildcat, ‘What do you want him for? Leave us alone you bastards! What do you want with him!’

‘Sara, it’s okay. I’ll be back. Soon.’

Yeah right. And Humpty Dumpty is doing Dixie in latex.

The second last thing I want to do is go with them, but the last thing is to have them in my house with my wife and child. Then I realize I haven’t seen or heard Casey yet. Unusual. Is she okay? Could this thing have . . . I will kill them if they touch my child!

Suddenly hooting outside in the street. I look at my watch. Seven on the dot. Are we expecting someone? I look at Sara. She is white.

‘That’s probably Vanessa. Play date. Bringing Casey home.’

I am relieved she’s only been on a play date, but also want to puke. They’re going to see my daughter, and there’s nothing I can do about it. The doorbell.

‘Anyone home?’

It’s Vanessa. Remind me to change that ridiculous door- bell chime. Who plays Jingle Bells in May? Vanessa’s carrying Casey. She’s asleep. I try look calm, force a smile and not wince in pain as crusted scabs crack open around my mouth.

Sara approaches her friend, caring eyes on her daughter, ‘How was she? Good I hope?’

‘Had a wonderful time.’

Vanessa’s trying in vain to conceal her alarm at my face, and curiosity regarding our uninvited guests.

‘Here. Let me help you.’

Sara steps forward and cuddles Casey out of Vanessa’s arms. ‘Looks like she had a long day.’

‘You’re telling me!’

Vanessa’s eyes stray back to the Far East. Time to save the day.

‘Thanks so much for bringing her home,’ I try smile. ‘Just been finishing off some work. Please meet my associates …err Mr Lennox and Mr Lewis. We’re working on something big.’

She offers a limp wrist and a slightly wet lipped smile. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

They ignore her hand and bow courteously. She stands uncertain, then turns for the door.

‘Must dash. A family to feed. Sara, please let me know if you’re still interested in the D-object.’ She winks.

The D-object? What is the D-object? Sounds dirty. Am I getting a surprise? Clean your mind up dammit - this is serious. Lennox and Lewis shuffle, indicating it’s time to leave.

I wait for Vanessa to smile her way out, then shoot upstairs and am back in less than a minute with a leather bomber jacket. In May it can be cold at night. Lennox is driving and Lewis is in the passenger seat, or Lewis is driving and Lennox is in the passenger seat, I have no idea. They look the bloody same to me - I can’t see which is taller with my swollen eyes and them sitting down. Suffice it to say, they are in front and I’m piled in the back. It’s a Pajero, so space is not a problem. Not too old, not too new. The kind of Pajero you would see doing the Can-Can singing the National Anthem down a deserted street, and still not notice.

Lennox (or Lewis) drives carefully, taking pains to blend in and dissolve into the smear of early evening traffic. We are heading west out on the N1 when Lewis (or Lennox) turns and holds out the balaclava.

‘It would be better if you wear this.’

‘Sorry mate. I get car-sick. I can just lie down…’

‘Please put it on.’

I can see there’s no point in arguing. Could I maybe take them? I am fit and strong, but I’ve seen that look before. From Tony in Portugal, a long time ago. He was a bloody ninja. He could follow people right into their houses without being seen. Despite the fact that I am much bigger than either of them, it’s apparent I would . . . wear the balaclava.

I snatch it from him - the least I can do is look cool, even if I feel like a basket case. Delicately I pull it over my head . . . Ouch! Fuck, my lip…

Then all hell breaks loose. Trained hands all over me. God knows what’s going on - I can’t see. And as quick as it started, it’s over. Quiet - except now I feel I have handcuffs on. Fuck me. How’d he do that? Maybe when this is over he can teach Sara and me some tricks.

I settle down and try get comfortable. No chance. I try to make conversation, learn something. Where are we going? It suddenly hits me. The third guy. Three is dead. That’s it. Either something to do with that - or Cade, the arms guy. Must be.

But they will not be drawn in. Nothing. Once or twice a couple of foreign words, like gargling with marbles. But else, nothing. I try concentrate on the journey. How long? How many turns? Left, right. I try count the intervals… I give up. Maybe I’m not cut out for this cloak and dagger shit - or maybe just movies are full of shit. When in doubt, doze. So with nothing better to do, I start to drop off, more from exhaustion than intention. They’re playing cool sounds - especially for foreigners - the air-con is on warm and I am out. Stupid Dup.

Suddenly I am jolted awake. We’re on a gravel road - or off-road. This is a god damned Pajero; must be a rough bloody track to shake us around like this. Where are we? Where are they taking me? I’ve got a family for Heaven’s sake. What can possibly be so heavy with that video - why the big deal? Well obviously it is a big deal. Big enough for Denzel to end up dead. It was a fair bet they would be coming for me next. Sooner or later, for me - and probably then my family. And what had the cops said: ‘Three is dead.’ Is that really it?

2 - Challenging Lawd

May 2002: Tuesday evening - Kyalami

‘I know it’s not convenient… It was out of our hands from the beginning.’

He’s on the phone in a large hall, clinical white, a fireplace warming from the centre throwing soft shadows on designer white textures, marble floors and understated opulence. Artwork is clean and shows taste.

Nelson Lawd is in his mid fifties, taller than average, and from a strict regime of daily exercise and healthy diet, looks fifteen years younger. His intelligent blue-grey eyes, carefully groomed hair touched at the temples with silver, and elegantly casual style of dress reflect the personality of one who is comfortable with himself and the deep respect generally attracted of others.

He leans back and toys with the stub nose thirty eight in his hands. On wireless, hands free and feet up, he listens with attention slightly distracted by the gun. From the moment he had heard of the picture, he had known the hornets would swarm. He answers, bored.

‘But how do you know he has it?’

He looks at his watch. Almost seven o’ clock. What’s keeping them? Should be here any minute. His words are measured.

‘But it could be anyone …I know he worked for Smart. But he’s a no one for goodness sake, not in the game… Yes I know it’s a mess. …Look. None of us knew. How could we… In any event, have your men spoken to him?’

Lawd has been in situations like this before. But not here. Not in South Africa - and certainly not with amateurs. Arms dealing is not a game for amateurs. Sure there is money to be made. More money than most people could dream of, but there are rules; the way the game should be played. He knows this conversation is going nowhere. The other phone starts ringing.

‘Look. I have to go… The phone. I’ll see what I can do. Yes. I will get back to you, but don’t do anything hasty. Don’t do anything stupid. This can blow up in our faces. We need to keep our heads.’

The other phone is ringing incessantly. He answers.

‘Nelson Lawd?’

‘Hi. It’s me.’

Lawd straightens up, sudden concern tightening his jaw.

‘Kieryn. Hi! Wasn’t expecting… Are you okay?’

He warms his voice. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

Silence on the other end. Lawd knows what the boy must be going through. Multiple Sclerosis is a terrible disease - and for a young man in the prime of life; destined to spend his remaining days as a paraplegic. Still so young.

Genuine concern in Lawd’s voice. ‘How’s the weather in Paris?’

‘Getting warmer. A bit overcast.’

The voice is weak and sad. Lawd curses inwardly the gods that decreed a fate worse than death on this young man who he cared so much about; a man who only four years ago seemed destined for a life of promise, a life of wide open spaces and blessed tomorrows. Now, a testament to the fact that money can’t buy everything.

For eight years, there had been no contact - Lawd was supposed to be dead. But he had kept watch, bled inside when he learnt of the MS, and decided to reach out. And now, not able to help him, only to watch him suffer. Watch him die.

‘Do you need anything?’

He hears the soft bitter laughter on the other side.

‘I know my boy. You need to be strong. We cannot give up. Maybe by some miracle…’

‘Miracle? Yeah sure. A little white dove to give me my legs? Give me back my life.’

Lawd is silent. There is nothing to say. He knows that he is dreaming beyond dreams, and he knows the young man on the other end knows this too.

‘Where are you?’

Lawd bites his lip. ‘It’s best I do not say.’

Silence again. Then the voice on the other end speaks again, sounding close to tears.

‘I can’t take it any more. I want to die.’

‘Don’t say that Kia. I know that is not true…’

‘You know? How could you know? You have a life… I want to die. I want this to end.’

‘I will visit in a few weeks. Please don’t do anything silly. We will find a way.’

‘There is no way. We both know that.’

Lawd hears the car approaching outside. There is nothing else he can say. The conversation is awkward. If only they could swop places. He had had more than his share of life. He would gladly give his in an instant, for the future of this once striking young man. But that cannot be.

‘I have to go. People are here. Please do not give up hope. I will be there before you know it. I love you.’

‘Yeah. Me too. Think of me when you get a chance.’

“I do. All day. Every day. Please look after yourself and take your medication.’

‘Bye.’

‘I love you. Bye.’

The phone goes dead, leaving Lawd nursing his memories, cursing the hand of fate that dealt the unworthy - like those he was dealing with - a golden spoon, leaving the innocent who deserved better, to suffer the wrath of a merciless world.

Part Two

3 - The Induction of Cade

At the same time I agree albeit reluctantly, to go with Lennox and Lewis, Chrighton Cade is irritably packing his executive briefcase for an unscheduled trip to South Africa, in Brighton England. But it is not laptop, books, files. Cade has a far more sinister and deadly payload. A payload first conceived with the help of a little old lady in Yugoslavia in 1990. An old lady who walked and acted like a soldier. Thin lips, ruthlessly pulled back hair fastened in a tight bun and eyes that were black, living alone in recluse in the countryside of the bombed out hell that once was Yugoslavia.

Bogdana Berovic was once a vivacious, bubbly and outgoing young lady of seventeen, ready to share a joke and rebuff unwanted advances with a wink and a smile. She was living with her loving family on a smallholding, making a meager living delivering milk and vegetables to neighbors and friends in the vicinity of Ljubliana, and everyone loved her.

Then came the rumblings of world war. Rumors abounded about Hitler and his invasion of Poland. Some thought he was the savior, others thought he was Satan incarnate. Bogdana didn’t give it much thought either way. It was not part of her life.

And then Fuhrer Directive No. 25 issued by Adolf Hitler on 27 March 1941, and Belgrade was destroyed. Bogdana’s mother’s brother died along with his two small children, and his wife disappeared. It was now very real - and frightening, but still in another world. Then the Italians came. Or at least Marco came, and Bogdana became ‘Maiale’ - Pig.

Marco had no interest in the war, Hitler, Mussolini, or ideology. He had no interest in anything but destruction; buildings, people, lives.

Marco and a handful of unshaven, smelly men simply turned up at their house one day, and Bogdana’s mother went out to meet them. She invited them into their home; her father was tense, Bogdana could see that. Her mother made them a meal. They were starving.

After they had eaten, they joked a bit. Marco yawned and looked around. He saw Pito, their old Labrador lying by the fire. ‘Whose dog is this?’

Bogdana’s younger sister held up her hand sheepishly.

Marco smiled. ‘You love her?’

‘Yes,’ the young girl whispered through an uncertain smile.

‘Come here darling, and bring your dog.’ She came.

‘Look carefully. I want to show you something. He took out a long curved Bowie knife, stroking the dog gently with his other hand. She wagged her aged tail looking up at him.

Slowly Marco tightened his grip on the dog’s neck, then his cold smiling eyes never leaving the girl, he slit the dog’s throat from ear to ear. The dog whimpered and strained as her life-blood drained, but Marco just held her.

‘That is pain,’ he explained. ‘But not your doggie. It is you. Can you feel it? Can you feel inside?’

The child was transfixed. She couldn’t speak. No one could. They could not believe what they had just seen. He threw the quivering dog gushing blood from its neck, to the floor.

‘The thing about pain is it has layers. It feeds me - and I know how to feed it back.’ Suddenly he took out his pistol and shot Bogdana’s father and brother, both in a state of paralyzed shock after what they had just witnessed; the father dead, the son fatal. A satisfied glance at his work, he turned and faced the terrified mother and her daughters.

‘Now my three lovely ladies, if I shoot mama next, her daughters will suffer. But say I have to…’

He lunged with the knife, slashing professionally at the face of the young girl with the dog. Her mother shrieked, her mind going; Bogdana was dead-still, transfixed. This could not be real. This was a nightmare.

‘Now Mama. Can you feel it? But young ones should not suffer this world.’

In another practiced flash, he sliced through the bleeding young girl’s neck and she fell convulsing next to her dying dog.

‘Mama mama. Your turn will be next. But I want you to know a secret first. You will be raped by my men. All of them. And they will rape you until you are dead. But I don’t want you to think about the pain of dying.’

He looked across at Bogdana, measuring, ‘I want you to see in your head that we will do the same to your daughter from now, every day. But we will keep her alive. Maiale …Pig. She will be our pig and our whore. Because look at her…’

Bogdana still could not move. His eyes were seeping into her flesh, right through her modest dress. But she did not realize that it was her looks, long legs, long hair, curves that melted stride into form, that kept her alive; a saving grace of good country living. And it had just ended.

Her mother lasted three days and nights. And Bogdana could hear her screams. In another world, she went about cleaning the house and serving Marco and his men. When they asked for sex, she gave it. And so her mind and body became separated.

She survived those days and survived the war, and it was by the strange hand of hate that she eventually helpedMarco escape to Budapest when liberation came. And because of her help and favors of years, she lived.

But she was Pig. She would live in a gutter and mix with whores. She learnt to fight like a wildcat and had come to thrive on pain. And then one day a few years on she met a gypsy. A passing trader - a kindred spirit. And he introduced her to the purity of both enduring and inflicting agony.

Legend has it she was gifted and shared her talents with a growing cult-like following of religious extremists, masochists and sadists; and rumors spread like disease of her torture techniques. She understood that pain is a combination of things. It needs the right setting, the right deprivation, the right cocktail - and fear. Always the fear. And that terror cultivated is more effective than fear inflicted.

She became the Bosnian princess of pain, spoken about in hushed voices at secret gatherings both within and without the law. And her network grew with her reputation.

The story has it that she eventually tracedMarco and some of his men. Marco lived for twenty-three days. By the end, he was not a man, had no mind. He was a pitiful mass of mutilated flesh that had consciousness, but aware only of torment, nothing else.

By the late eighties, Bogdana had eventually come to peace with her past and was living a comfortable life, thanks to the growing demand for her heinous talents. But she had also realised something was missing. Even she had come to understand true inner peace comes through balance: Where hatred drives the mind, only love can soothe the soul. And then she found Miguel, a ten year old street urchin who would surely have died a victim of blood-thirsty streets in a dysfunctional world. She took him in and cared for him, giving him love and solace as passionately as she gave her victims pain and suffering.

In 1989, Pig was summoned by Milosevic, and that is where her and Chrighton Cade first crossed paths. Where Cade became her apprentice, she became his mentor and guru. And Cade learnt the arts of enduring and inflicting pain; skills both useful and delectable as he moved up in the world of trading in arms.

And this too was where Cade first encountered Ahmed Salib, a young, smallish man of mixed Arab and Indian descent. Ahmed came from ridiculous family wealth on both his parents’ sides, and like many young boys of his privileged status, started dabbling in things better left alone.

Word reached Cade of the young man’s interest in Saddam Hussein’s Supergun, and Cade in turn had been curious as to Salib’s intentions - and of course financial muscle - but soon came to realize the boy’s bravado far outstripped his resources, and became bored with him.

Then the time came for Cade to leave Bosnia, and he knew Bogdana would have understood and welcomed the logic of his actions when just before he left, he took her life in front of Miguel - and the young boy never forgot…

Cade had had no intention of killing the child, but Miguel had not known this, and fearing for his life, ran away, once more trusting his fate to the mercies of the streets - where as chance would have it, he encountered the same Ahmed Salib, extremely wealthy Arab/Indian mixed-blood who it seemed, had a very strange disposition either towards young boys in general or Miguel in particular, and extended a hand of solace.

Salib gave love and security for the price of the child’s ownership. Miguel would travel with Salib a few years later when he made the move to greener pastures, to a newly liberated South Africa. And one night in his late teens, he would accompany Salib to an establishment newly acquired by his mentor and caregiver, and would take up employment in this establishment which would gain notoriety in secret circles, as Church.

Part Three

4 - Roxy Swallow (Cade)

May 2002: Saturday afternoon - Sandton

Roxy Swallow Cade throws the Ming Dynasty vase as hard as she can. It crashes with an explosion of splinters against the wall. This disgusting city! She hates Johannesburg. Had done from the moment she set foot off the plane. She hates this miserable country and its purple haze population. People who smiled and danced in the street as the rainbow nation when it changed from the old; now angry and suspicious, having lost the ability to live, going about their pathetic lives, queuing every morning and afternoon like penguins, to be squeezed down the tunnels of their dismal existences.

How she wished she was in Paris. The street cafes, the revolution still pumping in the minds of Parisienne arrogance. That air of sensual superiority that the English so hated but secretly admired.

And she hates above all things, Chrighton Cade. Tall, good-looking, square jawed, always impeccably dressed. Business executive, philanthropist, man of honor and standing - who only under the cloak of darkness, showed his true colors: A man who thrived on inflicting pain. A sadist of the worst kind. A lover who finds release not through orgasm, but through blood, screams and the destruction of souls.

Chrighton Cade; her lover, her man through thick and thin until death them do part. God how she would love that death. The release. The end of the anguish. Because then she would know…

Roxy Anne Swallow Cade, before Roxy Anne Swallow. How they had giggled when she first told him her name. And how she had gushed, when dripping sweat after the first time she had gone down on him only six hours later, he had said that the name made perfect sense.

But she knows she is not really Mrs Chrighton Cade. They live together and he introduces her as his wife - to some - but they are not married. She knows they would never be married. She knows that like his previous wife, one day she too will be evicted for being a victim to age. And she knows those days are coming. Already Chrighton no longer shows lust for her …for her body. Now it is like a ritual. A ritual of silent torture from a distant assailant. All that is of interest to him is the pain. Inflicting agony. And Roxy can no longer stand their relationship.

It is not so much the pain, it is the lack of passion. She could have taken the pain any time. If only she knew that it was her and her alone that he wanted - to humiliate, hurt… and ravage.

Part of her mind says just get up and leave. You have your own mind. You have places you can go. It’s not as though you will be out on the street. For goodness sake, just go.

But she can’t. And she knows that too. She would always be here. Waiting, hoping. Hoping against hope that this time he would see the light. That he would listen to reason. They had enough money to live ten lives.

If he would just stop all these secrets, all these lies… stop whatever it is he is doing with these disgusting people. Not even forever. Just for awhile. For a try out. She will treat him like a god, and he can do whatever it is he wishes, to her body …to her mind. They need to talk. What time will he be back? They really need to talk.

Then the call from the Spa. She had almost forgotten about her massage.

May 2002: Saturday Evening - Sandton

The hotel is boring as hell, the TV shit, the room service menu could be bettered at the local dog pound. Other than that, everything is sweet as cherry pie in downtown Sandton where Roxy Swallow Cade is just about done with her massage. Would have been much better had it been from a man. Cute and cosmetic and probably therapeutic, but she could have done with having some tenpins rattled.

Cade said he and the others would only be a few hours, but that was three days ago! He had promised they would be going for dinner. Nice and romantic. Just the two of them. Not all those bloated politicians; wheeler dealers, sleazy looking gropers with pompous attitude and bad breath. Just the two of them. What the hell was going on?

She gets dressed slowly. Looks at herself in the full-length mirror, shakes her head in disgust. I look like a middle-aged spinster. Screw this, decorum or not: Tonight, if and when Cade gets home, I am a cougar. It’s Saturday night for goodness sake!

She pulls out a slinky little red number. Not too short but a naughty slit up her left thigh. All the better for thigh-highs my dear. She puts it on. The neckline flirts gloriously with her ample breasts. Tonight Mr. Cade, you are mine.

The door opens. She rushes through to meet him. It is Cade - in a foul mood.

After dropping Roxy at the hotel on Wednesday morning, Cade had given some serious thought to what he had had to do in the next few hours. At first it was just going to be Pentathol, and get it done. Why bother being creative? A simple yes or no, that was all he was looking for. But it hadn’t worked out like that.

‘Go fuck your granny!’

That’s what the idiot had said. Cade had felt himself explode inside. …What did he know? Did he know something? Did he somehow know something about Bogdana?

The unforgivable arrogance. Trying to be cool and clever. Did he think this was a movie? It wasn’t a time for humoring. It was a time for blood. Blood spilt by Cade’s own hands, his knuckles, his fists. Blood that took effort, rage, an absence of reason, …and almost two days until finally just before lunch today, the fool broke down and told Cade and Salib …the truth. Yes, it was him. He had told Lawd. And then there was no more reason for him to live, so they had left him in that old dirty warehouse, to die alone.

‘You are only three days late,’ Roxy pouts through her sulk.

‘Not now Roxy. I am tired.’

‘I’ll run you a bath. You can relax. I’ll give you a nice massage, and then …it’s Saturday night …my first time here. When we checked in… you said dinner?’

Cade smiles a funeral, ‘I told you darling. Not tonight. Okay? Not - to - night…’

Roxy Swallow Cade has had enough. ‘Fuck this joke. Fuck you Cade! Why did you bring me here; why did you bring me with? Just to be your little whore? Although that would be fine! Why? For what? Fuck you!’

She storms off in her slit red mini, stockings and thigh-highs, slams the bedroom door.

Cade ambles to the bar. Prepares a sherry. Changes his mind. Pours himself a Vodka. Straight. He perches on the dresser desk, sightless eyes gazing out at the post rush-hour traffic crawling like neon ants in the street below. He picks up the phone and dials.

‘Yes it’s me. Has it been arranged? …What time do they collect us? I just want to make it clear: I will not be touched… and she will be… no more.’

He listens. Nods.

‘Tonight at 10h00? We will be outside.’

He downs the vodka and purrs through the closed bedroom door.

‘Listen Roxy, sorry my baby. Been a long three days, really tiring meetings. But a promise is a promise. Let me have that bath, see if we can fit the massage, and then a supper you will never forget. Okay?’

Roxy rips open the door, all smiles. ‘Really? You mean it babes? We’re going…’ she half frowns still trying to smile.

‘…Just the two of us?’

He reaches for her hand. ‘Just the two of us baby.’

She flings her arms around his neck.

‘Oh Chrighton. This is wonderful. You will not believe how excited I am!’

‘Me too baby, me too. But I better get bathing. Our lift arrives at ten.’

At exactly ten ‘o clock, Chrighton and Roxy Swallow Cade are downstairs at reception when their transport arrives. Both are in good spirits, Chrighton in anticipation of an end to an irritation, Roxy because after his bath and massage, they still had time to make love. Not the romantic coupling she would have liked, but at least he had been gentle, considerate and in good spirits. Chrighton was a good lover when he put his mind to it. He was also a good hater.

She was still flushed in the afterglow of their lovemaking, again wearing the little red outfit she had donned just before he arrived, even earning a compliment from her lover for her efforts. This confused her. It had been ages since he last even noticed what she looked like, let alone making the effort to pass her a compliment. But small mercies were to be appreciated not questioned, and she had been determined to ride the wave as long as it lasted.

Chrighton gently steers Roxy out the glitzy hotel entrance and casts his eyes around the drop-off zone. They immediately see the charcoal gray stretch Mercedes waiting, still with motor running. Strange that the driver didn’t come into the foyer to find them. Strange that he had not approached the concierge or doorman. Strange that he was parked at the far end of the drop-off zone, half-hidden in long shadows. But Roxy dismisses these thoughts as her man leads with a disarming smile, towards their waiting ride.

‘That must be him over there. Come, we have a date to keep. Nothing like a back seat for two to get the evening going.’

She giggles as she follows towards the waiting car, taking care with her stilettos on the cobbled paving. Cade holds the door for her, casting a last quick scan of the drop-off zone, making sure no one is taking notice. No one is. He loves it when plans came together. Seated together in the back, she slides her hand up his thigh, a hungry glint in her eyes, not only for food.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Never you mind. It has all been arranged. I told you I would give you a night you will never forget. Ask no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.’

‘Oh Chrighton you are such a devil when you want to be…’

Chrighton beams back and squeezes her hand. Anticipation is arousing him. Might as well make the most of it.

The Mercedes eases out of the drop-off zone and into the Sandton nightlife traffic, down to William Nicol Drive and then heads north.

Fifteen minutes later they are out of town heading west along the N1, taking the Honeydew off-ramp and once again heading north. There is almost no traffic and the road is dark. Roxy can’t help feeling anxious. Where are they going? A romantic restaurant out here? Trying not to show feelings prompted by female intuition, she asks him.

‘Wait my lovely lass. You will see.’

They pull onto a dark dusty road heading into black. There is the smell of fire. Where are they going? No signs. Nothing. Just black and bumps penetrating even the Merc’s superb suspension.

‘Chrighton, is this one of your …tricks?’

The tension is apparent in her voice. He just smiles. There is a building ahead. Dappled light weaves through the thick underbrush. A castle. It looks like a castle. Roxy feels a rush of excitement. Her man had promised. God, she can hardly contain herself.

‘What is this place,’ she asks, excited and intrigued.

‘Church,’ Cade answers with a mischievous wink.

‘The church? We’re coming to a church?’

‘No my love. I did not say a church. I said Church.’

Roxy cocks her head and tries to see her man’s face shrouded in darkness.

‘Church? What kind of name is that for a restaurant… Why they call it that?’ trying to make sense of the building looming closer out of the shadows.

Cade squeezes her hand, ‘Be patient sweetness, all will be revealed.’

The car slows and stops outside an imposing column flanked entrance washed in violet blue. A black man with close cropped hair, dressed in a dark tuxedo emerges from the shadows and opens her door. He smiles flashing diamond implants in his front teeth. It is a face of deception. Large. He is a large man.

Cade nudges her. ‘So are we going to wait all night?’

She sees other shapes. Other men lurking in the shadows nearby. The smell of burning is stronger. Not wood, but she can’t place the smell. But she knows it. Like pork? Sweet but vulgar.

‘You go ahead, they will take you to our table. …Just have to make a call and arrange a meeting time with our lift here. Sort out a few details.’

She hesitates out. Straightens her dress, clutches her bag to her chest. She turns towards the entrance, a bad feeling inside. Church is very different from what she had expected. Having second thoughts, she turns back.

‘No baby, can’t I rather wait…’

Cold drops over Chrighton’s eyes. Roxy knows that look.

‘Okay. I’ll see you inside… You won’t be long?’

‘Darling. How could I not rush for someone as ravishing as you are tonight? I’ll be with you in a second. Keep my chair warm.’

She smiles, blows him a kiss and follows the black man in the black suit. He looks like a wrestler, obviously not comfortable in his tux. She enters pensively through the heavy wooden double doors. They close with finality behind her.

Chrighton dials and the phone rings twice. A voice answers. ‘You have arrived.’

‘Yes… You understand what I want? Can you be sure?’

‘You will not see her again.’

‘What have you got planned?’

‘As we discussed, dinner and a show for a very rich audience with …exotic tastes, where your lady will be the star attraction making one . . . at most two appearances.’

‘Yes fine. Good. But not just I never see her again…’

‘I know. There will be nothing after. A body will never be found. She will cease to be.’

‘Nothing…?’

‘Nothing. Please give the package to the driver as agreed. He has been briefed.’

Chrighton takes an envelope from his jacket pocket. He leans forward with the package. The driver half turns, his face expressionless, eyes glazed from too many bad things, takes the envelope and turns forward again without a word.

He puts the car in gear.

‘Where would you like to be dropped off?’

‘A quick drink in a crowded place, and then back to my hotel.’

5 - Down and Out

May 2002: Saturday evening - Muldersdrift

Miguel hates Church, but has no choice.

Ahmed Salib treats him well and there is nothing he really wants for or needs. Salib is a partner in Church and had set the job up for him, and Miguel knows he should be grateful. Salib had been adamant from the outset that the young man work: It is a man’s duty to pay for his journey through life.

The work is not difficult - everyone treats him with reverence because Salib had made all well aware of his relationship with the young beneficiary. But the hours are long and he knows what they do here - and he hates himself knowing what he knows, and doing nothing. And he fears one day, becoming a star too, in the evil establishment. Stalemate.

Miguel had been standing in the shadows, smoking a cigarette when the Mercedes arrived. He saw the hot lady in the red dress get out and go with Chris. What a waste.

He sneaked forward for a look at the man in the car. Saw his silhouette, saw him pass the envelope. The man turned towards him for a brief moment, then receded back into the shadows. But Miguel saw his face clearly. A face Miguel knew and knew he hated and feared, but he could not recall from where. All he did know is that the face represented horror, and he felt himself shaking, breaking into a cold sweat. Was it from memory or simply from nightmares now creeping into woken hours? He did not know.

The car left and Miguel went back inside. There was work to be done… and the Mercedes drifted into the night.

And not too long after, Roxy discovered that Cade was true to his word - when she learnt why this house from hell was called Church. The dreadful realization that every young boy and young girl who enter, at some stage before the end, pray to their Gods whoever they might be, for the insanity of their final hours, to end.

Part Four

6 - Miss World 1992 - Sun City

So I’ve always had a thing for film. The ability to capture flashes of life in brilliant colour, to be enshrined to last forever. And I’ve always had a thing for women. Well not all women, but most of them. Their eyes, their lines, their bodies - and what they can do with them. The way they can bring the biggest man to his knees. The way they can turn into a wildcat in an instant. The way they make love… I love women and it didn’t really need divine inspiration to figure that one day it would all come together, and the sum of the parts would take me to heaven, or to hell.

My name is Arnold Du Preez by the way, a jazz dancer by trade. A slowly aging, retired ex-dancer actually. There comes a time in every artiste’s life when you need to concede to the fact that one day the body is not going to bounce back with as much vigor, so you better keep your eyes open for something else, or else! But this was not that time yet.

It was Spring 1992, and I was trying to put my life back together after a second time love-gone-sour, when I got the call. They were looking for boy dancers for the Miss World pageant scheduled to take place in November at the newly revamped Sun City.

With democracy less than two years away, the first Miss World pageant ever to be hosted on African soil would go a long way to placing South Africa squarely back in the international spotlight, but this time for the right reasons.

And that’s where this whole crazy mess began - when the first Miss World pageant came to Sun City and turned my life upside down. How, you ask? I hooked up with a beauty queen. Who? Get comfortable. This might take a while.

***

I can see the sense in biplanes buzzing enthusiastic crowds on liberation days. I can see the sense in Evel Knievel buzzing adoring fans after he’s just done some bad-assed stunt and walked away, still with his life. But buzzing a luxury bus full of hot-as-hell international beauty queens on a super-bike? Okay, you have to admit, it does have appeal.

Anyway that’s how I feel this 1992 December Sunday morning, blitzing a bus-full of 1992 Miss World contestants on my full-house Suzuki GSX 750 under an already baking sun, on a dead straight piece of road cutting through scrubland dryness leading out of Sun City. I’m tanned, in the best shape I have ever been, my bike is black and clean and mean, and I’m providing a fitting farewell to the pageant beauties, heading home the day after the greatest night many of them will ever experience.

Sara is one of the bevy of eighty-three beauties heading back to lives that for most, will never compare. And I feel incredible, because she’s into me! A man on the wrong side of thirty making out with an eighteen year old world class beauty queen. Could it be real? But I know it is, and it is insane!

So here I am like Priscilla Queen of the Desert sort of, the open road ahead, charging down on a bus of beauties in the distance,

I howl past the bus and scream into the distance. Hell, that was quick. So I turn around and rocket back straight for the bus. At the last second I drop the front and correct, and I’m past them again. That was even quicker. I do two more passes and figure no sense in doing this the whole way back to Jo’burg, so pull up on the dusty verge and watch the luxury bus of gorgeousness shrink into the shimmering distance. And now what?

Things had not been cool since getting back from Portugal around April the previous year. My leg was fucked again - and most of my life was still in Europe. Despite not being able to dance with a screwed knee, I had been trying my best to pick things up. But things were just not going my way, and Lady Luck was giving me a bum-rush of note.

…I did some bad deals, got screwed in business twice, did the barman thing and started partying too hard. I started sleeping days and inflicting vengeance on the nights - and the dark was winning.

But things began looking up after I eventually managed to get my right knee ligaments fixed again, and started crawling back up the long road to recovery and getting into shape.

A few months later, and I was almost ready to return to show business. My leg was still not strong enough to perform, but I managed to get some work choreographing a few small nite-club shows, and day by day I got stronger and fitter. Within fly-by weeks I was ready, and somehow got hooked in with The Stud Farm, one of the hottest male stripper crews in town.

Fun for awhile but the novelty started wearing thin. There had to be more to my life. That’s when I got the call for Miss World, and the timing couldn’t have been better.

Two days later I headed up to Sun City for auditions. My leg held out and small miracles, I made the cut. Three weeks of rehearsals flashed by in a blur, bedazzled every step of the way by the prospect of sharing the stage with eighty-three of the most beautiful girls on the planet. And then just last night the Show. Miss Russia was crowned the most beautiful woman on Earth, and Miss World 1992 was over.

There were two after-parties. Firstly the Grand Ball where Miss World groupies paid a small fortune for the privilege of sharing the reluctant company of tired contestants who had had enough of playing the Miss World PR charade. And then there was the after-party for artistes, crew and the party people. You guessed it, the Rappers after-party was the place to be - and was where I was hanging around when I saw this incredibly beautiful girl staggering towards me, overloaded with a ridiculous assortment of bags and cases.

Obviously I offered to help - and no, not just because she was as hot as hell; it was the polite thing to do.

I recognized her immediately as one of the Miss World contestants. I had seen her before with all the other beauties, and had even exchanged a word or two with her. But with chaperones always hovering around like half-fed sheepdogs, there hadn’t been too many chances for much else. In any event, I hadn’t been that interested. And I certainly had no intention of acting like the asseholes, smiling like hyenas and panting around the girls like dogs on heat. Besides, what were the chances of anything developing when they would all be leaving in a matter of days. But as I helped the girl with her bags and cases, I couldn’t help but dream.

She was tall and sultry with a magnificent mane of long dark hair cascading over her shoulders and flowing down her back. Her eyes, framed by exotically long lashes twinkled a smile of green flecks in gold as in broken English, she thanked me for the assistance. She said her name was Sara and she was from Poland. I think I told her I was Dup, but not really sure if I managed to drag my jaw off the floor long enough to form the words.

It would probably have ended there at the lifts up to her hotel room in the Cascades, if it hadn’t been for the chaperone playing lift duty trying to get heavy, barking the obvious: that I could not accompany her upstairs. I probably wouldn’t have whispered in her ear when I kissed her respectfully on both cheeks, to try sneak back down and join me at the after-party.

I hadn’t expected her to come, but she had, and that night we shared a glimpse of a dream. She couldn’t speak English and I couldn’t speak Polish, so we didn’t speak much. Somehow, we didn’t have to. And not what you are thinking. The only touching for the whole night, was holding hands, and an innocent peck when I took her back to the hotel at four in the morning.

I had returned to the party after our little lift scene, my mind back on enjoying the end of an incredible experience, and was getting down with a group of friends, when I saw the stirring ripple through the party animals around me.

I followed their gaze and there was Miss Poland leading a bevy of about six of the most gorgeous girls you have ever seen, striding towards me. It was like a moment out of Charlie’s Angels on steroids. I stopped dancing, bewildered.

‘How’d you get out?’ I asked.

‘You don’t want know. Fuck em’.

I was to learn that ‘fuck em’ was a pretty regular place to go, a kindred spirit!

‘Come!’

‘Where we go?’ she squealed, suddenly alarmed but curious, an excited smile touching her beautiful lips and eyes.

I stopped, only for a second, turning to her, and feeling my legs melt. ‘They will come. They will herd you up again.’ I demonstrated with my hands and arms as best I could, not sure how much she understood. ‘I will not hurt you. Trust me. You are safe’.

For another second she searched my eyes, like a gazelle trying to sense danger, and then the smile that would charge me for the next twenty years of my life, ‘Come, we go,’ and she grabbed my hand.

We charged behind the deejay, under the mountainous falls of black draping covering the walls, found a back door out of the hall, and we were in a service corridor. I had danced at Sun City in two extravaganzas before, so I knew my way around the belly of the Superbowl. Within minutes we were in the sultry October Sun City night heat, galloping up the road and mounting my bike, roaring off into the darkness towards Kwa-Maritane, her arms wrapped tight around my waist, and me feeling like the king of the jungle.

We rode around a bit, both in and outside the Sun City complex, but I realized we couldn’t just ride around the whole night. But what do I do now? I had effectively kidnapped a Miss World contestant. And I was in my thirties and she was barely eighteen. I would look like a bloody pedophile.

‘Jeez Dup,’ I was thinking, ‘you’re doing it again!’ This could land me in serious trouble. But I didn’t want to take her back. I wanted to get to know her, hear her voice again, grow old and have kids with her… Well not quite that far at that time, but she really was stunning, and seemed to have a killer sense of humor. She just could be my kinda lady. But I had to be smart. Think Dup, think!

And then I did! Mike and Nesta. They still lived at Sun City, in a staff flat. I had worked with them at Sun City before, and also in Spain. I had lived with them for awhile in Madrid during one of my many knee operation recoveries. I knew Mike would be cool with it. Also a madman. So I woke them up, and me and my adopted beauty queen sat with Mike and Nesta until four in the morning, drinking coffee - and not getting down and dirty in any way at all. And I kicked myself the whole way back to my room at the Cabanas, for not at least trying to get to first base. What a chance, and I had blown it!

That was last night and since, I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind. I was back at the hotel not much after dawn this morning, hoping to see her again. They were up early as well, packing the bus, getting ready to leave. I did not want them to leave. I did not want her to leave. Then I saw her exiting the lifts (the lifts again!) and entering the lobby.

She greeted me excitedly, wrapping her arms around me and hugging fiercely but I could see, also in a minor panic. She told me in really broken English, she hadn’t finished packing.

I offered to help - but the chaperones… Irritably in pretty good English, ‘Fuck ém,’ she hissed grabbing my hand, and before I could think too much we were in the lift, out of the lift and in her room. It looked like it had been hit by a tsunami. Clothes everywhere. She shrugged guiltily and smiled.

Dancing means travel and travel means learning to pack.

I got stuck in and somehow made her mountain of clothes fit into her molehill cases. And we laughed and touched, and we hit it off. There was a connection, on so many levels. At that moment, I knew we would be together, and we were kindred spirits. Twin flames.

Straddling my bike on the side of the road, eyes straining into the distance for a bus no longer in sight, I cannot believe we met less than twenty four hours ago. And now, just like that, it’s as if she were never here, and soon all that will remain will be the memory of my night with - my beauty queen…

Part Five - 1993

7 - Opportunity knocks

Heading into summer 1993 I know things need to change. Before Miss World, the Stud Farm had been pumping, I’d put on muscle and was in the best shape of my life, and was getting my fair share of action. But my mind was in a bad space, and now thinking about it, the reason I was whoring around was not to try find a partner, it was more like trying to punish the female species. My romancing had been charged with bitterness, not a quest for love. But after meeting my Miss World dream, I knew I was over it. Ladies nights and lifestyle had been affecting my perspective of the fairer sex.

But facing the future, what else could I do? I was getting a bit old for dancing. The bones hurt and the time had finally come to move on. And then at Miss World I met Sara, and everything changed.

Sara, my Polish beauty queen. Was it just a fling? What a fling! But is it over? Must be, she had a man in Poland. She told me so. A high-flyer apparently. The golf course set. Besides, I am too old for her. But nothing comes from nothing, so what the hell. It’s probably going to be a waste of time but I call her in Poland anyway, on her Birthday, just before Christmas.

Her voice! She can’t speak much English but her voice says it all. She sounds over the moon. She’s so far away she could be… Wonder what her mother thinks?

We had started writing to each other. I wrote pretty stuff. Stuff I know girls like to hear, but also things I felt. I had two broken relationships behind me that pretty much cut me up. If this had anywhere to go, I would start it right. And that means, with truth.

Now on the phone she says she wants to see me. But how . . . why? I am not into moving back to Europe - can’t do the language thing again. I ask her straight: what does she expect from me? And she says straight: she wants to be with me… that’s it!

We decide for her to come out the end of the following year - for us to get to know each other; we haven’t even had the chance to spend a full day in each other’s company. And then of course the next trick: how do I pay for it, and where do we stay if and when she comes?

I figure still a year to work it all out, plenty of time. But months slip by unnoticed. Then the gods be praised, I get a call from Neil Longman. He was two classes above me at school. A bit of a jock, and he married a honey of note. Claire, Neil’s wife, also a schooldays friend, was a serious lust item when we were younger. Now she is a dancing teacher. Over the years, I had given classes at her studio from time to time. She loves my work, and because of dance we are pretty good friends.

Now Neil wants me to meet Denzel Smart - also someone from school days. Smart and I had known each other, but never been friends. Now he was running a large communications company, and they were apparently doing something around voter education for the first SA democratic elections less than a year away - and Smart wants to chat.

South Africa is heading for major change and apartheid is gonna go down. The challenge? The majority of South Africans have never voted and haven’t got a clue how to, and what it’s all about. So now with Neil and Denzel running some kind of Voter Education thing in the North West Province - not too far from Johannesburg - Neil thought maybe there’s some work for me. He knows I am looking to move on but don’t know where. I tell him I am keen. Who knows - although not really sure how I could get involved, I’m a dancer, not a politician.

In the back of my mind I wonder if Neil’s jerking my chain, but decide to stop by for the requested chat anyway; not really to lose. The curve ball, they decide we should meet in Pretoria, at 9 o clock in the morning - on a Sunday. Three issues: Nine o clock, on a Sunday, and in Pretoria - and Sunday morning is after Saturday night. A crime!

I need this job, so this Saturday night I decide to go easy and have an early night; prepare my mind for Voter Education and get ready to try make sense. It all starts great.

I go out about eleven - early for a Saturday. I’m staying at Mad Max, a cutey with an infectious chuckle and we laugh a lot. But recently not so much. We are both starting to feel like we need our space.

I decide to hit Joe’s in Rosebank, alone. An older crowd like late twenties, and always a cool vibe. Cool is what I need and cool is what I get, until Alex walks in. Alex runs a club in town. Hot joint after late. The hottest.

His eyes twinkling, he says he’s got something for me. His eyes always twinkled when he was up to shit, but Alex was generally up to fun shit. He says, ‘close your eyes and put out your tongue.’

Yes no yes no yes no… aw fuck it. I close my eyes and stick out my tongue. Something small, light and hard. I swallow and smile.

‘Ecstasy?’

He laughs like a demon possessed.

‘No china. Just some of the wildest, craziest acid you have ever seen,’

I sober up in an instant. Big audition tomorrow and I am going kite-flying?

‘You had some?’ I ask.

‘Only a little,’ he chuckles, ‘I first want to see what it does.’

I am freaked. I’ve done acid once before. Crazy shit that makes you see crazy shit that makes sense one moment and doesn’t the next. People look funny and your ears ring. Not my kinda thing. Ecstasy on the other hand. Now that was fun, but after awhile, also got crazy - and the comedowns, mind destroying. But right here, right now, I am about to fly past Oz on shit from Alex the great. I find that funny and start laughing. In fact everything is funny. A waiter comes to ask us would we like to order? We crack; like rolling around on the floor crack. The poor guy thinks his dick is hanging out or something. And the more I tell myself it’s the drugs - get real, the more I laugh.

Anyway that’s only the start of a very crazy night. Somehow I land up and wake up in a strange bed in Hillbrow, two unknown ladies lying half undressed nearby, and Alex perched on a dresser in the corner with a little leprechaun hat and a joint, watching us.

‘What time is it,’ I groan, still seeing faerie lights.

‘Seven bells. You said you had to be somewhere.’

I groan again, remembering ‘the meet’. Neil and Denzel are piss-cats but straight as pencils when it comes to other recreational substances. Do I arrive and say, ‘Hi, my name is Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds?’ Not going to wash. I need to sleep.

‘Don’t be a dickhead dude. Get your ass up, wash your face and do what you have to do.’

I look up at Alex surprised. ‘Why man?’

‘Listen bro. This…’ he gestures around, ‘is shit. Easy anytime. But it is not what makes us happen. It is our playground. Remember that. Our playground. Now go do what you have to do.’

I get up and try clean up. I look like death warmed up gone cold. Gotta be there at nine. Running late - and high. I’m on my bike, trying my best to ignore the M1 trying to tango with the N1, and I get there.

Cudo’s is not my kind of hangout. Never has been. Middle aged men sporting beer paunches sprouting testosterone talk, trying to convince each other when not acting out Camel-man fantasies, they are sports aficionados and sex machines waiting to be discovered. Conversations and laughter too loud, with as much substance as a snail trail. But if it makes them happy, who am I to care… Anyway on a Sunday morning in Pretoria? Hopefully most of them will still be nursing sore heads and dreaming about all the scores they’re never going to make.

I park my bike, lock my helmet under the seat and make for the lion’s den. My head is still zinging from last night and my eyes are having difficulty painting the full picture. Thankfully the pub is almost empty, mostly staff getting ready for another perfect Sunday - or not. Neil and Denzel are already there, seated at a corner table near the back. At least no paranoia from unknown eyes drilling into the back of my head.

Seeing me approaching, Neil stands up and smiles.

‘Glad you could make it. You remember Denzel…’

Is he looking at me too hard? Can he see? Fuck I don’t want to be here.

‘Sure. Long time Den. How you doing? Thanks for the meeting…’ Stupid. They asked to meet me. Shouldn’t they be saying thanks? Denzel Smart stays seated, eyes piercing. Light blue like a pure bred Nazi. I remember from school days he’s a ruthless mother-fucker. Like when he libertied Bruce at the beer festival. Quiet always, but fierce. Never knew Denzel to talk much. But I never had any beefs with him either. Always seemed a quiet, cool guy. And now he’s the MD of New Dawn Communications, getting involved in voter education. Interesting.

He ’s put on weight. Still slim but carrying the first telltale signs of mediocre success.

‘Beers?’ he says.

‘Coffee, thanks,’ I answer, not playing goody-two-shoes this time; I really need a coffee. The drinks arrive. Small talk about old friends and old days. …In my state, who gives a damn. Some friends, some good times, but not really anything significant we shared together. We just all knew someone who knew someone who knew us. Big deal… Fuck my head hurts…

Then Denzel leans in.

‘Have you ever done shows, …theater?’

It’s like asking a coroner if he’s ever been to a funeral. I nod. He knows.

‘This is not a show. …Yes it is. But it is to teach people in the sticks how to vote.’

Okay. So far on the same page.

He goes on, ‘In Bophuthatswana.’

I ask who for. Who is the client? He smiles. ‘For Lucas Mangope.’

I frown. Mangope? Voter education? He is the reigning el-presidento of Bophuthatswana, an apartheid homeland a few hundred km from Johannesburg. And also the home of Sun City and the richest platinum mines in the world. Without doubt, a castle in the chess game of reconciliation and retribution about to unfold in the new South Africa.

‘But he’s not coming into the elections, is he? Him and Mangowhatsit from KZN.’

Denzel is still smiling but his eyes are like ice. ‘They will.’

‘And who’s paying…’

They both ignore my question as Denzel takes a sip of his beer, a soft burp, unseeing eyes on the table between us.

‘I once wrote some stuff on his life. He is an interesting man. A good man. Who thinks for his people.’

‘And uses their economy like his own personal piggy bank.’

I am not convinced.

This new South Africa. …Exciting times. Everyone knows apartheid did not work, cannot work. But what is the solution? Many whiteys are scared of being taken out if the ANC gets into power. However the play has been clever - after Peewee (PW Botha) fucked the cat with the Rubicon rap; the ANC un-banned, Mandela freed, Tutu’s talk of a rainbow nation …and you can feel it on the street; all of a sudden there is hope.

But everyone is watching and waiting, trying to predict the game. And I wonder if the men who will be running the show are strong enough to put their people before power, liberation before personal enrichment? The stakes are high and already there are flashes of greed in many an ambitious eye.

‘Mangope will be cut out if he does nothing. We are advising him. He will see.’

‘Who exactly?’

‘Boputhatswana Internal Affairs.’

I’ll say this for Smart, no softening the blow bullshit. This is it. You want in or not?

‘Who writes the script?’ I ask.

‘You do. You can decide.’

‘Me? Cool!’

‘And you have control of content as long as it communicates the messages.’

I smile but feel a cold shiver inside. ‘What are the messages?’

‘Only what is needed, I assure you. Are you keen or not?’

‘I’m keen - but would first like to see the messages before I commit.’

He reaches inside his jacket (a good cut and color for him).

‘I expected that.’

He takes out a folded sheet of A4 and hands it to me. There are seven points. I read them carefully. They are cool. Simple, straight forward, uncharged, unambiguous. I turn the paper over casually looking for the flip side.

‘Is this it?’

He nods.

‘We are offering you a contract - until the end of April next year, after the elections. We are prepared to pay R18 000 a month with costs and accommodation, all benefits…’

He leans forward, eyes leveled at the flashes kicking somewhere behind mine.

‘Do you think Dup, that you can do it?’

I hesitate.

‘Of course, but it’s a big job. The numbers are going to be big and I will probably need some help.’

‘That will be considered.’

He’s getting fidgety.

‘I need an answer. I must go.’

‘And when do I start. This is big. …Need to plan my shit.’

‘Tomorrow.’

8 - Hooking a Queen

This might just be possible! Getting my beauty queen back here might be real. Even getting a proper home. Stop hustling for a roof over my head and free food. R18k a month until April next year? Dup my man, you will be styling.

I rush home and call Sara in Poland. I want to believe it can work, but I’ve been screwed over badly before - twice. I have no intention of making it a third. Maybe that had been the attraction. I had been the only straight boy on stage not running around like a bulldog on horse steroids after Miss World pussy …Had too many woman problems for my state of mind at the time. Had to get it together, hold it together.

I hear her voice. The way she says my name. This couldn’t be play acting. Why? Could she only be screwing with my mind? Maybe just sees me as a passport out of the Eastern block, like somany stories of guys getting hustled and losing everything to Eastern block babes? But it certainly doesn’t sound that way, or feel that way.

I ask her what she feels. Is there any kind of future? I’m over thirty, an old man. And I know I have no solid income to support her. Even support myself. But I want to know. Need to know. She’s supposed to be coming for our ‘trial run’ in only a few months time - she still would rather come straight over and we live happily ever after. Yeah no shit baby.

I think of Adrian’s story about his hot little Russian piece. Picked up through the skin grapevine. Cost him a fortune to bring her here. Got him to buy her diamonds and live a life Ozzy Osborne would be scared of. His business started going down the tubes. Then when he was down but still not out, she delivered the coup de grace and left him.

Better let Sara come out for a visit first. Like a test run. Worst that can happen is a dream vacation with some hot as hell Eastern Bloc babe. There could be worse things.

I’ve given her the shpeel about the new South Africa, a land of sunshine and tanned bodies. She’s hooked. Little did I realize she was hooked the moment she stepped off the plane for the first time in Africa for Miss World, and lined and sinkered when she fell in love with me on that magical night.

On the phone I can hear she’s serious, so it’s time I get serious. But still first a visit. I want to get to know her, she needs to get to know me. We set the date for our trial honeymoon. She will come for a month holiday over Christmas. A good time in sunny SA. She will come out on Christmas Eve 1993, just over a year after we last saw each other - for the first and only time.

So all is arranged. All I need to do is find a place to live, raise the money to pay for her ticket and the costs of living up to her dream. That’s all… Not a hope in hell less than twenty four hours ago. But now I have a job. It is no longer a fantasy. It could actually happen.

9 New Dawn

October 1993 - Pretoria

I once heard tell of an old Cherokee chief around a campfire with his tribe one night. They have danced and told stories of great trials, tribulations and courage. It is late and most have straggled off to the lands of dreams. The fire is still warm and the sky is clear and eventually it is only the chief with his young grandson, still awake. A perfect night to share lessons about life with the young warrior to be.

‘There is a war raging inside me,’ he tells the boy. ‘It is a terrible battle between two wolves. One wolf is evil - he is anger, envy, regret, sorrow, greed, arrogance, self pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego’.

The boy is listening with intent, the crackling fire the only sound beyond his grandfather’s voice as he continues, ‘the other is good - he is joy, peace, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same war rages inside you - and inside every person too.’

The grandson thinks about it for a minute and then asks his grandfather, ‘Which wolf wins?’

The old Cherokee smiles, ‘The one you feed.’

A question I am asking myself as I set off for my first day of work at New Dawn Communications, which wolf will our yet to be born nation feed, as our motherland embarks on this historic journey.

New Dawn’s offices are in a stylish block in Centurion right on the lake. Big offices with lots of staff and high-tech gear, with a boardroom opening onto a paved terrace overlooking the lake. Neil and Denzel must be styling. More than I was expecting. This could be a real chance. Whatever you do Dup, don’t blow it.

I tried to make an effort this morning, to look the part. Smart black jeans, a collar shirt and grey sports jacket. Nerd Du Preez at your service. And the moment I enter New Dawn’s offices, I’m glad I made the effort - it’s like a fucking bank!

Smart clothes, floors that smell of shampooed carpets, and faces that seem to be wondering what the cat pulled in.

The receptionist greeting me with an expansive smile as I enter, is plain and gaudy but juggles the switchboard like a telecom croupier. I’m impressed. Not by her looks but by her game; taking it all in her stride with a half smile on her face and cute snicker of humor in her voice. Not my kind of passion-babe, but the kind of person I could be friends with.

I tell her who I am and her eyebrows lift just a tad. Next second Neil comes waltzing through, a face full of smiles. He puts his arm around my shoulders and we two-step off on the grand tour, to introduce me to who’s who in the New Dawn zoo. I meet a couple of front office staff and a couple of secretaries.

‘Hi. You working on the campaign? Wow. What you gonna be doing?’

I smile and shrug, ‘We’ll have to see, won’t we,’ but inside I’m thinking how the hell should I know. I’ve just got here.

…Was hoping one of you louts could shed some light on that, but I hold my tongue.

I’m getting bored with the grand parade. I will never remember all those names. Where’s my office …do I have an office? I ask Neil where Denzel Smart is. He’s the man. I want to make sure I get my grovel right. Neil smiles.

‘Funny you should ask that. That’s where we’re headed next. He’s with Wynand.’

The way he says it gets my attention. Like sharing a secret. Have I got it wrong? Is New Dawn some kind of front for a secret third force or something? How can you call a company New Dawn? Says shit about what they do. Oh fuck, here we go again.

He leads through two doors, down a short hallway and into a large dimly lit parlour. I see Denzel in silhouette leaning over some guy in front of a high-tech looking computer. The nerve-center no doubt. That must be Double-O-Wynand with him, and OO-Wynand looks like a right nerd, thick glasses and all.

Denzel looks up as we approach.

‘Ah. Twinkle Toes has arrived,’ he smiles and comes over to shake my hand.

My first reaction is hesitation. Twinkle Toes? Is he trying to take the piss? But his face tells a different story. Genuine warmth - unless he’s an Oscar contender - so I smile and shake his hand.

He introduces me to Wynand. ‘What do you know about Multimedia?’

Multimedia? What the fuck is that?

Soon I find out it’s the big thing: basically a way to include videos, pictures and text in a very fancy way.

‘This is where we’re headed. It’s the future,’ Denzel adds enthusiastically.

Glad for you, hope it makes you very happy I think, but nod like I’ve just been shown the Rosetta Stone doing the Charleston. But it is kind of cool. I’ve always loved animation and visual media.

Denzel straightens and yawns, rubbing his tummy. I would get used to this - whenever he is deep in thought or has some new idea, and I will learn he has thousands.

‘Come. Enough of this. We have a nation to educate.’

We leave Wynand to his digital wet dreams and go back to Denzel’s office.

It’s down to business, Denzel wanting to know how I intend to get started. Have I thought about my plan and strategy?

Yeah I have, but only ‘whoopee I have a job’, not how I intend to drive bloody democracy. It’s my first day. And Rome wasn’t built …blah blah. So I’m quite relieved when two honeys who apparently will be working with us up in Mmabatho - so that’s where we’re headed - come prancing in chatting like chipmunks. One’s got a nice body. …Pity about the teeth. The other pretty, but short and dumpy and garrulous. And after five minutes of her gabbling on, she starts looking to me like Sybil Faulty.

Then an ass of class oozes in. Sultry, elegant, succulent if you know what I mean. More a Marilyn than a sports model, but oh so sexy. Neil sees my eyes undressing her, and proceeds to burst my bubble.

‘Out of bounds mate. Smart’s PA. He’s fucking her.’

Dick stand down. Got me in enough shit in the last ten years. Sanitize your mind, boy.

Begrudgingly I tear my eyes from her cleavage and undulating, executive skirt-skinned ass, and as I sigh and bow out, my eyes catch the boss’s. Denzel. Oh fuck! Then I see he is smiling a bit. It has amused him. He knows that I won’t move; want to, but won’t. It’s a rush to have power over someone else’s sexual desires. His eyes say, ‘Look fucker, but I will be devouring her tonight.’

Then a flushed face on a chubby frame walks in. All smiles, flashing teeth and receding hairline. It’s Jarred, the other partner. I remember him, also from Springs. Then I remember Denzel, Neil and Jarred have always been pals.

Jarred and I were never really friends but we knew each other. We greet each other like we are long lost brothers. He will be running the campaign. My direct boss.

Jarred has the unique skill of assaulting you with words while looking like he’s reading you a bedtime story, and lays into me. He tears my balls out with friendly questions about my past, my experience, my knowledge related to the current political climate and Armageddon! I try my best to parry with decorum if not confidence. He says he’s looking forward to working with me, but I’m not that convinced his eyes are saying the same. Can they see the panic in my mind?

I get taken to my office. My own office and a computer, I’m styling. Different to bar serving and stripping, I could get used to this - especially knowing I’m getting a proper salary at the end of the month. But now I’m even more worried what all they expect from me. Voter Education - of an entire province! What do I know about Voter Education… I’m an aging dancer for fuck’s sake! What had I said to Neil and Denzel yesterday - because sure as shit, I can’t remember. Now it’s down to the real world with a bang. But I resolve whatever comes, not to blow it. Dup, if you don’t know something, smile and wave - and find out fast.

Everyone goes their merry way, leaving me pretty much alone in my new office with a view of the back parking lot - but still a view. I have a desk, an old filing cabinet and an old desktop computer (no printer) and a pin-up calendar behind the door. I close the door and study the pin-up. Not bad. Sort of cheeky Coppertone pose. Smile too coy, eyes too knowing. Doesn’t really work. Love the idea but seen it all before.

They have given me stationery and a whole pile of shit to read. I try to look industrious, sorting my papers into a neat stack in the in-tray, out-tray. In from where and out to who, who knows. But okay, do not fear; they will come.

I place my new calculator next to a dinosaur note pad and hear Jarred calling me from the hallway outside.

‘Listen, do you only have the bike? Just thought I’d ask.’

I squirm a nod.

‘You’re probably gonna need wheels - four wheels that is…’

Fuck. Been here only two hours and here we go, divorce papers.

‘We’ve been chatting. There’s a Sentra. Sorta company car. Not much. But if you want…’

If I want? Was I going to have to swallow? Of course I want!

‘Well yeah. That would be great. My bike is fine. Used to it. But as you say, maybe for work…’

Barbed wire would have slid down my back I am so cool. Well I hope I am. Moving to Mmabatho and now I get a company car. Chances are looking better and better for me pulling the monkey out of the hat before my beauty queen arrives.

Putting a sizable event together takes quite a bit of planning. Putting a provincial campaign together is in a whole different ball-park. And putting it together in Bophuthatswana is not even on the map, literally; there’s nothing there!

Okay, a couple of small outback towns, the biggest being Rustenburg - which only grew to a reasonable size because of Sun City. But I won’t even be seeing the bigger places much. My mandate is rural and peri-urban. When I finally manage to find out what this means, I realize it’s spreading the word in the sticks.

Thinking back to my army days, probably it would be best to start finding where Bophuthatswana is and how big it is.

…Maps. I need maps . . . don’t I?

Neil likes to chill watching rugby with a beer, and laugh. My kinda guy. I figure he would be the best place to start.

He’s reading a fishing magazine in his office. A plush suite on the good side of the block, but nothing like that of Denzel.

Trying to sound in control, I approach him. ‘Hey Neil, who do I talk to about maps?’

‘Why you going somewhere?’

I hesitate, ‘For the campaign…’

He laughs. ‘Only kidding. Probably the town council. How should I know?’

‘Well. You guys have started planning…’

‘Not us mate. You. We just sold the idea. Make some calls. If you don’t come right, tell someone who cares.’

He laughs like a mule again, obviously finding himself far more amusing than I.

‘Okay,’ I try smile back. Don’t know how it comes out, ‘I’ll just . . . make some calls, you know…’

‘You do that. Remember shout if you need help.’

Yeah right. No maps. …Map books! Filling stations. Sorted. But to my horror, garage map books are hopelessly inadequate for trying to plan. Did I mention that ninety nine percent of Bop is in nowhere land?

I eventually trace some nondescript government department. Yeah, they have maps. But what maps, they want to know. Somewhere in my youth and childhood, the number one in fifty thousand rings a bell. I tell them I want them of Bop. The phone goes quiet. Well then I must come down and tell which ones I want. So the next day I head for Pretoria, up to the fourth floor of some seedy admin building other side of Sunnyside, and I get my maps. It’s like signing for the crown jewels, but I pay my shekels and I get my booty.

Man it looks like I have acquired the cartography collection through the ages, for the entire planet. So many - and so big. How the fuck am I going to work with these? I head back to the office and on the way in, bump straight into Denzel.

‘I got my maps,’ I smile triumphantly, like it was the vision of the company. He frowns and nods. Dup you dumb fuck. You’ve been here three days, you spend their money on this shit and you have no idea what to do with them. Okay shelve that thought. Maybe I can work something out when we get to Mmabatho.

Next problem: Where will we do all our little concerts? If we can’t even find towns, the chances are pretty slim that we’re going to find theaters towering up from the bushland. But I need theaters.

Then the idea hits me: mobile theaters. I do some more phoning around. No luck. No-one has mobile theaters - or at least not what I’m looking for. Sure, little stages that can be rigged, but considering rigging time and practicality, not options; we will probably have to do hundreds of shows.

Can’t really send swarms of technical teams out, putting little stages up all over the wastelands. But the ideas are coming fast: let’s build our own. Can’t be too difficult.

Maybe a container - or a big truck. A couple of modifications, a bit of tech gear and Bob’s your auntie. …No, he isn’t; he’s up north of the border.

I’ve been given a budget and done rough calculations so have some idea what I should spend. I look up the biggest truck suppliers and hire companies around and make a list, and next day I head out looking for trucks.

I get to the first supplier. What kind of trucks do I want? How should I know? …Big ones. Big enough to stage a show.

How big a show? I have no idea. Probably about five or six artistes…

I’m walking around like a forgotten fart in loo-spray land, looking at all the trucks, but have no clear idea what I am looking for. I see the salesmen talking, sniggering. Is it that obvious that I’m out of my depth? The sales schmucks are having their fun seemingly at my expense, and this needles me. Arrogant shits. Eventually one sidles over.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Yeah, I hope so. I’m looking for a truck.’

He smiles condescendingly, patting my shoulder, ‘Don’t you mean a pickup?’

I shrug his hand free.

‘No, I mean a truck and I mean four.’

Then I have his attention. After that if I would have asked him to marry his pet Pekineze in drag, he would have done it. He shows me every truck, every feature, and offers me a never ending stream of cheap coffee. Needless to say I don’t get from them. Fuck them. But I have learned a lot. I now know what I am looking for: Four eight ton trucks to convert into mobile theaters.

10 - Time for Lebo

Sifiso is the accountant for New Dawn Communications. A smallish man of about fifty with a dry sense of humor and prying eyes that miss very little. He has a receding hairline leaning towards going bald, a thin mustache, and sunken cheeks from too many years smoking thirty a day.

Like most accountants, he doesn’t speak much and keeps very much to himself. He is always meticulously dressed in a three piece suit, even for informal get-togethers of which there are quite a few. Denzel and his musketeers are very into the team-building thing.

I can’t help wondering how Sifiso feels, being the only black white-collar worker. New Dawn does have other black staff, but mostly cleaners, security and the like; apartheid still has a few months of life left. But Sifiso has pretty much made it his business to live up to his designation and never leaves the door open to prejudiced criticism or correction; he is easy to get along with and we enjoy each other’s sense of humor.

He comes to me in my second week.

‘Can we have a chat?’

I immediately get tense. Those words normally mean shit.

‘Sure, how can I help.’

‘It’s my nephew . . . Hanging in the wrong circles. Was at university last year, but money… Now he can’t find a job. I was thinking…’

Surely he doesn’t want my job for his nephew? Not in this show, Geronimo. If he wants me out, he is going to have to pry me loose with a jack-hammer. I’m gonna cling on like the proverbial shite to bog-roll.

‘Not sure I understand…’

‘Well the way I see it, you’re going to need help…’

Help? I’m gonna need a miracle . . . The Big G himself!

‘I’m not sure they will…’

‘Don’t worry. They know Lebo - my nephew.’

‘What’s he doing . . . done?’

‘A bit of everything. He’s crazy like you. You will like him.’

And that’s how Lebo came into my life. He’s about twenty two, also small but much darker than his uncle - and crazy like the accountant says. I like him.

***

‘So what’s the plan boss?’

If he says it again I’ll hit him. It’s been two days since Lebo appeared, and all he wants to do is get going. But I haven’t worked it all out yet. I start with one thing and realize I haven’t done another. I’m confused and feeling panicky as hell.

‘Working on it,’ I mumble.

‘What’s the show?’ He’s on the office couch, bouncing a tennis ball against the wall and he is driving me nuts.

‘You know, dancers, actors…’

‘What’s it about?’

‘…What’s it about?’

I stop fidgeting and look up as it dawns on me. That’s it! It’s just a fucking show. Don’t over-think it. And all of a sudden I know exactly what to do.

‘Bring the maps. We’ve got work to do.’

We need to go back to basics: where, when, who, what, how. I already know the why: The first democratic elections ever to take place on South African soil are less than six months away.

As it turns out, the trucks were the easy part. It is only when we move up to Mmabatho the fun really begins. The second day in our new town and already I want to tear my hair out or commit serial murder. We’re all living in the same house. A nice house mind you. Big thatched estate house, so plenty of room.

Denzel Smart is not with us. Only Neil and Jarred, Sybil Faulty (who I met in Centurion on my first day with New Dawn), Lebo and myself, and Jarred’s brand new PA. She’s not bad in a dreary kind of way.

Jarred is into his dib-dib-dib and do our best team bonding thing in a big way. I figure it would be much easier just to pop them each an E and watch the sparks. I giggle at the picture in my head - of Jarred and Neil ‘ooh-wowing’ while massaging the shit out of Sybil and Co. …Would be fun but never going to happen. I guess we’re stuck with the braais, too much drinking and war stories. I can still live with that …but Sybil? And there’s six of us; I feel like I’m living with the bloody Von Trapp family.

Then I do something wrong: We go out.

Out and I have a love/shite relationship. It’s either love or turns to shite. This night, a bit of both. Lebo and I go to a hotel. One of the only two in town, both Sun Hotels. They have a sort of long bar and small town night club. I remember having a few drinks - and meeting some girls.

When we got back, rumor has it we kept at it the whole night, howling with the wolves. Well the next morning, Sybil who happens to be the PR anchor, says either we go - me and Lebo - or she does. So voila, now we are sitting chilled and on our own mission in our own space in a funky townhouse complex, around the corner from the hotel; Lebo and I in our own little world of Rural and Peri-urban Voter Education - sans the peanut gallery.

A month goes by in a blur. I have a vague idea what has to be done, but haven’t really done much of it. Still don’t know exactly where, still don’t have a script or even fleshed out story. No actors. Where are they going to live on the road? There are no hotels where we will be going. …And still the route planning. How many towns are out there?

I’m smoking a joint and Lebo is cooking babotie. He makes a mean bobotie. Well any meal you don’t have to make yourself is cool. I’m thinking: we got the maps, but where to start? The big trick: just start …anywhere! I turn to Lebo, decided.

‘We gotta go on the road.’

He looks up from stirring. Me and Lebo do a lot of stirring.

‘It’s the only way. We don’t know where these places are, or what they look like. No one does. …And they’re going to have to organize voting stations? Let’s drive and see for ourselves.’

‘Jeez boss. When? Where are we going to stay?’

‘Sleeping bags, friend. Tent where we can. Out on the open road.’

I like the sound of that. Could clear my head and give me time to think. I still have to get my shit together for Miss Poland. She’s coming in just over a month and I’ve done nothing. ‘Yeah. We’re heading out. Let’s get ready.’

‘Cool. So when you planning on…’

‘Finished planning. We head out tomorrow.’

Lebo looks dazed for a second or two, but gets over it fast.

‘Okay so the choice is we get ready, or we tuck in and leave early…’

I say, ‘Both. We get ready now and we leave early. Like about four thirty or five…’

‘You’re serious aren’t you…’

Then he smiles, all teeth and gleaming eyes. He also likes playing just over the edge and the more I’m with him, the more I like him.

‘Any idea how long?’

‘Until we’re done.’

There is nothing in the world like a straight empty road carving through African bush-veld when sunrise is near. The sky turns royal blue and the stars start to fade, diluting the dark with pre-dawn fantasy. Trees fly by, slowly turning from black to glory. And then a vapour of red rises from the horizon, turning the sky to blood, and the gift of creation comes alive.

We stopped and picked up a burger on the road as we headed out. Car still smells a bit like fast food and doob, Bob Marley blending perfectly with the peace and quiet.

‘You any idea where we’re going?’ Lebo asks still half asleep.

‘No,’ I answer. ‘I’m the driver.’

He’s looking at me funny. ‘So?’

‘You’re the navigator. I brought all the map books that exist for this area. We’re heading west. Your job is to tell us where.’

‘Come on Dup man. …Please say you’re joking.’

He scratches on the floor in the back. Finds four map books from Engen or somewhere.

‘You’re serious…’

‘Where china? Look in the books. Look at the borders, find the big lines and that’s where we’re headed.’

He hesitates for another second, then gets stuck in. The sun has just crested the horizon. It’s a brand new day and we are going to drive every accessible inch of this wide open adventure.

It doesn’t take Lebo long to get the hang of it. Starts cross referencing the map books. The spaces we must cover have only got one or two largish roads cutting through them, with many many little dots representing small towns and villages. But no indication of size or population.

Thankfully we had done a teeny bit of homework: We are planning to run the campaign for ten weeks and will have four trucks. Doing ten shows a week - two a day five days a week - means a total of about forty shows a week for ten weeks; we are looking to find about four hundred locations. Shite! Are there enough dots on the map?

Lebo is buried in the maps.

‘The way I see it, Bop is divided into four areas. Here in the west, the north, east reaching just north of Pretoria, and south down to Thaba Nchu near Bloemfontein. We got four trucks, right? Maybe we dedicate one truck to each area?’

‘Good thinking batman. That’s why I love you.’

‘Love you too,’ he chuckles back. ‘Skin up?’

He reaches for his pockets.

‘Not right now my man. Got a better plan.’

I reach into my jeans pocket and pull out a little plastic bag.

‘What the fuck is that?’ he asks, defensive.

‘Have the doob . . . do what thou wilt, but I my friend am turbo traveling.’

‘Is that…?’

He’s nervous. I can see. But fuck it. This road is long and no place for niceties. Sleep can wait. His initial alarm dissolves into a wide grin.

‘Fuck yeah. Bring it on.’

He chops two fat lines. Okay, so he’s been here before. Surprise? Hmmm.

And the journey begins. We are like two Duracell bunnies on the road to nowhere, setting out to travel every kilometer of Bop’s backyard. We don’t bother with sleeping bags. When one is down, the other does a line and drives, and wakes the other up at the next village, which in many cases is only a cluster of run-down houses or shacks with a bygone church or apology for a school. But we mark them all.

Every one from Thaba Nchu in the south to Stinkwater and beyond in the north. We mark them on the maps and document them in notes. And ten days and thirteen thousand kilometers later, we return to Mmabatho, looking like absolute shit with red sunken eyes, but the job is done.

We rest a day, then start the tedious task of transposing to our 1:50000 maps, first putting in every little town, then working out four plausible routes. Bit of a wobbly when we see the area in the west has significantly less dots than the others. We probably need to combine it with the area with the most dots and split the load. We are now on a roll and the white lady keeps us turning.

Five days later, the maps are done, the routes are done, and I sit Lebo down and say the shit is done. I am scared of coke. I have been there before. It is like a ghost that takes you when you are not looking. And you do not notice it is there until you are damaged goods. We needed it because we had shit to do and we never had time to sleep. Simple. Now we go back to green and carry on like any self respecting goofball. I feel better.

DUP – Up In Arms is available on Amazon.

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