The Deal

A voice. “Makenju?”

Some stirring.

A different voice. “Makenju! Get up!”

More stirring.

Movement and footsteps as feet cross a short distance quickly.

Poking.

“Makenju?”

“Is he breathing?”

“Last I checked, I am. Here, let me prove it.”

A match flared and the smell of smoke filled the small area.

“Why are you sitting over there?”

“You know my routine. I rise early. It’s the training. You never forget it. And,” deep inhale, and more strong smoke smell, “I never sleep in beds. Especially here. Bad for the back. Chair does me just fine.

“Now, what can I do for you this morning, Captain?”

“Sir…”

Smoke trailed the waving hand. “If we can dispense with the titles due to the circumstances, we can do away with the ‘sir’ as well, soldier. What is it?”

“Sir,” the young captain stopped to correct himself, “there is a gentleman here…from the government.”

A cough, more smoke, and a gliding chuckle. “What could those bastards want? Tell them I am busy.”

“Yes, sir. He is most insistent.”

“Tell him I am killing time.”

“Sir?”

“Picking out which uniform I want to wear to my funeral.”

The second voice. A different voice. More heavily accented, but obviously more educated, as well.

“This is no time for morbid humor, Makenju.”

“Under the circumstances, might there be any other kind?”

“Can we get some lights in here?”

The sarcasm was faint, but it was there.

“On automatic timer, guvnor.”

“Well, can we get him up? Makenju, get up!”

More movement.

“Address him as ‘Sir’, or ‘Major’, Guv. He’s earned it.”

“How preposterous! The man is in…”

“That’s fine, captain,” Makenju said, obviously enjoying the exchange. “Not everyone has a soldier’s sense of order. Or honor.” He rose. Even in the shadows, his bulk was obvious. He thrust his hands in his pockets.

“Under the circumstances, you’ll forgive me not shaking your hand. No idea where you’ve been. I’ve just relieved myself and I don’t want to get my hands dirty touching the likes of you.”

The government man ignored the dig. The sun began to slowly come in through the windows.

“My name is Owadi.”

“I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“I knew your father. He was a toady. Actually, you can thank me for having him executed.”

The man blanched.

“You can also thank me for having you, your mother and your sisters spirited to London. That was the deal he made. His life in exchange for your safety.”

“What kind of man…”

“Don’t know. I’m a soldier…”

Sneer. “You were…”

“Mind your manners with the major,” the captain began harshly. “Didn’t he just tell you that he saved your life?”

Owadi surveyed the situation, and regained his composure. He was clearly outnumbered.

He started again.

“I represent Her Majesty’s government…the government is in need of your services.”

“Hmmm…” Another match. More smoke.

“I thought soldiers were health conscious…”

“Death of lung cancer is the least of my worries, Mr. Owadi. How may I help the government? More than likely from a consultory position? Given my current assignment.”

“Come on, man! What good could you do the government from here?”

“Here is where you visited me. He is apparently where we are.”

“Can we speak in private?”

“Captain, if you please?”

“Yes sir.” They were already moving. “Call if you need us, sir.”

Owadi could feel their distaste as they exited. Makenju chuckled.

“They are good men. Never mind them. They are naturally suspicious of civilians, and rightfully so of politicians.” He settled into his seat again and gestured towards the bed.

“Now, where were we?”

“I represent Her Majesty’s government. The government is prepared to offer you a pardon in exchange for your service…”

“I saw this on cable last night…”

“This is serious. A full restoration of your liberties…”
“I am a soldier, son,” Makenju sighed wearily. Owadi had to check the file again. Was the man really only 40? Granted. Death Row could do that to you.

Makenju continued, “My liberties are not granted by other people. I am as free as I choose to be.”

He stood, and began pacing.

“What concerns me,” he looked up, “is a restoration of my rank to active service in the army. Effective the minute I walk free, not to be rescinded for any reason other than treason against the Crown.”

“I am not authorized to interfere in military matters, Mr. Makenju…” Owadi stared ahead intently. In Africa, army officers were always being imprisoned for being on the wrong side of coups or other treasonous activities. Ibrahim Makenju’s service record indicated nothing but meritorious duty for over two decades, including a longer than normal stint as head of security for Her Majesty. Loyal only to the Crown, one of the few long standing and stable governments on the continent. Why was he on Death Row? And why was no official execution date set?

Makenju grunted, as if reading his thoughts. His shoulders slumped a bit. “I don’t know, either.” He straightened. “You cannot do that?”

“I’m…sorry, Major Makenju…” Owadi felt something for this man. Not compassion. He did not present a need for it. Respect? Perhaps that was it.

This was the man who ordered his father’s death. They had told him that. They also told him that he was to face a military tribunal at some unnamed date, and his crimes, should he be found guilty, would warrant execution. There had been no tribunal for the year he had been inside, and none scheduled. No execution date. No official charge of wrong doing. Just the removal of rank and from the army, placed in Death Row to die who knows when, for who knows what. Yet he still commanded the respect of his jailers, and Owadi clearly understood why.

“I do not have that authority…”

Makenju rose. Owadi rose with him.

“Seek authority from the highest level.”

“You do not know what it is the government needs?”

“Not the government, Mr. Owadi,” Makenju stepped forward and smoothed the lapels of the younger man’s suit. “Saville Rowe?”

Owadi smiled slightly.
“I promised your father we’d see to it your school fees at Eton were paid. He is smiling down on you now. You have made him proud. Stick with government service. Do your job. Join no factions; hold no loyalty for the government.”

“Then what?” Owadi was confused.

“Her,” Makenju said with finality. “Start, and stop, with her.”

“My loyalty?”

“Everything, young man. You serve her. You remain loyal to her. You get her to come down here and get me out.” That chuckle again. “You tell her I said I would do whatever she asks, but she has to give me what I asked for. I will only deal with her.”

“I do not…”

“Good day, Mr. Owadi,” the big man smiled. “She will come. And tell them I do not want a razor or any toiletries before she comes here. I will be honest with her. I expect her to be honest with me. Tell her that.”

Owadi gathered his papers. “I will, Major.”

He left.

Makenju went through his morning exercises in his cell, then prayed, and finally settled down to write in his journal. His mind was strong. He allowed himself to only remember the victories, only the good things, and not to dwell on the “why”. Makenju knew why.

He had one regret. In the bush, or in combat, one went without bathing and caring for one’s self as a necessity. There was no reason, he mused, when inactive, to be ungroomed. The harsh realities of prison life.

Military prisons work like civilian ones. Respect for deeds outside matters little. What keeps groups of battle hardened men in check is respect for the danger another inmate can do to someone inside. That was the catch 22: be prepared to do someone harm to remain alive, but doing someone harm will surely increase the amount of time you would spend behind bars with those same Neanderthals. Makenju’s reputation for fairness, coupled with a well known history of brutality in service of the Crown, only kept him free from danger to a certain extent. The black armband sewn to his tunic, indicating he was a Death Row inmate did the rest of the job. No wide man goes up against another man who has nothing to lose. And what was the worst you could do to a Death Row inmate? End his sentence early? No wise man behind bars does another man that kind of favor.

Makenju mused for the hundredth time that day on the origin of the meat in the evening meal when he heard footsteps coming his way.
“Excuse me, Sir? Major?” The night captain whispered in a frantic rush. “Sir? You have a visitor.”

Makenju pretended to feign indifference, but he rose from his chair just the same and closed his journal.

“Usher him in, Captain.”

“Sir…I cannot…Sir…this is a breach of protocol, but security measures…”

Makenju felt the presence of another person behind the captain, and heard the accent of an outlander.

“Security, Major. I will need for you to allow the captain to shackle you, for my men to search you, and for you to follow us.”

Makenju knew the voice.

“Indeed, Major Akbar. I will comply.”

Going through the brief routine, while trying to contain his relief, Makenju began lining his cards in order. There were only three people in the country that warranted this kind of protection. One would never visit a prison, even for him. The other was too foolish to believe he would require extra security measures to meet with a Death Row inmate.

“Is this necessary, Major Akbar?”

“My predecessor trained me to take all of the precautions where my sovereign in concerned, Major.”

“Quite right,” Makenju chuckled. “Your predecessor is a wise man.”

“Albeit an unlucky one. Or maybe not.”

A door opened. Two other men, dark, in western suits with noticeable bulges under their jackets, stood at attention on either side of the door.

A tall, brown man, also in western dress, sat at a table. His close cropped hair was flecked with gray. His face remained impassive. His tie was easily Hermes. He wore no jewelry save a wedding band.

Next to him sat a woman. She did not look African in the stereotypical sense. Not sub Saharan African. She appeared more Ethiopian, or Egyptian. She had high cheekbones, a thin, delicate nose and a plump face. Her eyes were green. Her head was covered, but the ends of honey colored braids poked through the bottom of her head dress. She looked up without smiling, but Makenju knew there was a gap between her two front teeth. She wore a western style skirt suit of a dark mauve, and a single strand of pearls. She was beautiful in a way only Black women are.

“Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness,” Major Akbar intoned, “Former Major Ibrahim Makenju, Her Majesty’s Bortoru Battalion…”

“For crike’s sakes,” the man seated beside her growled, “We know who he bloody IS, Akbar.”

Akbar did not flinch. “Begging your pardon, Your Royal Highness.”

“Mark,” the woman spoke softly but firmly. “This is an affair of state. Please sit quietly, or would you prefer to tour the premises?”

His Royal Highness Prince Mark Ekweke Ngbodo Oludara sat silently, eyeing the disheveled Makenju with all of the hate he could muster.

“Ma’am,” Makenju began, “I am at your service.”

“I have need of your…talents, Mr. Makenju. I’ll get right to it. My daughter has gone missing. I intend to find her. I do not want press attention, as I believe this is an act of youthful rebellion. I do not need a security contingent. I will require you and Major Akbar to accompany me.”

“I trained Akbar, Majesty,” Makenju shrugged. “Overkill.”

“He has loyally suggested you. The government is prepared to offer you a full pardon in exchange for your services.”

“And my return to military duty, ma’am? And restoration of my rank?”

“Out of the question,” the prince snapped.

“Difficult at best,” Queen Maryum murmured.

“Then I respectfully refuse, Majesty.”

“My daughter…”

“I am sorry, Majesty. I am unjustly imprisoned. I have been kicked out of the only outfit where I have worked my entire life. I have served you faithfully and without reservation. I deserve the restoration of my rank and pension. I cannot serve you effectively without them.”

The prince stood quickly and in three strides was in Makenju’s face.

“If you think you will wear that uniform…”

“I know your wife, man,” Makenju whispered softly, tauntingly. “I know your wife. I need to be there for this mission…”

The prince’s eyes squinted almost imperceptible. “I could…”

“You already have. Careful. The penalty for striking royalty is execution. The penalty for striking one of Her Majesty’s senior officers is the same. Which of us is already on Death Row?” Makenju laughed with bitterness. “You cannot execute me twice. Your Royal Highness.”

The small woman shook her head.

“That is enough,” she said with conviction. “Major Akbar, please escort His Royal Highness to the car for his own safety. He should not be in such close proximity to such a dangerous man sentenced to die.”

Akbar complied. The other guards never batted an eye. The Queen motioned for Makenju to join her on the other side of the room.

“I would have thought you would have other, personal reasons for accompanying me.”

“I would have thought you would have other, related reasons for releasing me from here before now.”

“There is more to it than you understand…”

“I understand the world’s oldest activity and its consequences. I understand a man’s pride. I understand how this charade called ‘royal duty’ works…”

“She is my daughter.”

“I am a soldier.”

“You mean more than that to this equation.”

“I mean so much you allowed me to be railroaded into prison to salve an ass’ pride.”

“Makenju…Ibrahim…”

“A good way to ensure a man is out of the picture, literally and figuratively, is to send him away.”

She looked at him.

“I’ll make you a general.”

“I earned major. I want it back. I want full restoration of my authority. I want to only answer to you.”

Queen Maryum smiled sadly. “You know why we cannot do that.”

“Outside of this mission. I will stay away from you. I will not answer to the Vice general, however. I want to be left alone. I will leave you alone as well.”

“She asks about you.”

“We were friends. Up until my unfortunate incarceration.”

“Will you help me, Major?”

“I want it in writing.”

“Fine.”

“You are my sovereign. But I am your expert. You will listen to me or I will send you home with Major Akbar and continue the mission.”

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“My first duty is to protect you. If you are a danger to yourself, you have to go.”

“Agreed.”

They turned around and walked back to Major Akbar.

“Major Makenju has agreed to assist his government. We will process his immediate removal from this facility and have him briefed. His role is specialist and leader of this mission. He will not be replacing you as head of my security.”

The men stared stonily.

Makenju bowed to his sovereign and stood until the other security men led her out.

“How is the bastard?”

“Fuming,” Akbar grunted. “She told him on the way over she was going to restore you.”

“She always was a good actress. A bit insincere, but she got the job done. Thanks for your support.”

Akbar looked his mentor in the eye.

“Don’t make a mistake, here, Ibrahim,” he said softly, “You are a fine officer imprisoned for all of the wrong reasons. This country, that woman, needs you outside of bars more than behind them.

“But remember this: the wrong kind of love almost led you to your death. Next time, I cannot save you. Next time, she will not.”

“Agreed, Old Friend. Let’s find the warden. Perhaps you can bully him into letting me use the private shower in his office.”