Dick Fades the Albino by Dick Avery - HTML preview

Mary nodded in the affirmative while I continued speaking.

“Next on the list of things to do is to create a blitz newspaper attack on Booku, recounting his many crimes and highlighting the fact that he’s currently wanted by the International Court of Justice. We’ll pay for stories to be planted that argue for his capture to stand trial for his misdeeds. This action will be a little tricky but I think Frank can pull it off through his contacts in the media who are pro-Sirleaf. I’ll talk to him.”

“Lastly, we’ll up the ante by using friendly radio stations to broadcast unfriendly pieces about Booku. They’ll report false information about his current activities in Liberia to further stoke the fire. Again, we’ll need Frank’s help to make it happen but I think it’s easily doable since money will be on the table. Many people, even those living in the bush, have battery-operated radios. I don’t believe we’ll have any problem getting our message out to the natives in the hinterlands. Let’s see if we can get a couple of stations in Sierra Leone to cooperate as well. They have no love for the guy considering what Taylor and his bunch did to the country during the civil wars. Since he’s been spotted from time-to time crossing the border with Liberia, maybe we can put the pressure on him to hole-up in one location for at least awhile. It’s worth a shot.”

“However, one thing that we need to be careful of is creating a trail that could lead back to Sirleaf or the ambassador at the U.S. embassy. Let’s keep the bread crumbs to a minimum. We need to keep both of them out of this stuff if we can or for as long as we can.”

“Avery, I like your plan. It’s a good move in the right direction. It will likely create confusion among Booku’s loyalists and maybe, just maybe, lead us to him. In any event, he’ll be looking over his shoulder more often.”

“As you were talking, I thought of something else we might do to box-in Booku and cause him to make a mistake that will bring him out of hiding,” Mary mentioned. “I want to give it more thought but it could fit nicely with the disinformation campaign you’ve just outlined. It’s something that will likely put me at odds with my African heritage and sworn oaths but I’m willing to do anything to bring down Booku. The fucker really needs to die! I’ll fill you in later after I’ve fleshed things out a bit in my mind.”

Mary had just piqued my curiosity about what was on her mind. So much so, that I asked if she wanted to stay overnight to discuss her quandary. I thought quandary referred to someone’s sexual kinks and desires but it turned out that I was wrong. She politely declined my generous offer for bed and breakfast, finished her drink and said goodnight. I escorted her out the back gate of the compound. As I did, I could easily see the luminescence of night guard’s new watch in the darkness. I wondered if he could tell time. No matter, I wasn’t sure what time it was either in terms of our investigation.

Sometimes those who protect and serve simply needed a good licking to keep on ticking.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 11

Juju Jamboree

Mary objected to my idea to attach a banner to the plane that dropped the leaflets all over Lofa County. I thought Surrender Booku or die, merci beaucoup was a nice, polite touch. However, Mary thought I was a bit touched. She won the day and argument. God, she could be so touchy at times! Okay, touché mon ami, I thought in my best French.

Our campaign was moving ahead nicely. So far, things had gone to plan. Frank had successfully recruited several newspaper editors to lambast and lampoon Booku in the print media. It would take a few days for the newspapers to arrive in Booku’s neighborhood but once they did he would be furious. He’d undoubtedly cancel his subscriptions. We had yet to pull the trigger on the radio broadcasts, holding that punch behind our back for the moment. I admitted that I really liked the manly talk of guns, especially when associated with Mr. Booku. It suggested strong action and false bravado. We needed both things right now to see us through our mission. I hoped we wouldn’t have to bite the bullet or swallow our gun when all was done. Such acts were too orally uncomfortable and embarrassing.

Frank and Mary were poring over the voice messages coming into our dedicated phone line at Lonestar. So far nothing of consequence had been reported. However, much inconsequential stuff had been accumulated. Many callers vented their anger against the Sirleaf government and its obvious attempt to stop Booku’s rise to power. Many more callers solicited money for various causes, invariably their own, charitable ones.

Several women proposed marriage or at least sponsorship to whoever might be listening. They figured that if 25 thousand dollars was being offered as a reward, there must be more money where that came from. Deep pockets, a generous disposition and a big Johnson were sought-after attributes by many Liberian ladies. However, the Johnson part clearly indicated they only wanted to date well-endowed Americo-Liberians. Regardless, Scandinavian names must be very popular here.

This nationality nonsense was getting too confusing, a mishmash of American, Liberian and Scandinavian. Where was I? I rhetorically asked no one in particular. Liberia, shit-for-brains! I was rhetorically answered by no one in particular. I didn’t particularly like the snotty response.

***

I got the call late in the afternoon. I had just finished my nap so it didn’t interrupt my nearly-daily constitutional. I especially enjoyed its long bill of rights. I was a true hellion when it came to defending them. Jeez, didn’t consistency have to be consistent to work properly? At my age, I badly needed my sleep, wine and cigarettes but not necessarily in that order. I scored with the women in my dreams so I was getting my daily ration of real and vicarious creature comforts and notional vices. I was a happy camper and a thoroughly dissolute person until I answered the phone. For what it was worth, I continued to remain resolutely dissolute during and after the call too.

I fumbled with the phone before saying hello. My telephone etiquette was sorely lacking and remiss and I severely chided myself for my clumsiness. I simply couldn’t abide dropped calls, accidental or otherwise. I listened closely to what the caller had to say.

“Mr. Dick Avery, this is Merci Beaucoup. I suspect you know who I am so let’s not play games. I want Amos Brown released from your custody. If you do, I might let you live. If you don’t, you know your fate. You almost met it the other day in front of your apartment.”

“I’m not someone to screw around with. You’ve likely heard the same from others. I’m offering you a chance to live. By the way, I know what you’re up to with your little mind games. They’re pathetic, feeble attempts to stop the inevitable from happening. You can’t do a damn thing to slow up my plan. Its outcome has been foretold by the juju men of my country.”

“You may not believe in such things given your Western disdain for magic. But in Africa it’s real and powerful. You need to tell the Oma that her days are numbered. Yours are too if you don’t behave and do as I say. I’m not joking. You have 24 hours to release Amos Brown unharmed. Otherwise you’ll suffer the consequences. Mr. Avery, a quick death by poison will seem a humane act after I get through with you.”

The phone then abruptly went dead. I prayed for a better ending for our little team. I didn’t have a chance to get a word in edgewise with the guy. If I could have interrupted his monologue, I would have teased and taunted him to further piss him off. Maybe something like: nah, nah, nah—you can’t catch me Mr. Smarty Pants. Perhaps something a little more masculine would have worked better. Regardless, he’d get my strong message just the same. I refused to be intimidated by a ruthless, insane ghoul with a lot of years of combat experience—scared shitless, yes, intimidated, no.

However, the takeaway message from Booku’s diatribe was that we were getting to him with our psych-op antics. Despite his blustering, he was feeling the heat. We had snatched his best bud, Amos Brown, and now we were starting to play in his own backyard. If nothing else, he must be losing face among his supporters. If he lost much more, he’d be translucent, I shamelessly chuckled.

Even his reference to the Oma was transparent. I knew what the word meant—old woman in Liberia-speak. Among the people it was the common, respectful name for Ellen Sirleaf. It seemed that even Booku showed some respect for her personage and position. That would only last as long as her execution at his hands or until she hastily fled the country. Those would be her only options unless we came through for her.

There was something else that was both transparent and opaque at the same time. We had a leak on our team, a gusher by the looks of it. Booku knew my personal cell phone number and where I lived. The fact we had a leak was obvious but his or her identity was still a shrouded mystery. I had no idea who it could be since only relatively few people knew of our mission and the team’s identities.

There were only a handful of Washington bureaucrats who were privy to our true reason for being in Liberia. I believed that privy was a wholly appropriate word for those who leak. That was because of those civil servants who couldn’t or wouldn’t keep things zipped tight. Diarrhea of the mouth was a constant worry around the office water coolers—Tourette’s syndrome even more so. But I didn’t think the leak came from Washington.

More likely it was someone here who had betrayed us and was reporting to Booku. By my count, only the President of Liberia, Frank Yeaten, the U.S. ambassador, Mary Tambo and me were permitted the use of the privy—for official purposes only of course. The NBI agents and Amos’s jailers weren’t witting to most of what we had done or planned. They weren’t the likely culprits.

I fully trusted Mary, but Frank much less so. I still wasn’t convinced he was true red, white and blue; the colors of his nation’s flag. He wrapped himself in it too often to suit me. As for Ellen Sirleaf and the American ambassador, it was possible they might have slipped-up and inadvertently dropped a word or two about the operation. However, I couldn’t imagine them mentioning our names under any circumstances. They knew the score and personal consequences of such a disclosure. No, I believed our spy was someone who was close by and watching our every move—at least mine. I’d have to be more careful in watching my step and back.

***

I later briefed Mary on Booku’s telephone call. She agreed that he sounded like he was on the defensive but that didn’t make him any less dangerous, only more so. He was angry and would strike-out at the slightest provocation. She emphasized that none of us were safe when he was in a fit of blind rage if the stories about his eyesight were true.

According to Mary’s take, he would try to get what he wanted at all costs even if that meant risking his own life. He didn’t care because he had the African gods on his side. In his own mind, that meant he was invincible and couldn’t fail. She mentioned that his personality was textbook megalomania, right out of a chapter in DSM-V. Regardless, a sociopathic, megalomaniac (with the clinical signs of bipolar disorder) made for a formidable opponent in anyone’s book, she concluded.

However, I took a slightly different view. I believed his little snit and temper tantrum might cause him to make some not-so-little mistakes that could play into our hands. Hell, who doesn’t suffer from the occasional, minor and emotional upset these days? I asked myself. I didn’t wait for an answer this time and quickly moved on to other thoughts. As obvious, I enjoyed accentuating the positive in mostly hopeless, dire situations. Pollyanna was always my favorite heroine for my inner child when I was growing up.

***

Given the leak, I ordered Amos Brown to be moved to another location. It was a prudent move under the circumstances. That was an odd thing for me to do since I’d never been a prude before. Perhaps I could have been mistaken for a prune with my badly wrinkled skin but I was never intentionally prudish. Maybe I was just incredibly modest instead. That was a much more acceptable explanation.

In any case, what I proposed to Mary was not immodest in the slightest even though I wanted her to bare all. After some gentle coaxing, she gave me what I wanted to hear. I was totally shocked by what she revealed to me. Who knew what evil lurked in the hearts of men—or women for that matter? Well, Mary and her shadow knew for damn sure! It had bothered her for a long time but now she was ready to disclose some dark secrets to further our cause. I ended up admiring her greatly for what she told me in the strictest of confidence. I vowed never to betray her trust unless expediency or my forgetfulness dictated otherwise. She was one tough lady who had been through much in her earlier years and deserved respect, along with my awkward, lustful advances.

“Dick, I mentioned at our last meeting, the one where you asked me to stay the night, I had an idea to ratchet-up the pressure on Booku. Basically, a continuation of the campaign we’ve been waging but something that will really shake his tree and confidence.”

“I remember that you had an idea but don’t recall hitting on you. Maybe it was the wine or my senility that caused the memory lapse. Not sure which at my age,” I brazenly lied. Admit nothing and hope for the best outcome. That was the DS mantra. Plausible denial was everything in my profession but she easily saw through my bullshit.

She laughed at my obvious lie, sidestepping my prior, indiscreet suggestion for sex. I appreciated her discretion and benevolence. However, my testosterone level was still soaring but my self-esteem consistently hovered in the lowest of numbers. Other than humping Mary or pumping Avery Junior, I didn’t know how to get out of my slump and relieve my inner demons.

“Okay, whatever, but I need to tell you a few things about myself when I was growing up. I’m not particularly proud of them but they happened and I can’t erase them from my mind. My story is a little long so bear with me. Towards the end, I‘ll explain how we can use Booku’s unshakable belief in African magic against him.”

***

“My family lived in Grand Bassa County in the southeast part of the country. Not surprising, they were members of the Bassa tribe and so were I and my younger brother. Avery, keep in mind that there are many indigenous tribes in Liberia. They sometimes get along but often they don’t. I can’t explain the phenomenon but I’m sure it’s the same today as when I was a kid. Alliances with other tribes are formed and then broken for a variety of reasons, usually petty ones by Western standards. But that’s the way it is for better or worse. It’s a very confusing situation given the numerous intermarriages and extended families that exist in this country.”

“I’m not even sure where things stand with the Bassa these days. However, I do know that I have many brothers and sisters who are part of my extended family. But I don’t know who most are. For example, if a married man dies, his brother or cousin takes in his wife and children. Multiply that situation plus normal procreation and you’ll get a sense of the numbers. They’re huge. Elder tribesmen keep track of who’s who with elaborate, detailed genealogical charts; mostly in their heads in the oral tradition but sometimes written down.”

“I’m going to relate things in a more-or-less chronological order but they don’t necessarily need to be for purposes of my idea. I’ll share these things with you and expect you to honor my honesty, shame and hope for a better Liberia. Several are embarrassing and I’m reluctant to tell you my secrets. However, I must so you’ll better understand our societies and customs. It was a big part of my life and heritage until I moved to the States. Those things still hold me captive to my past in many ways.”

“Avery, Mother Africa is an ancient continent and basic things tend to change very slowly, if ever. One summer when I was seven years old, my parents sent me to visit my grandmother who lived in the bush. I adored her and looked forward to visiting when school was out for summer vacation. I quickly made friends among the village children and I was very happy. I played from sunup to sundown and had a wonderful time with my loving grandmother. One day, my grandmother woke me up very early. That was unusual. Maybe something special was happening in the village this day, I excitedly thought.”

“There was, but not something I would like. My grandmother took my hand and we walked several hundred yards to a clearing in the jungle. There were about six people waiting there. I was terribly confused and frightened at that point. What was going on? I wondered. Where were my playmates? I looked at my grandmother for comfort but she turned away from me.”

“Two people lifted me and placed me on what I can only describe as a sawhorse with a broad back and curved end. My legs were spread and kept propped open by leather thongs attached to the bottom of my wannabe horse. My panties were then cut away and I started screaming. What was happening? My mind raced as it spoke to me and I was frightened to death. My grandmother hushed me when I screamed. The only thing she said over and over again was I was becoming a woman. I had no idea what she was talking about. I was hysterical and couldn’t stop yelling and crying. I begged them to stop but they didn’t. A man approached and touched me between my legs. He told me not to worry and then removed my clitoris with a sharp knife. I had just undergone a clitoridectomy at the hands of my grandmother.”

“My cries for help went unanswered. The man took some ointment and spread it over my vagina. It seemed to stanch the heavy bleeding I was experiencing. The blood had run down my thighs, over the horse and onto the ground. I was in shock at that point and don’t remember much after that. Over the next 10 days, my grandmother attended to my wound, cleaning it day and night. I kept asking her what had happened but she never answered except to say I would understand later. She was right. I did understand later and I was furious. I never played again with my new friends.”

“I learned much later that my father was adamant that I undergo the ritual. My mother begged him not to because she knew the results having undergone the same procedure as a child. I’ve never forgiven my father for his misguided act of genital mutilation.”

“If you think these things don’t happen today, you’re very wrong. Female circumcisions are regularly performed in Africa every day. Children are subjected to the most despicable cruelties. Why do the parents do it? That’s the question. They do it because it’s a customary, stupid and ignorant custom and nothing more. If men were being castrated, you better believe the practice would be stopped in short order. But of course the two things aren’t similar. Men couldn’t procreate without balls. Women can still procreate with a missing clit. It’s as simple as that. Men believe that intercourse shouldn’t be pleasurable—at least for the woman. More importantly, the barbaric act will keep them from seeking-out other men or so they believe. It’s all about having children and creating chattel in the male-dominated society.”

“Sure, circumcision’s illegal, but so what. The laws aren’t enforced, and even if they are, the perpetrators only get a light slap on the wrist for what they’ve done. It’s an obscene practice that has brought misery to those who have been forced to suffer the procedure. The custom needs to be stopped to save our children. It’s an abomination that still exists within our country and elsewhere in the world.”

“Avery you’ve made a couple of lame passes since we met. It’s not that I’m not attracted to balding, older white guys. It’s because I can’t enjoy sex like a normal woman. I simply don’t get the tingle between my thighs that other women experience. I wish it weren’t so but it is. I’ll never get married because I couldn’t subject my husband to my physical disability, my terrible secret and shame.”

Mary started crying and I put an arm around her to comfort her. She had really drawn the shit card in the game of life. I truly felt sorry for her and wished I could do more to make her feel better. Here was a beautiful, smart woman who couldn’t enjoy one of the most natural acts in life. Things weren’t fair to put it mildly. I apologized to her for my fumbling, insensitive advances on her womanhood.

I was now behaving like a gentleman because my earlier attempts to exploit her vulnerabilities by not-so-cleverly soliciting sex had failed miserably. Jeez, I could be such a dick at times! I was so distraught that I immediately wanted to change my name, my last, not first. Avery was such a wimpy handle. Truthfully, I wanted to hide under the nearest rock and hibernate for the rest of my days. That’s how badly I felt about Mary and her emotional pain.

However, I still wondered if she might give me a blowjob later tonight. It wasn’t out of the question. Why not? The act didn’t involve her pussy so what was the big deal? I’d have to wait and see how she was feeling later, I supposed. Okay, I could play the waiting game too if there was the possibility of some head-action afterwards. I also wondered if she had any qualms about anal intercourse. I wasn’t very picky, just being especially considerate of her sensitive, vaginal condition. Christ, I could be so damn caring at times that it scared the hell out of me!

***

After a few minutes, she regained her composure and continued to tell her story. I was still reeling from her revelations and my prospects for hot sex later. My eyes moistened at the thought of what she had endured. My penis watered a little too in anticipation of things that might come. Being a standup guy, I told her I was suffering from an allergy; a sinus condition caused by the Liberian weather. I purposely didn’t mention my moist jockey shorts. It seemed that I’d just developed a strong reaction to African stupidity, cruelty, along with the prospect for a juicy piece of ass. But I avoided telling her about my extreme state of horniness. Better to leave some things unsaid but hopefully not undone in the end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 12

A Femme Fatale
Confesses All

“Avery, are you familiar with Freemasonry?” The question took me aback.

“Sure they’re the people that are conspiring to control the world brick-by-brick through constructive works. Am I close?” I was truly mortarfied by my less-than-concrete response. I just couldn’t help myself or Mary’s telling of the story.

“Very funny,” Mary sarcastically quipped. “For the ignorant in the audience, the Freemasons are an old, fraternal organization dedicated to helping others of their membership and the general public. The organization does many good deeds around the world that get little or no publicity. That’s the way they want things because it’s a secretive society as well. There’s nothing evil or strange about it despite what the conspiracy theorists claim. The only thing that bothers me is that’s it a male only organization.”

“If you don’t know anything about the Freemasons, you’ll obviously know even less about the Order of the Eastern Star. That would put you in the negative category in your sparse lexicon of American history or African history for that matter, Avery.”

I ignored her putdown and blow to my fragile ego. Of course, she was right. I didn’t have a clue about such things.

“The Order of the Eastern Star is an affiliated organization of the Freemasons. It’s organized much along the same lines and has a similar hierarchy, set of rituals and penchant for secrecy. Its purpose and mission are also very similar to freemasonry. It’s predominately female in origin and membership although it now admits men. Women are more progressive in their thinking than men.”

“This is all very interesting but what does any of this have to do with bringing down Mr. Booku?”

“Be patient, I’m getting there but you need to hear this stuff for perspective and context. You also may learn something in the process.”

“But the quick answer to your question is the Sande.”

I couldn’t see how Little Orphan Annie’s pooch had anything to do with the conversation. I was now dogged by serious doubt and Mary’s state of mind and sense of direction.

“Mary, what are you talking about?” It was my turn to question her sanity.

“The Sande is a secret, female African society that has existed at least a hundred years. Like the Order of the Eastern Star, it has a male counterpart called the Poro. Both are pan-African organizations but their numbers are greatest in the West African countries where they originated.”

“Both societies transcend geographic and tribal boundaries. That is one of their purposes. They have created a human infrastructure throughout West Africa that is dedicated to hard work and good deeds. Governments rise and fall and generally have no impact on everyday life here. They’re all considered corrupt and ineffectual. The Sande and Poro fill an important void in people’s lives by providing purpose, historical continuity, religiosity and upholding the longstanding rules of bush law. There are few social nets for people to fall back on. That’s not how things work on this continent. Social and protective services are provided by family and relatives, sometimes by the tribal elders, but most often through the efforts of the Poro and Sande.”

***

“That’s why I earlier mentioned the Freemasons and Order of the Eastern Star to illustrate there are similar organizations at work here. Some have even suggested that the Poro and Sande are offshoots of the Freemasons. I’m not sure, but it’s interesting to note that in the late 1700's a freeborn African American named Prince Hall, along with sixteen other black men, was inducted into the Boston Freemason lodge.”

“Prince Hall became disillusioned with the lodge’s politics, especially by the fact that it wouldn’t publically speak out against slavery. He and some of his followers petitioned the Freemason Grand Lodge in England and secured their own warrant to establish an Af