The Flight

A weary Makenju, clean, freshly shaven and polished, leaned over the desk where the Queen’s majordomo had spread several papers.

“Your passports,” he handed them each an official booklet bearing their names and photos.

“Because of my service to the state, I needed a new one,” Makenju joked.

The majordomo, a shrew of a man named Igweike, saw no humor in this.

“These are diplomatic passports,” he shrilled. “At a level only just below that of the ambassador.”

“Will Her Majesty be traveling under her own passport or an assumed name?”

The little man gave Makenju a chilly look.

“Royalty does not require passports. However, in the interests of discretion and security, Her Majesty will travel under her own name, Mrs. Maryam Oludara, on a diplomatic passport as well. The royal family does not use aliases under any circumstances, gentlemen.”

Makenju chuckled. Akbar shook his head.

“Your diplomatic status allows you to carry weapons as diplomatic security for Mrs. Oludara.”

“Good. Make mine a howitzer.”

“Standard issue Ruger automatics or Smith and Wesson revolvers are what we provide. Plus all of the ammunition you can use.”

Makenju let that pass.

“Thank God,” Akbar murmured.

“You should go on Death Row sometimes, Brother,” Makenju grinned, “release is quite…liberating. No pun intended.”

“Her Majesty will be provided with transport from the embassies. They are on alert from around the globe that she could arrive within several hours’ notice. Drivers will be provided.”

“No need,” Akbar said.

“He’s right,” Makenju agreed. “She wants it just the three of us.”
Igweike pouted somewhat, but he saw the two army officers were not going to relent.

“Fine,” he sighed. “Under the terms of our treaty with the several countries in question, as diplomats of this level you can be neither stopped nor detained for any reason whatsoever. Should you run into difficulties, please contact the nearest embassy.”

Makenju cleared his throat and spoke. “What about the media? If I have to put a bullet in some crazy to save her life…”

“The embassy will work that out. All of the embassies have considerable sway with the media in our host countries. Given your reputation, though, Major, please understand these agreements have their limits. Try not to live up to your renown as a homicidal maniac.”

“Well, there’s that,” Akbar said drily.

“Old man,” Makenju said heartily, “You don’t seem enthused at the thought of this adventure.”

“Major, I just want to get the princess home and safe. As soon as possible.” Akbar was glum.

“This is not a visit of state and again, discretion is pertinent. The Queen has arranged for a private jet, paid with her own funds, to transport you. The pilots will be from the Air Force, however, volunteers who can act as back up security if need be.”

Both majors nodded.

“I guess,” Akbar said, his chiseled ebony face grim, “We can get started.”

“Your mission?”

Grunt.

“Majesty wished that I would brief you…”

“She can’t do it on the plane?” Makenju asked. “I thought time was important…”

Few stares were more glacial than Igweike’s.

“Fine,” both majors chorused.

“Princess Thandiwe is pursuing undergraduate studies at the University of Chicago. Government.”

“No Harvard?”
“The U of C is a respected institution with a strong school of government located in an area known for discretion.”

There was that word again. Everything about the damned royal family centered on discretion, Makenju thought bitterly.

“She may attend Harvard for graduate studies before coming home to take instruction from her mother regarding her life’s role of service to her people.”

“Beauty of a matriarchal society,” Akbar said drily.

“Indeed. It appears the princess has disappeared, but no foul play is suspected. Her condominium was left in a state as if she was taking a planned trip. Mail held at the local post office. Perishables disposed of. Her luggage is gone.”

“So what’s the purpose of this trip? A junket to the States armed to the teeth at the taxpayer’s expense?” Makenju was happy to be free, but already finding himself tiring of people who took things for granted.

“Her Majesty, Mrs. Oludara, is under the impression the Princess is involved with the wrong type of young man, someone who could disgrace both the princess and the royal family should their relations continue. She wants her daughter returned to school; her security team replaced, and most importantly, wants to have an old fashioned mother/daughter conversation about right and wrong.”

“Why not just send her to school here?” Akbar was glum again. “Plenty of universities in Africa.”

“It is not my place to question the royal prerogative,” Igweike sniffed.

“When do we leave?” Makenju asked.

“As soon as the quartermaster outfits you.”

“No,”Makenju corrected. ‘As soon as I see my paperwork, signed by Her Majesty and the Vice General, reinstating me to the army with full benefits and authority due my rank.” His face grew hard.

Igweike pulled an envelope from under the sheaf of papers.

“She said you would ask.”

“She was right,” Makenju retorted. “Hmmm…a year’s retroactive pay, too. And why is it you can’t get the mail delivered on time?”

Igweike shrugged, the most plebian expression he had made since they arrived.


“To the quartermaster’s,” Makenju ordered.

An hour later, outfitted with pistols (Akbar, the better shot, opted for a 357 revolver) and duffel bags of gear, a civilian jeep sped them to the tarmac at Seko Selassie Mohammad airport. Sitting beside a smart Gulfstream devoid of any markings was an idling Rolls Royce.

“That’s certainly discreet,” Makenju muttered as he hefted his gear from the jeep. Akbar went to meet the air force officer standing at the foot of the retractable steps. Makenju waited until the driver alighted from the Royce and went for its rear door. Everyone save Makenju and Akbar was in uniform.

The Queen stepped from her vehicle unassisted, as her driver hefted a suitcase from its boot and followed her to the foot of the plane’s steps.

“Rather tall for a bodyguard,” Makenju thought, as he reached for the weapon at the small of his back.

She was beautiful. Short, plump, and every inch a monarch, with oversized dark glasses covering most of her small, delicate face and a dark green scarf covering her head. She wore a khaki dress and a smooth letter bomber jacket festooned with air force insignia several sizes larger than she against the cool night. She hugged the driver, a strange show of public affection. Stranger was the driver reached down, hoisted her up a few inches and kissed her mouth. Giggling was unregal, but she did it anyway.

Akbar stepped forward.

“Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness,” he saluted.

“No, Major, the prince corrected, “We are just Mr. & Mrs. Oludara here. A husband dropping his wife off at the airport. We could be any other couple leaving a loved one behind to take a trip.” The prince actually grinned. His dimmed slightly when he saw Makenju .approached, duffel in tow.

“Your Royal Highness,” Makenju’s eyes met the monarch’s.

“Major.”

The royals, Makenju noted, had their issues. Adherence to protocol and respect for those serving them were not their problem.

Makenju took the lead, going up the steps of the plane, searching it thoroughly, although he knew it had already been examined. He beckoned to his queen, who then alighted, followed by Akbar. Makenju and Akbar introduced themselves to the pilots, whom the queen thanked for their service to the crown. The pilots beamed and returned to the cockpit as the monarch and her two handlers strapped themselves in. Akbar took a window seat in the living room like cabin. Mrs. Oludara took an opposite window seat that allowed her to see the Rolls Royce on the tarmac, where her husband stood, waving. She pulled off his bomber jacket and settled into the comfortable leather lounge.

Makenju looked this scenario over with mild disgust, then unholstered his pistol, ejected the magazine, ensured the slide was empty and put them in a drawer beside his chair. He tilted his head back and tried to get some sleep as the Gulfstream taxied. The aircraft was aloft in no time and banking east. The pilots had assured him theirs would be a direct flight to Chicago. The plane had been retrofitted with auxiliary fuel tanks that would land them at Midway airport sometime late the next day.

Sometime after reaching cruising altitude, Makenju felt the plane’s wings dip back and forth. He opened his eyes and saw two fighter jets bearing air force markings on either side of the Gulfstream.

“So much for discreet and privately funded,” he said aloud.

Mrs. Oludara looked up from her book and gestured that he should come sit with her. Akbar appeared asleep, but Makenju knew he missed nothing.

“How are you Ibrahim?” she asked, genuine concern in her voice.

“Well, twenty four hours ago I was using a pail to dispose of my own excrement. Now I am in a multi million dollar aircraft with a billion dollars of machinery on either side of said aircraft. Two days ago I had a black armband and a knife made from a razor blade stuck through a toothbrush handle for protection. Today there is an unloaded 40 caliber P944 in the drawer with my fingerprints on it. Oh, yeah, I’m richer by a whole year’s salary today. Yesterday I was unemployed and wondering where I would get money for smokes.”

“I put money on your books several times. Thandiwe made me. It was a difficult transaction to carry off, but we did it.”

“Yeah, I could picture that. One of your aides discretely adding commissary money to an accused killer’s books for the lady whose husband, who happens to be the Vice General of the armed forces, had imprisoned on false charges. Is that a regular practice for him? I asked around. Place was a regular Chateau dIf. Forget the back pay. Perhaps I need to go to the tabloids.”

He kept his voice even and soft in the quiet cabin. She did the same.

“What you did is an executionable offence…”

“And I was on Death Row. Without a trial, I might add.”

“You should have known better than to let love guide you so foolishly.”

‘Love?” Makenju barked a laugh. Akbar stirred on the other side of the cabin. “Love? What could you know about love? I did not go to jail and lose everything for love, but for an offense that occurs every day, going back to Biblical times. Even King David, scoundrel he was, had the decency to send his friend to the front lines. Not jail him.”

“We are not at war,” she said softly.

“Perhaps we could start one. Been done before. Preemptive strikes then send soldiers who have sex with the wrong women to the front line. Save on prison space. Perhaps acquire new territory in the process.”

“You sound bitter,” she said sadly.

“You let your husband put me in jail. No, your husband put me in jail and you never lifted a finger.”

“I got you out.”

“When it was convenient for you!”

“No,” she said sadly, “when the timing was right. You are a career soldier, you love the Crown, but sometimes you have no concept of the burdens of duty. I have to sacrifice the benefits of the one for the good of our country.”

“Sounds good. That is why those planes are along side of us. For the good of the country.”

“It is my divine right to lead my people. I am travelling as a mother. I remain a head of state. Should war break out back at home while I am away, I am expected to stop whatever I am doing and deal with the situation involving our national security. Duty such as mine does not take exceptions for family crises.


“Stop living in the past, Makenju. Isn’t it enough you were cared for, then? It is valuable to hold a special place in a woman’s heart. You don’t have to be with her to have that.”

“Spoken truly like a woman. Keep a special place for the suckers in case you need them, or their loved ones need you, later.”

“You know better.”

“I know the women of this family, Mrs. Oludara.”

‘We used to be friends. You can call me Maryum,” she looked out of the window, sadly. “You used to call me May May.”

“You used to stand in my corner and not watch me quietly railroaded into jail for all I’ve done for this damned country.”

“Men do not understand…times come and go…you have to change with the times.”

“Please. That is not gender specific. Plenty of women fall for, and stay with, the wrong man.”

“Can we not fight?”

“Your Majesty, if you wish to not know my feelings, do not ask.”

“You seem so bitter with your honor…would you have preferred to stay in your cel and await your termination?”

“I would have preferred to have been left alone. To continue to serve my country and my love life be my own affair.”

“You wanted marriage…commitment…love, honor, respect…all of the things you could not have with someone of a social position ranked so highly above yours. Especially under those circumstances.”

“Adults make their own decisions…”

“Some adults, my dear Ibrahim, are children. One of the myths our society is that women mature faster than men. That is not so. Society provides a safety net for women, a support system on so many levels. It expects a man, however, to shoulder the burden of his actions regardless of age or station in life. Your own imprisonment, sadly, demonstrates that. There are some cases where women are offered options without responsibility. Society will protect a woman before it will embrace a man.”

Makenju stood.

“Thanks you for the sociology lesson, Mrs. Oludara. May I be excused?”

“I wish you wouldn’t hate me so, Ibrahim.” She sighed. “Yes, you are excused.”

He nodded and went back to his seat to brood as the flying living room floated above the clouds.