‘I’ meant something different in the private plane. These brief visits to the African states had no fixed meaning to me. The organisers whose 3 letters could have been anything were long gone and the contracts were all jumbled. Accelerating already with no checks on who we were. I looked out on the huge gated runway. We were
new type missionaries. Sofas lay around inside the stripped green shell, moving like oblivious friend types on wheels. The side doors slid open and a soft toy fell out under a military vehicle. One of the idiots threatened to jump out after it but luckily there was some state awareness from our vehicle thanks to our pilot, a real classic rock roadie. Doors were only closed with nails and bolsa wood but we were somehow cruisin’.
I could smell my bloody relative round the back of the modern artaste ruin, being BBQd. No sign from him. His mother calmly attended to me.
“I can’t see him...” I said
“…but I can smell him” she finished for me.
Mothers gotten used to the situation. Her son’s wrinkled into a baton sized action man and is now either residing or being medicated inside a white bottle with sweaty alcoholic juice. She carefully rotated the bottle so the bit of juice round the neck and head bubbles and joins the rest round his body.
From there I was escorted into the city via the backseat, through the giant broadway of the city into the initial heart of arms raising. In being shot at, my driver gets it in the head. I steer over round shoulders as his dead foot pushes me on and I lodge bodies under the shassy and dodge burnt out vehicles with a windscreen wiping of the brick dust.