The Mopane Tree

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

His gangly arm arced upward and he slid his black carry-on bag from the overhead rack. Rose from his seat, groped at his side to reassure his 35mm Minolta camera was secure.

That grotesque image remained etched in his brain like a tattoo. My beautiful Lylie, he remembered: sprawled on the red pile rug on our bedroom floor. Her favorite white silk pajama top with the yellow daffodil print, laced around her sunburned neck, and slightly exposing the roundness of her ripe breast. Her head in a sleep position nestled in the cradle of her right, bent elbow. A vision of ethereal loveliness. Except for a small bottle with a red and white label, clutched in her right hand. A sea of white capsules littered the red carpet around her half nude body.

"Excuse me. Pardon me, please," he mouthed to three passengers standing and chatting in the narrow aisle of the jumbo 747 jet plane. His bag held high above his head and his camera dangling precariously at his side, he wiggled and twisted his way to the exit.

Joel jolted down the waiting stairs with much a child's anticipation; landed on the gray, sun-baked tarmac. He'd been gone a month to the day.

Spiny cracks in the parched earth fanned out like fingers. His eyes followed this web until it fused out of sight.

He languished there, as if to get his bearings; gazed up at the yellow morning sun, squinted, and placed his sun glasses on the bridge of his nose. Reached casually into his jean pocket, retrieved a small pack and popped a yellow M & M into his mouth. Playful lizards scampered across his path. He knew then he was back in the enigmatic city—Dakar, Senegal.

That same adrenalin rush of warm water cascaded down his spine. Very much like the last time he and Blany were on the hunt, foraging for some of the rarest treasures and antiques on the African continent.

His eyes narrowed to slits as he peered through the ripples of heat waves dancing off the basalt, to see if he could spot Amadou.

"He's never late," he said. He knows my itinerary better than I do.

Aaah, that Amadou, he reminisced. He's sharper than a ... The time I browsed the silver market in Bascu, not really looking to buy. I was caught off guard by facets emanating from the depths of one of the most fascinating rubies, set in the center of an exquisitely modeled silver filigree broach. Immediately, I envisioned it draped around Lylie's neck, nestled in the warm cleavage of her twin cupcakes.

His peripheral vision caught a ten year old Senegalese boy ogling at him.

Seemingly, he realized my hesitation. He looked up. His brown eyes sparkled with a cherubic innocence. "Buy it," he said. I did.

Joel entered the airport concourse, a sudden change from bright to a cool blue. As if his eyes had played a trick on his vision; no Amadou. He was bum rushed by three rag-tag Senegalese boys. At a glance, they appeared to be between nine and twelve years of age. They looked like "circus runaways." A circus Joel knew, oh so well.

"Where's Amadou? Let go of my case, kid!" Joel jerked his black case and held it close to his side. For the moment the other two boys stayed back. Prancing in place, ready to pounce like tigers.

"Amadou sick," said the closest one, with one pant leg down and the other rolled up his bony leg to the knee. "He want you let me carry your suitcase."

"Well, who in the hell are you, and what have you done with Amadou?"

"I Asane. He say, I help you."

"Sorry, I can handle my bags myself. Maybe next time," Joel offered. "Okay?"

"Give us money," demanded a second kid, sporting a dirty, pock-marked face, in a dingy, grey, oversized Muhammad Ali t-shirt.

A third boy, shirtless, with a bloated stomach protruding from under a well defined rib cage, waved a tree limb above his head, pranced menacingly toward Joel who had now squared his back against the cinder block wall behind him.

Joel, himself, not the least unfamiliar to the plight of these boys, grew up in an orphan home. There he participated in several of the martial arts, including kick boxing as a means of self protection.

"Ok, ok," said Joel, his open palm thrust forward. "Ok, stand back. Listen, I'll make you a deal," he gulped in a bunch of hot air, "here's the deal." He straightened his body, his eyes flashed from one boy to the other, slowly lowered his bag to the floor beside him.

"The next time I come, let me bring you a gift from America. You know, United States ... How about a walkman, a DVD player, video game, or even ...?"

"Liar, liar," shouted Asane. He leaped, brandishing a shiny metal object in his right hand. Joel tried to take a step back; he was already against the wall. Now, Joel was surrounded by these crazed boys. Asane leaped in the air again; this time with a grisly scream that sent echoes bouncing throughout the terminal. Joel made a sweeping, wild swing with his camera strap. His Minolta met the knife wielding fist of Asane and the boy's fingers opened like bird's wings at take off. The knife went airborne. Joel ducked and it crashed the cinder-block wall just above his head and bounced with a loud clank on the concrete floor.

A crowd surged toward the scene, shouting like fanatics and shaking their fists at the three boys. The boys were now in retreat, backing down the corridor and out a side door.

"Are you alright, sir?" came an unusually high-pitched voice from the crowd. A tall, broad-shouldered man advanced from the group.

Joel's first guess is that this man was security of some kind, considering the service-type uniform and cap.

"You alright, Sir? Did you get a good look at them?"

"Oh, no, no, I mean, it's ok."

"Nonsense. I promise we will hunt down those gutter rats and put them where they belong," the man said.

Still rattled by what had happened, Joel retrieved his luggage and slung his camera across his shoulder.

Absorbed in thought, he couldn't help but wonder what was so important about the contents of his bag that someone would stoop to such measures as to hire kids to get it.

Joel with his case in tow and camera around his neck ambled down toward the airport exit with the intent to get a taxi along the way. He needed these moments to collect himself.

"Sir," called the voice of the uniformed man, "you are forgetting ..."

"You talking to me?" pointing to himself.

"Yes; customs," said the man.

"Oh, wow," said Joel.

Customs had become so routine for him he couldn't believe it slipped his mind.

"Perhaps I can accompany you?"

"No. No, but, thank you, Sir. That will not be necessary."

Joel approached customs. "Passport please," said the woman in the window.

He patted his jean pockets, then removed the passport from his shirt pocket. While she examined and stamped; Joel routinely pushed his "work permit" through the window.

After approval, Joel left the Airport with no intention of hailing a taxi. He decided to see a part of Dakar he was not familiar with to calm him.

I've always known the world had its ugly side, he thought to himself, but knowing certain things did not help me to rationalize what had just taken place; and the headlines...