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Note : This story is completely fictional!

The waters of Lake Malawi, in southern Africa, are sparkling clear and warm
during the months of February and December. While Europe is freezing at this
time, Africa is enjoying its summer. The lake almost straddles the entire
eastern part of the tiny country, acting as a buffer between Malawi and
Mozambique. The beach, unlike in more popular tourist destinations, is unspoilt
since there are not many visitors. But in November and December a sizeable crowd
frequents the lake to escape the hot weather. On the first day that Thomas was
at the lake lodge he could not resist a dip and was soon running from the
restaurant, where he was seated, into the jade waters.

He had noticed him before, a young man with a nicely built body. But he had
seemed too young, probably a high school kid, most likely around 18. The first time
Thomas saw him, the boy was in the beach, somersaulting and making other
gymnastic moves on the clear sands. His agile body seemed so firm and every time
he somersaulted, his stomach became taut, like a bronze sculptured piece of art.

Thomas had made it a point in life not to have relationships with boys
persons. Not that this matters in law in Malawi. Any homosexual encounter is
illegal even between consenting adults. People caught engaging in homosexual
relationships stand to face a lengthy prison sentence and hard labour in jail
(yes, the court will order that you serve hard labour – breaking rocks in
quarries). Men jailed for such offences are highly mistreated in jail even by
fellow inmates who normally beat them up and rape them, claiming "that is what
you like after all."

This is a very conservative country. Just a few years ago, women were not
allowed to wear miniskirts or trousers and men with long hair were literary
dragged screaming by the police and the then ruling party youth brigands to be
forcefully shaven. But things are changing. The coming in of a multi-party
democracy and the opening up of society means that there are more same sex
relationships now, but they are very discreet. Younger people seem ready to
accept their sexuality, unlike the older folk who can hardly understand the idea
of two men getting intimate.

The laws aside, morally Thomas felt that he should not go out with someone
underage. So when Thomas saw the boy dive under the water, then emerge just next
to him, he was cautious, though his heart was beating faster than normal. Soon
the boy was extending his hand in greeting to Thomas. In fact, closer to Thomas,
he looked even younger.

Even though he is an African, people in this country can tell that Thomas is a
foreigner -that is he is from another country, either because he is very tall,
because of his light facial features or even because of his hair, which is
tinted blond. Not many people have such features in Malawi. So, the young man
asked him that question that he had been asked hundreds of times since his
arrival here – where do you come from? And that opened up their conversation.

After some small talk Thomas had established that his new companion was John and
he was indeed 18 and in secondary school. Thomas always liked, after a swim, to
lie right at the edge of the water and let the waves wash over him. This is
exactly what he did and John soon joined him. As they were resting another man
joined them, and the picture changed. The newcomer, a young man probably around
22, seemed to know John well and he was soon in the water lying next to Thomas
after being introduced to him by John. Thomas was later to establish that the
young man was related to John.

Thomas thought to himself, "I think water makes people look cuter". But Issa,
as Thomas came to learn was his name, looked even more gorgeous as he lay there
besides him, droplets of water forming a pattern on his skin. Thomas could not
help but admire Issa"s body. His stomach was also firm, like John"s, and he
seemed very fit physically. Light hair dotted the area just below his navel.

The reflection of the light through the water ripples on his body made a picture
to behold. The waves kept splashing on his light fabric shorts, lifting them up
and exposing his silk-like flesh on his thigh and above now and then as the
waves hit him. He lay on his side, so Thomas could partly see his bottoms and
also his crotch as the shorts kept being lifted back by the waves. Apparently,
Issa wore nothing else under the light shorts. The flimsy material stuck against
his crotch like cling film whenever the waves receded – making him look the way
oil wrestlers look when their pants stick to their bodies, the outline of the
flesh below clearly visible under the pants.

Thomas had been chatting with Issa and John for sometime when John announced
that he was leaving. Now here was Thomas, alone with Issa. As a huge wave hit
against them, Issa suddenly pulled up against Thomas. Then he placed his leg on
Thomas"s midsection, then his arm on Thomas"s chest. The move was so fast, as if
Issa had been thrown by the wave into the position. Yet, Thomas knew this was no
accident. It was a well-calculated move by Issa.

In Malawi the beaches are not crowded, but Thomas was still apprehensive in case
somebody stumbled upon them or was watching the encounter from the terrace bar,
which seemed to have customers even early in the day. Yet, he wanted that leg
and arm to remain there forever.

"You have very long and erect nipples," Issa said to Thomas, his hand grabbing
one of the nipples then pulling it. "You are a nice piece of art," Issa said to
Thomas as he caressed his nipple. Thomas was thinking of placing his hand on
Issa"s crotch when a shadow fell on them. It was a bemused Sue Macdonald. She is
the programmes coordinator at the organisation, Youth to Youth, where Thomas
worked as a youth peer educator. The organisation had brought the staff to the
lake for an annual planning retreat. Now here she was, stumbling on Thomas in
that compromising situation, Issa"s leg on his body and his hand caressing his
nipple.

"We have one more session before lunch, remember, and you have a presentation to
make, the others are already in the room and the meeting has been on for the
last one hour" Sue told Thomas, choosing not to say anything to Issa for the
moment. Apart from relaxing, the retreat offered the staff an opportunity to
review their programmes and make future plans, hence they had formal sessions in
the conference room now and then. Thomas had not noticed it, but he had been in
the waters for close to two hours, yet the free time was only for an hour this
morning.

Thomas was sure Sue had been surprised to find him in that position, yet she
chose to say nothing – which was worse. Thomas wished she had said something,
anything about them. But it was to happen later. Sue comes from Amsterdam, where
her parents have settled for long. In fact, her home was near the red light
district in the heart of the city. The idea of two men having sex may therefore
not be strange to her. But Thomas had a feeling that she never expected this
between two African boys, cuddling and caressing right there in the open.

Acknowledging for the first time the presence of Issa Sue said, "finish up with
your friend, but do not take too long", then left as fast as she had emerged.
Finish up with your friend…? Thomas could not understand what she meant by that.
Did she mean, caress each other you boys for some time then get done with it, he
wondered."

Sue is a sweet lady and many people do not understand her. They say that she
left Amsterdam after being dumped by her Dutch boyfriend whom she had fallen
hands over heels in love with. She was so madly in love with the guy such that
when he left her, her world came crumbling down.

Sue has also an inferiority complex problem. She always complained about her
skin, saying it was ashen. Sometimes she sat in the sun the whole day trying to
get a tan, only to stand up feeling dizzy and minus the tan. Thomas did not know
why, but she always seemed to think that she was not attractive enough. Thomas
was not good at judging women"s beauty, but he could say that apart from her
wide rimmed glasses, which she could get rid of if she wanted, he found nothing
wrong with her looks.

After the end of the relationship with the Dutch man Sue had opted to forget
about love life and instead to concentrate on projects in Africa. She had
plunged headlong into her work, burying herself in it. But Thomas was sure that
deep inside she still longed to be loved and to love someone. This was visible
when Tony Manicken came to the project as an intern for three months. Manicken
was young and jovial, a carefree man who accompanied the locals in harvesting
honey from wild hives, getting stung badly most of the times but going back to
jockey with the dreaded African killer bees again and again during his short
stay. He seemed suicidal. He had even said that he would be trying to ride a
buffalo, luckily there were no buffaloes nearby. Thomas could see that she was
enjoying his company and had Tony stayed longer maybe they would have struck it
off. Unfortunately, Tony was only here for the three months before he flew back
to Canada for his studies leaving her forlorn again.

Sue had initially been engaged by Youth to Youth as a facilitator trainer but
had risen in rank to become the programmes coordinator. She dedicated all her
energy to the project, burning the midnight oil writing proposals for funding
and filing reports. Occasionally, she would invite some of the staff from the
project for a scotch at her apartment, but beyond that Sue seemed to have no
social life.

"I will see you later. When are you free?" Issa asked Thomas. "I will be in the
beach at 5.00 after the afternoon sessions. Can I see you then?" Thomas replied.
"Sure," said Issa as he pinched Thomas"s nipple hard and smiled as Thomas
flinched in pain and pleasure. As Thomas stood up he made sure that he touched
Issa"s crotch. He could feel the firm rod under his wet pants.

The afternoon session was the most boring of all sessions since Thomas arrived
at the retreat. He kept glancing at his watch, hoping for 5.00 p.m. but the
clock seemed to be on a go-slow strike. At one point, Sue caught him checking
his watch. Thomas could see a flicker in her eyes, as if saying "I know what you
are up to." The heat was oppressive and participants were fanning themselves
with booklets and any other material they could lay their hands on.

Luckily, the session was over by 4.30, giving Thomas time to rush to his room
for a quick change to a swimming costume and a dash to the lake. There were many
children playing by the shore, splattering each other with water and Thomas was
wondering how they would have another nice cuddle when all the children were
around. There was also a middle aged man, swimming quite close to the shores,
probably too scared to venture further into the water and Thomas was feeling
like shouting at him to get lost further into the sea. Thomas could not see
Issa, but it was still early.

But as the minutes kept on ticking Thomas was getting worried. By 6.30 Issa was
nowhere to be seen. This is the latest that people are allowed at the lake
because of fear of hippos. Although rare, there are instances when hippos come
to the beach. In fact, during one of his swims early in the morning, a hippo had
come very close to the shore. People in the lake had ignored shouts of warning,
thinking that those on the beach were joking. That was until one of the swimmers
sighted the hippo. Swimmers scrambled out of the water like they were possessed.
Even so, because of the desire to meet Issa again Thomas ignored the warning and
waited till 7.00 p.m. when finally he left for his room.

That night Thomas did not visit the bar, the most popular place at night. On all
evenings the guests in the lodge would sit at the bar, chatting and watching
musical shows on digital satellite TV broadcasts, till late in the evening as
they sipped Kuche Kuche (the local beer) lagers.

On this night someone had called Thomas on the phone from the bar, "hey man,
what is happening? Why are you not here?" But he had no energy to go to the bar
tonight. He was just thinking about Issa. At night, he lay in bed tossing. When
he finally drifted to sleep he dreamt of Issa, rowing him in a boat in the lake
as they sang happily like two small kids. Then it turned out that it was not
Issa, actually it was his brother Sam. By the time he woke up the next morning
he was exhausted because of sleeping badly. But he dashed to the beach, hoping
that Issa would somehow turn up.

Thomas stayed at the beach till around 10.00 a.m., yet there was no sign of
Issa. After that he had a formal planning session in the conference room that
went up to the lunch hour. But he was not really concentrating.

"You have been rather low," Sue said to him at coffee break. "Do you mind
telling me what is wrong?" How could he tell her that he had just thought that
he had found an angel, but he had simply disappeared into thin air like the
morning dew.

"I may tell you soon, but there is something certainly bothering me," Thomas
told Sue. But she insisted, "is it that boy I found you with? Has he dumped
you?" How could Issa dump him? He had only known him for a very short time, yet
he felt like he knew him for years, like he belonged to him. Thomas is an
emotional person and has deep feelings for people. But in his whole life he had
never felt for anyone else the way he did for Issa. It was as if Issa had
touched a love nerve that Thomas never knew existed.

The meeting with Issa reminded him of his school days. He was educated in a
school that was set inside a military barrack. The school was meant specifically
for children of service men. But it admitted children from the surrounding areas
as long as they had good grades. It is here that he had met Michael. Michael had
just enrolled at the school after his father"s battalion (or unit, he could not
recall what exactly they called it) was transferred to the barracks. This was
usual, his school had the greatest mobility of students. They came and they went
as their fathers" units were transferred.

Michael had become his instant friend from day one. Thomas had noticed him as he
came in and was introduced to the class by Mrs Maniki, the protuberant bellied
principal who made it her point to introduce every student who came in. At lunch
hour, Thomas had walked over to Michael and chatted him up. After that, they had
strolled together to the Armed Forces Canteen Organisation (AFCO) shop, where
pupils were allowed to purchase things, for Cokes and burgers.

Michael had moved his desk that afternoon, coming from the front to the back to
sit next to Thomas. Michael was Thomas"s real love. Although they did nothing
much – touching, kissing and fondling each other – the magnet was there. Even in
class, Michael and Thomas"s would hold hands and they would remain like that for
long. Thomas remembered his literature teacher, Mrs Maduso, commenting: "If you
guys were in the Western world (Europe and America), someone may misconstrue
your behaviour to mean something else." What she did not know is that it would
not be a misconstruction. If she had known that they kissed and fondled each
other every day the old fashioned Mrs Maduso would probably have had a cardiac
arrest there and there.

Then one day Thomas found a note from Michael; "I am so sorry that I did not
have the strength to tell you this straight in your face. If I did I would have
cried. I am emotionally broken since my father"s unit has been transferred. By
the time you read this note I will be in the military truck with my family,
headed for another battalion. I love you and will continue to love you forever.
I have carried away one of your exercise books, the one that we wrote some of
our jokes. I want to remember you through that book – your handwriting, your
jokes. I have also left in your desk my handkerchief. I have put my name on it
so that you can remember me…" Thomas was devastated. After that, for a long
time, nothing seemed good at school. Even his grades plummeted. But he had,
unlike Sue, overcome the childhood heartbreak.

Back to the lake, that afternoon there were no formal sessions. So Thomas
strolled to the beach. Then he saw him. He was seated near the spot they had
met, facing the sea. As he approached Thomas called out "Issa!". "Come here, my
dear," Issa said and gestured for him to sit besides him. Before Thomas could
say anything, before he could ask him what went wrong, Issa"s hand was on his
waist wrapping and bringing him closer to him. His other hand held him under the
chin, drawing his face close to his. Then his wet lips landed on those of Thomas
for the deepest and most passionate kiss he had ever known.

"Close your eyes," Issa said. "No. I will not close my eyes only to find you
gone," Thomas said jokingly. "I will not leave you," Issa assured. So Thomas
closed his eyes. Issa pushed something to Thomas"s hand. "Do not open your eyes
yet, first I want to kiss you the way you are first," Issa said as his lips
explored those of Thomas. They stayed locked, engaging in kissing for close to
five minutes. "Now you can open your eyes and look at what I have given you,"
Issa said after he released Thomas.

It was a painting done on canvas, large canvas with a painted illustration of
both of them lying in the water, hugging each other. Issa was certainly a very
good painter and he must have really concentrated to come up with the painting.
"I made this the whole of yesterday but I could not finish it. So I continued in
the morning. I really wanted you to have it. That is why I was unable to make it
here yesterday afternoon and today in the morning.

Issa had inscribed on the painting: "To the Most Wonderful Boy who has
rejuvenated my Life. This is for Thomas from Issa. May our love blossom like the
flowers in the fields." Thomas felt so touched. He grabbed Issa, bringing him
close to him for another intimate hug and passionate kisses. From the corner of
his eyes Thomas could see John standing far in the beach watching them, hesitant
to come closer. Thomas did not know what John was thinking, but he did not seem
shocked at all. Thomas could have hugged him too, after all he is the one who
had made Issa come to him.

"I am an artist. I paint and offer my paintings to the beach vendors who sell
them for a commission," Issa told Thomas. "When I saw you I knew it was love at
first sight. I felt that I could express that love with the best talent that I
have. I do not know why, but you lit up a fire in me when I saw you" Apparently,
Issa had seen Thomas before on the beach but did not have the courage to come to
him. "When I saw you with John, I knew that I had to make my move. Before that I
did not know how to approach you. John offered the opportunity," Issa told
Thomas.

"Issa, this is a great gift. I am really touched. But most important is that I
have you. I got really worried when I did not see you at the agreed time. The
fact that I missed you greatly made me realise how much I value you. I love the
gift but it is you I love even more. Please Issa, never let me feel so lonesome
again, even if it is for the sake of a gift. I was really worried when I did not
see you yesterday and today morning. It was an eternity for me," Thomas said to
Issa.

"Issa. You are coming to dinner with me at the restaurant. After that you are
staying in my room," Thomas said with finality "I do not care what anyone says,
I want you to stay in my room throughout the period I am here. After that I want
us to be also together.
"Its Ok with me," Issa replied, "I also long to be with you every day".

That evening, Sue was surprised to see Thomas at the dinner table with Issa,
occasionally holding hands. Normally, the Youth to Youth group had dinner at a
reserved table. There were glances all over from his colleagues but they did not
ask questions. this was a liberal group and probably some of them were still
looking for their sexual identities. But Thomas did not care at all about what
was going on in their minds. Issa was the most important thing now and it was
like he was coming out of the closet by his actions, not words.

Later on that night as they sat in the bar with Issa, Thomas grabbed a moment to
show Sue the painting and told her what had happened. "I am so glad for you. I
did not know this kind of thing happens in Africa," Sue told him as she hugged
him and wiped tears from her eyes. "My youngest brother, who is about your age,
is gay too. When he came out the first person he told was me," Sue said. "He too
has a very good relationship in Amsterdam. I am the only one who does not seem
to do well in love," Sue told said.

"Sue, you are a beautiful and honest person. I am sure that love is lurking
somewhere for you. It is just a matter of time before someone pops in and you
will have the best time in the world. After all you are still very young and the
doors of opportunities are numerous," Thomas found himself telling Sue. Thomas
have never been an "agony aunt" (or uncle) but he felt that he had to say this
to Sue not to flatter her but so that she could realise the real person she was.


Postscript:
Michael and Issa live together in a nice chalet next to the lake. Michael was
offered a job at the beach hotel as the resident DJ while Issa continues with
his painting career. He has a small art shop, popular with guests, at the same
hotel. Their love has blossomed like the flowers in the fields and on weekends
they sometimes go to the Lizard Island, a quiet, tranquil island for quiet time
together.


ends

Caleb Muchungu is a gay black African journalist living in southern Africa.





Faces in the Sand, an original radio play by Caleb Muchungu

Synopsis:
Chileka Musa, a young unemployed graduate, is arrested and thrown in Palemba
Prison (in an imaginary African country) after being caught kissing another man
in a pub. Here, brutalised by warders and inmates alike and suffering from
psychological torture of being rejected by family and friends, he starts a
reflection and analysis of his own life and society. He sees a society that
thrives on hypocrisy and deceit. Chileka explores other issues such as violence
(including domestic) and alienation. He wonders at the irony of Palemba Prison,
where same sex activities go on every night â€" yet those involved deny that
they are interested in their own sex. They prefer to believe that they are only
inflicting pain and punishment to their victims. Chileka also recalls of his
former gay college mate and lover who is forced to marry in order to prove that
he is straight. This play explores a subject that many Africans pretend does not
exist. The play also exposes the horrible detention conditions in many African
prisons including the spread of HIV due to unprotected same sex activities. The
writer has chosen an imaginary country so that it is representative of the
entire continent. He has also chosen the controversial subject in order to
highlight the problems of men who have sex with men (msm) who are normally
shunned and even left out in HIV/AIDS programmes in Africa. South Africa
recognised same sex marriages as this play was being written.
*(This is an original radio play by Caleb Muchungu. It has not been published
before or enacted anywhere. All the characters, events and places are fictious
and not intended to portray anyone alive or dead. It was submitted to the BBC
African Plays.


CAST:
1. Chileka Musa
2. Prison Warder
Flashback minor characters:
* Magistrate
* Father (Chileka"s)
* Mother (Chileka"s)
* Preacher

Faces in the Sand

(Sound of a baton violently scrapping against metal grating and steps of someone
walking heavily)

Chileka (almost whispering in a sense of urgency then his voice rising up)
Listen! Listen! Here he comes. That is the way he comes in every morning,
creating fear and panic! They call him Wire. He is the most brutal warder in
this prison. You should see his handiwork. Every one of us here bears his mark.
Broken bones, whip lashes, name it…He carries a whip made out of thick twisted
wire strands. That is why they call him Wire.

(HARSH Male warder voice shouting): Wake up! Wake up you dirty cockroaches! You
are not at home! This is not a lodge! This is Palemba! ,a prison set up to
punish you dirty criminals.

(sound of pans being knocked all over in panic)

Chileka (as if talking to himself): Hear the way they knock things all over to
get out of his way in fear. They say he has killed two inmates in the past. One
of the inmates accidentally cut a maize seedling as he was working in the
fields. He was bludgeoned to death.

The other inmate killed was caught with a razor blade, a highly forbidden item
in the prison. Wire immersed the man"s head in a bucket full of water till he
drowned as other inmates watched.

He will end up in this cell and he will surely hit me with his truncheon. He
seems to enjoy doing that. Why me? Well, he knocks everybody he can lay his
hands on, but he seems to enjoy knocking me more. He says I am the scum of the
earth! The dirtiest and most vile creature they ever brought here to Palemba
Prison. At Palemba we are all scum, but I am the worst scum. He says I am like
something the cat brought in last night.

(Sound of heavy metal door being kicked open, then someone being hit several
times)

Chileka (in pain): Wow! Aaah! Wuuiii!

Warder"s voice: Why are you looking at me like that, eeeh? Do I look like your
relative or one of your male lovers? (another sound of beatings) get out all of
you, go take your porridge so that you can labour in the fields for the state!

Chileka: I told you so. He picks on me on all kinds of excuses. It has become a
routine. Today it is that I am staring at him, yesterday it was that I was not
squatting properly. Yes, here you have to squat when warders are talking to you
and you have to answer Afande. Don"t even imagine of saying "Sir†instead.
The guy who said "Sir†last time lost all his front teeth and his jaw is now
skewed.

(mimicking what the warder said) You think that you know a lot of English? Eeeh?
You think this is your home? Now you are a white man? Eeeh? You think that we
did not go to school also? Here you have no degree or school certificate. Once
you come here we flash those silly papers down the toilet bowl. This is Palemba,
we do not want your English or education here.

The warders think that you are slighting them when you speak in English. You
should have seen it. I could hear teeth breaking as he beat the poor guy so
badly with the huge truncheon that he carries around. When the human rights body
visited the prison recently the warders said that the man is a mental case, that
he hurt himself after continuously banging his face against the wall. We were
warned not to deviate from that story.

Warder: Mr Commissioner from the Rights Body, Sir, this is one of the problems
that the prison is facing. We get so many of these insane people. The courts
should instead send them to mental hospitals. But they keep on sending them to
prison.

Chileka (WITH A CHUCKLE): Imagine that, so shameless they are they will tell all
sorts of lies without blinking an eye.

Voices of other inmates: Hello woman, how was your night? How is your husband?
How come today you are not wearing a skirt?

Chileka: Even the other convicts do not like me. They despise me. They call me a
woman, some call me other names that I dare not mention to you. The first time I
came here they all beat me in my cell. All of them. Except Katili. Katili has
become my secret friend. He sympathises with me, though he does not show it too
much to avoid being beaten also.

Murderers, robbers, rapists, child defilers, sadists! Yet, they all think that
they are better than me, that my crime is the worst on mother earth.

I remember that day vividly. The day I was sentenced. I recall the court scene,
the magistrate who sent me here. He came in wearing a black gown and one of
those wigs they place on their heads. As he entered the courtroom, we all stood
up, even the spectators who had come to celebrate the day of the slaughter. He
perused my file for about ten minutes, wrote things in it, all the time the
court silent like a graveyard. Then he lifted his head up and pushed his glasses
further down the bridge of his nose, his cold and piercing eyes staring at me
over the lenses.

Magistrate: Chileka Musa, you have been charged in this court for a gross act of
indecency, an act that you do not deny but which you claim is not an offence. On
August 6, 2005 in a pub in Palemba town you, a male of sound mind, were caught
by members of the public kissing another man.

When the police were called in and arrested you, you asked them what was wrong
with two men kissing. That demonstrates your arrogance and disregard for society
that has educated you to university level. This is a god -fearing nation.
Morality drives our society ahead. People like you have no place here…

(voices of courtroom crowds chanting): Hang him! Hang him!

Magistrate: Silence in court! You are a well-educated young man but you are a
bad example to our society. Moral decadence that leads to shameful acts like
yours must be punished heavily. We do not want our young to emulate you. Now
before I sentence you, do you have anything to say in mitigation?

Chileka: I do not know why I said that. But I stood up and said (CHANGING HIS
VOICE TO DEMONSTRATE A SPEECH TO THE COURT)"No your honour. I am already
condemned by this court and the society in large. You too have personally
already condemned me by your epithets and value laden expressions. Whatever I
say or do will not alter the picture. In this court and outside people spit at
me. This country is one big jail where people are perpetually in chains over
their sexual orientation, over their gender…the minority and the weak have no
say in your society. This is a society that thrives on falsehoods, a society
that pretends to be so moral yet it thrives on crime, deceit, pretence,
hypocrisy and denial. Wake up and face the real world†.

Yes, everybody had already condemned me. My brothers, my sisters, my friends,
none of them were in court throughout. My sister had called me a devil.
(mimicking a lady"s SNEERING voice) "He is Satan. Let him carry his own
burden. This is the black sheep of the family. He has shamed us all,†she had
told the only person who had tried to persuade her to see me in the police cells
after I was arrested. Even the media had already condemned me. All that remained
now was for the man in a gown and a wig to put his official stamp on it.

Magistrate: Chileka Musa, having examined the evidence before me and having
listened to your mitigation plea â€" if any â€" I find it necessary to remove
you from our god fearing society. You have even the audacity to lecture this
court in your warped thinking. I wish the sentence prescribed for the offence
was harsher. But as it is I have no alternative but to sentence you to the
maximum sentence provided by law.

Chileka Musa, I sentence you to a jail term of five-years.

(Joyous clapping and excited cheering from the court crowds THEN SOME SOMBRE
TUNE)

Chileka: It fell like a hammer blow. I had known it was coming. But I never
expected it to be so harsh. Even the newspaper that had condemned me in its
editorial when I was arrested had toned down and written a commentary piece
saying that the sentence was too harsh.

I remember that journey to Palemba Prison. In a truck with tiny holes for
windows, all of us packed like sardines. We stood straight, like soldiers on
parade with no room to manoeuvre about.

(Roar of a truck as it speeds, hitting bumps and potholes and sounds of sirens)

Chileka: The violence from other inmates had started right there in the truck.
Someone had grabbed my hand and removed my cheap watch. Two others were in my
pockets, digging in deep and coming out with all I had â€" a few crumpled notes.
Even my neck chain was not spared; a burly man behind me ripped it off, tearing
skin from my neck in the process. A young guy, originally dressed as fashionably
as a rap artist star, was now only in his underwear. They had stripped him of
his expensive looking jeans, sneakers and a fashionable T-shirt.

At the prison gates there was the reception. Yes, they call it the reception.
More than 50 warders always wait with glee in their eyes for the truck as it
arrives from the courts, truncheons and whips ready, to assert their authority
and initiate inmates to prison life with violence.

(Voices of warders and sounds of whiplashes as prisoners cry out)
Get out, quickly, squat in threes! You will know that you are now in Palemba not
at home. Here, you do as you are told, you are not supposed to think. At Palemba
we do what we want with you. We have killed many people and you will not be the
first or the last ones!

Chileka: Yes, they could do anything they wanted to do with us, and they did
exactly that. We were all made to strip naked and searched in all crevices. They
poked sticks in our mouths and other places that I will not mention for now,
claming to look for contraband. It did not matter whether you were 18 or 80.

There were juveniles, young men and old men â€" all bundled together. We all
squatted there in our nudity on the hot tarmac yard as they humiliated us. I
still see the face of one Sergeant, stepping on the neck of a very old white
haired inmate with his huge boots as his truncheon went up and down, hitting the
inmate.

We had all heard about Palemba â€" of the numerous deaths of inmates and the
cruel treatment meted out â€" but now it was no longer hearsay, we were part of
it.

(PAUSE)

But that was six months ago. . Since that day I have seen more violence than I
can describe. Violence from the warders, violence between inmates. There are
those inmates called in-charge. They are the eyes of the warders in the cells
and they are even worse than the warders. I have seen them beat up inmates until
they cry out like small children. I have seen inmates die before my very eyes.

During all the time I have been in Palemba Prison none of my relatives or
friends have dared visit me. How do you get identified with a man who has
committed the worst crime in the world â€" kissed consensually another male? For
them it is better to steal, murder, forge documents…..

But I am sure my mother would have liked to see me, only now she is too old to
travel all the way to Palemba. Yes, my mother, that sweet lady who took such
great care of the younger me. Sometimes, in my forlorn moments, I think a lot
about her.

Life, how hard life was always for her. No wonder she has aged so fast. The last
time I saw her I could not believe this was the once vibrant woman who cared for
me. She looked like a zombie, shrunken and stooping, with a face full of
wrinkles.

Now I realise that she was also always a prisoner, a prisoner not in Palemba
Maximum Prison, but of domestic violence at the hands of my father. I remember
them fighting virtually any time my father was at home. They quarrelled on the
smallest things in life you can imagine.

(Sound of a radio broadcast tuned to the BBC increasing in volume THEN TURNED
OFF then a MALE CLEARING THROAT)

Father: Joyce, why is this radio covered in dust. Can"t you ever think of
wiping it? Why is it that nothing in this house works? This radio is just like
the furniture in the house. I notice that it is very dusty, yet you sit there
the whole day and do nothing.

Mother: But you are the one who was with the radio the whole afternoon seated
outside under the mango tree. It must have gathered dust then. And for the
furniture, I personally wiped everything up when you were in bed in the morning,
reading your newspaper. It is the dry season and there is a lot of dust
everywhere.

Father: Under the mango tree the whole afternoon and in bed reading the
newspaper! Are you insinuating something? Are you saying that I am as lazy as
you? Are you saying that it is now my work to keep the house clean? This house
is like a garbage dump. Even the children"s clothes are torn, yet you cannot
take a needle and thread and patch them up! You want to tell me that it is not
dry season in other homes. Why do they manage to keep their furniture clean?

(Silence, only the clock ticks)

Chileka: My father always came up with numerous accusations. He spoke in a
cynical manner, always finding fault in my mother. Sometimes I wondered whether
whenever he was quiet he was not actually scripting, rehearsing the next episode
on how to hurt my mother.

That day she decided not to argue any more, thus saving herself a blow. Other
times she would argue and it would always end up in physical violence. But that
day she only sat near the fire burner sobbing till late in the night.

I always wondered what brought them together. They seemed miles apart. Was it a
forced marriage? Their marriage was one big lie, yet they continued to stay
together â€" torturing each other. Why could they not just go their separate
ways. Society abhorred divorce. It expected women to persevere even in the most
brutal union. My parents marriage was for the society, not for themselves.

Whereas my father used physical violence, my mother always used her tongue. She
would say bad things about my father when she was talking to Aunt Hilda. I
always overheard them, and their talk was always about my father. They normally
sat for long in the kitchen, taking tea and talking â€" unaware that we were
listening. I often heard Aunt Hilda tell mum to leave my father before she was
hurt badly. But she always came up with an excuse to stick around â€" the
children, the image, her parents…
Mother: Imagine me walking away from the marriage. What would people say? My
parents would die out of shock. And what about the congregation in the church,
they would not accept me again.

But Aunt Hilda had done it. True, she was considered loose and immoral. But she
did not care about what others said. My sister always spoke very badly of her.
She said no moral woman should leave her husband to raise four children on her
own. Even the priest in our church said she was not fit for the church. A woman
who leaves her husband was not worthy of the congregation, the priest would say
in reference to Hilda.

I admired Aunt Hilda. She spoke with a forceful voice, unlike my mother"s, and
knew exactly what she wanted in life. Her children always seemed happy. She was
never judgemental. When she caught me smoking she simply said she would tell no
one but I should consider whether smoking was really good for me at that age. I
have never smoked again - in my whole life!

My father worked in a distant town, coming home only on weekends. But whenever
he was home, there was always violence. He always seemed ready to make my mother
suffer. We, the children, always longed for him to come home â€" waiting for
Friday nights to hear the sound of his vehicle and to see its lights dancing in
the distance as it approached our rural home.

But always, always, the weekends ended up in misery. The two were simply
incompatible.

(Church Choir singing The Lord"s My Shepherd Then fades out)

Chileka: On Sundays, we would all go to the church like one happy family. I
remember that church. It was made of wooden walls and a shiny corrugated iron
sheet roof that shimmered in the sun from afar. It was perched on high ground,
overlooking down on everything else. My father had contributed a huge amount for
its construction. Maybe this is the reason the priest never cautioned him about
his violent behaviour to my mother.

My parents would always pretend that nothing bad had happened the previous day
or even the same morning as we went to church. I remember my father, always
resplendent in a fitting suit and a nice tie. And my mother, I wish you had seen
her. She would wear floral dresses, bright in colour and a headscarf to match.

But the violence would resume once we came out of the church, sometimes even in
the car as we headed home. My father would never leave home for his posting
without a really good fight with my mother. Were other families the same, I
would wonder as I sat in the pew with Mario, my primary school-mate. I think I
found solace and comfort in Mario in a certain way I could not explain. He
seemed always happy. In church, we would sometimes giggle and play around,
oblivious of the preacher and those around us. We would sneak out of the church
to play in the compound. Mario always told me his father was God. He did not
know his own father. I sometimes wished my father was God too. At least God
would never hit my mother.

(Shouts of children as they play outside the church)

Chileka: Then one day the worst happened. I remember it vividly as if it was
only yesterday. It was after Christmas Day.

(SLOW, MELANCHOLICAL INSTRUMENTAL TUNE)

My father was home, this time for a longer period, it being the holiday season.
Everything seemed unusually tranquil. He would sit there in the lounge, his feet
on a coffee table. He would lead us in singing Christmas carols, his deep voice
competing against our high-pitched voices. I remember him teaching us a
Christmas song using Mario"s guitar for instruments. It was Silent Night.

(THE SONG SILENT NIGHT BEING PLAYED ON A GUITAR AND SHRILLCHILDREN"S VOICES
JOINING IN).

How I loved the song. It was as if I was right there in that city they were
calling Bethlehem. I could almost see and touch the shepherds as they followed
the star. And Joseph and Mary, they seemed so loving to each other. Did they
also fight each other? Would baby Jesus, now in a manger, also grow up in a home
torn by violence like mine?

During that Christmas even my mother seemed happier and radiant as she prepared
chicken and rice. The puffs under her eyes seemed to have faded a bit. Sometimes
my father would dash to the kitchen to steal a piece of chicken from the grill
and the two would chat excitedly. It was as if they had declared an armistice
and a time of healing had began. I had never known such happiness in my life.

But this happy moment was only a lull before a storm.

(A PAUSE THEN THE MELANCHOLICAL TUNE)

The volcano erupted on Boxing Day, the day that my father was set to leave home.

That day they quarrelled and fought like wild cats. The fight started after my
father saw ticks on one of our cows. My dad had a passion for the animals. They
were supposed to be sprayed against ticks every week by our worker, Chifuma.

My father came back to the house fuming. My mother had just come from the
bathroom with a smile on her face, probably expecting another nice day. I saw
the smile freeze on her face.

It was the worst fight that I can remember in my life.

Father: (SHOUTING) Joyce, why are these cows full of ticks. I always leave
behind money for the spray chemicals yet when I come home I find nothing has
been done. What is your work in this home. You expect me to be at work hundreds
of kilometres away, toiling for you and your children, and yet you cannot make
sure that the homestead is run well. You just sit there like a bag of potatoes.

Mother: Why must you always pick on me and accuse and abuse me in this manner.
Chifuma sprayed the cattle exactly a week ago. The animals can pick fresh ticks
from anywhere. You can ask Chifuma.

Father: Ask Chifuma? While you sit there the whole day doing nothing? Look at
Susan, she is running her home very well. If you go to her home you find that
things are running. Her animals are kept well, her garden is blossoming, her
home is neat, she cooks appetising food. If you cannot run this homestead, I can
bring Susan to stay here and manage the farm.

Chileka: Susan was the single mother who my father had sold a piece of our land
to. My father said that he had sold it to her, but my mother always suspected
that my father had given it to her for free. In fact, my mother suspected that
my father was having an affair with her. Although Susan"s house was not far
from ours, none of the women visited or talked to each other.

My mother has a strong intuitive mind. I sometimes wondered whether she was
psychic like Madame Hola Hola, that mystical lady in my comic strip book. Or
maybe she was just good at putting two and two together to make four. My father
would go to Susan"s home often, claiming that he was pursuing the balance of
the land payments. My mother never talked about it to us, but I overhead her
often tell of her suspicions to Aunt Hilda.

Immediately my father mentioned her my mother erupted.

Mother: Yes, I have always known it. That is why you see fault in everything I
do. It is that woman Susan, your mistress. She has poisoned your mind. When you
come home you always go to see her. You think that I have not noticed that there
always assortments of household goods in the car before you go to her and when
you come back they are not there!

Chileka: My father replied in the best way he knew â€" violence!

(SOUND OF A SLAP THEN SILENCE)

Chileka: The slap was like a thunderclap. Then my father followed it with more
slaps and blows.

(Sounds of slaps, shrieks and screams) You are lazy and good for nothing. You
have now the audacity to question my integrity. After all, any man worth his
salt would admire Susan, not you.

Chileka: And I remember the fall. It was the most horrible and frightening
thing.

(SOUND OF A PERSON FALLING AGAINST A TABLE AND UTENSILS TUMBLING DOWN).

My mother fell down, pushed by a blow. She hit her head against a table sending
it tumbling down. Blood oozed from the back of her head, from a deep gash. Then
my Father jumped into his car, revving it like mad and zoomed off at break-neck
speed.

My mother remained prostrate for about 30 minutes as we cried around her. We
thought she was dead.

That is the last time I saw my father.

(THE SONG THIS WORLD IS NOT MY HOME. THEN FADE OUT AND THE VOICE OF A PREACHER)
Preacher: Here lies a man of great integrity. A loving husband and father.
Joyce, we know how saddening it is that your loving companion is now no longer
with us. But remember that the good work he did, including the love he had for
you and the children, will always be remembered.

(CONTINUATION OF THE SONG THIS WORLD IS NOT MY HOME AND THEN FADE OUT)

Chileka: They buried him on a Saturday. We were all there, my mother with her
black eyes and a black scarf to cover the gash on her head.

His car had hit a tree at high speed. The driver of the truck he was trying to
overtake had recalled a very fast moving car emerging from behind, overtaking
and then realising there was an oncoming bus. My father had swerved but ended up
hitting the giant tree.

Preacher: And as we bid our final farewell to this great man, let as all emulate
his life. Let us all be great pillars to our families as this man did…

Chileka: That was the last time I set foot in church. My mother always confided
in the preacher and he must have known what was going on but he did nothing to
try stop the violence. But it no longer mattered. Him and all those people
seated there in the pews, looking very holy, maybe they were all wife beaters.
Maybe their homes were just like mine, but pretended to be happy â€" always
singing joyfully.

I hated society, with its faces in the sand, living a life of hypocrisy, wearing
Sunday faces while under the carpet was all the dirt you can ever imagine.

(PAUSE)

It is the same here in Palemba Prison. Hypocrisy! How ironic? They put me inside
here for kissing another man. But I wish you saw the things that go on in this
prison. Men have sex with men, yet they do not want to admit their orientation.
Some use the excuse that they are meting out punishment, not sexual
gratification, others use the excuse of not having a woman.

Hypocrites!

The prison authorities will not admit that same sex activities occur every day
and night. Some are consensual. Others are forced. Younger inmates are forced
into sex by offer of food or by use of physical violence. Some group has been
trying to persuade the prison authorities to issue condoms to prisoners. They
will not hear of it.

This place is the factory of HIV and AIDS, I can tell you this with confidence.
After six month in the prison I have seen it all. Tom came in as a fresh faced
18 year old, after being arrested in a mass swoop in the city. His crime?
Loitering in the streets.

He is sexually abused every day. I remember his screams the first day. Today he
is too spent to scream. Then there was Alex. Yes, Alex at only 18. He is now in
hospital with some ruptured parts of the body. Alex was pushed to the hardcore
cell, the one they call Condemned, by a warder who was paid by the inmates to
bring in fresh flesh. The next day he was found unconscious, sexually abused so
badly that the doctors thought he would not live.

Many people come here without HIV. They leave with the bug in their bodies or
die of AIDS right here in prison. That is what happened to Thomas, the longest
serving prisoner. When he came here he was sexually abused, then became the
abuser. We saw him succumb to TB, an AIDS related disease. He wasted so much
till one day they wrapped him in a blanket and took him to the morgue.

Then there is Enock. No, Enock is not in Palemba Prison. He is not even in any
jail. He is another example of the hypocrisy of our society.

He was my roommate in the halls of residence at the University of Palemba. We
partied and binged drunk all over town whenever we got our allowances.

(NOISY youthful PARTY with fast paced GHETTO rap musicthen fade out)

Enock was my lover. He is the first man that I had a real affair with. Some
students knew of our relationship. Most took it very badly. A few did not care.

But he had to marry a woman after college in order to create a facade that he is
straight, that he is not abnormal as they call people like me. He told me one
evening that his parents and relatives were pushing him to marry, so he had
conceded.

Again, hypocrisy of the society.

I fear for his wife, Jennifer. She must be at a great risk of contracting a
sexually transmitted infection, including HIV. Enock has many one-night stands
with young men and I am almost sure that he does not use any protection because
of the urgency of his activities.

Is this not sheer hypocrisy to marriage, to a woman that he does not love? How
many other Enocks are there in this continent, dashing away from their wives to
seek other men whenever opportunity arises yet pretending to enjoy the company
of their female partners simply to satisfy the ego of the society. No
organisation has even an intervention programme on HIV/AIDS on people like I and
Enock in this country.


Then there is my sister. She claims to be pious and religious. That is why she
has never come to see me in prison. She says I am tainted and I have shamed the
family. She says that I will go straight to hell. But the things she does! If
this is what religion is all about, then let me live without it.

(IMITATING THE VOICE OF A WOMAN)
Hello Laban. I have come about that deal. The City Council is about to announce
the allocations of its low cost houses and you must do something now otherwise
it will be too late. You said 50,000 but I have 49,000. I failed to raise the
extra 1,000.

Chileka: That is how she got the council house. Laban was the chief housing
officer. She bribed him so that she could get a council house meant for the
urban poor. Laban struck off the name of a deserving applicant so that my sister
could get yet another house, bringing her total houses in the city to three.

That is not all. When her son failed his Fourth Form examinations, she rushed
straight to the examination council and came out with a fake certificate after
bribing the clerks. It showed that her son had passed with distinctions.

That is my sister! The pious and religious woman!

This is why I like Katili. He is somehow like me. He has experienced the
hypocrisy of society. Katili was a well to do man one time. He had a public
transport minibus that brought him lots f money every day. His relatives and
friends worshipped him, praising him and inviting him for all their functions.
They would invite him to every fundraising event, where he would be feted with
adoring words and where he would contribute generously.

Then one day his minibus crashed and his fortune came to an end. As he ran out
of money, relatives and friends melted way, avoiding Katili like he was a leper.
Yesterday Katili poured his heart to me. He told me how he was kicked out of his
rental house for non-payment of rent and could not find a place to stay.

Warder: Attention, Attention you cockroaches. Some of you might be lucky
tomorrow, that is if you do not commit any offence in jail between now and then.
As you know, the president releases some of the cockroaches every year at this
time. Some of you may just see your homes. But make sure that you never come
back to Palemba Maximum. If you do, you will die here. Now listen carefully to
the names of those who are to be released………
Madoli Adoli
Joseph Tambo
Malam Rashid
Obi Oboma
Said Mohammed
Katili Mwendwa………….

(WARDER VOICE FADES OUT)

Chileka: Yes, I knew my name would not be there. I am the scum of the scum or so
they say. The prison authorities never submitted my name for pardon. Most likely
I will spend my entire sentence in Palemba.

But I am happy that Katili is going home. What kind of reception will he get
from the society out there? Jailbird!, convict!, pauper! Most likely they will
spit at him â€" forgetting that their own closets are full of skeletons.
Hypocrites who pretend to be loving husbands and wives yet lead violent and
adulterous lives, hypocrites who bribe and steal from public coffers yet troop
to places of worship….. Hypocrites who only see the mote in other people"s
eyes, but not the logs in their own eyes.

Faces in the sand indeed.

CLOSING TUNE

ends
Eden in a Shack by Caleb Muchungu

A wave of sweltering heat of Dar â€"es- Salaam city, in Tanzania in East Africa,
sweeps past me as the car door is swung open. Rashid, the taxi driver who picked
me from my family"s Oyster Bay Beach home, lifts up his bags from the boot of
the car. Here, humid heat temperatures can go up to 35 degrees. The moisture in
the air tends to make your clothes stick to you, making it rather uncomfortable.
Even worse is that the streets
of Dar are highly congested with vehicular traffic, bicycles, handcarts and a
mass of humanity that seems to float on all sides of the pavements like rivers.
Soon, in relief, I am in the drab looking airport lounge of Kilimanjaro
International Airport. Though nondescript, it has at least some air conditioning
and I can sit down in comfort without jostling with people in the streets.

I am too early at the airport, something that I always like,
especially now that it takes very long to get past security
checks because of fears of terrorism. But even though it
is important for me to check in early, long hours in airport
lounges are always a bore. I move to the magazine rack outside
a kiosk, but there is nothing interesting. It is too early
to settle at the bar counter for a beer, I say to myself, though
some middle aged protuberant Tanzanians â€" most likely
rich politicians â€" are perched on the stools taking Kilimanjaro
lagers and smoking some expensive imported cigarettes.
I choose to settle for a bugger and a coke. The burger tastes
stale!

I am soon airborne on a Royal Swazi Airlines plane. I am heading
for Cape Town in South Africa, where I am supposed to represent
my youth club in a youth workshop on HIV/AIDS. The youth
club is an interesting place not only because of the activities
that we carry on there, but also because of the interesting
youth that I have met. As I lean on the window, enjoying the
view below, I think about Sata. Is he gay? Sata is from Sychelles,
that idealistic island in the Indian Ocean, but his parents,
like mine, work in Tanzania.

I have only been a member of the youth club, which is run by
a non-governmental organisation, for four months. I was
chosen to represent the club since I am the only one who can
communicate effectively in English. Most of the youth
here are Tanzanians and communication in English for them
is a problem. Years of Ujamaa (brotherhood) system of governance
(they called it philosophy) by the first president of the
republic, Julius Kambarage Nyerere, neglected English,
opting for Kiwahili instead. But this has put Tanzanians
at a disadvantage in world affairs.

Sata is the first youth that I talked to when I ventured to
the club, drawn in from the road by blaring music and the
huge signboard declaring Kituo cha Vijana (Kiswahili
for centre for youth). I had stood at the door, looking lost
as the youths seated in the room, engaged in different activities,
stared at me. Then Sata had waved to me to join him. His cute
face had struck me like a thunderbolt. His long curly hair
fell in strands in front of his face and his complexion was
flawless. He was seated with two other young men, but I was
not bothered with looking at them. As if I was a familiar
figure he had said: "come, join us for a game.†The three
were playing card games and to accommodate me they started
a new game. Whenever I made a good move, Sata would pat me
on the thigh. Sometimes he would place his hand on my shoulder
as he peered at the others placing their cards on the table.

It was only at the end of the game that Sata had sought introductions.
In turn, he had introduced me to everyone in the room as his
"friend.†He had then ushered me to a back office where I
had been registered as a member, after filling in a long
form spelling out rules and regulations of the club. From
that day I had attended the club religiously, every day
arriving with the expectation of seeing Sata.

Now, as I sit in the plane, looking down on a meandering river
in the ground as the plane gains height, I cannot help but
remember December. Yes, December. That is the month that
I really came close to kissing Sata. The Christmas festivities
air was lingering and everyone seemed in great spirits
â€" from the fishmonger in Kinondoni to the choir- master
at the St Mark Church.

The club had organised a nature trail walk for us in some
beautiful gardens. As we were descending from a leafy hill,
a tiny insect had entered my eye, forcing me to stop as I furiously
rubbed my eye. "Do not do that!†Sata had warned, examining
my eye as the last three people in the group passed past us.
"Don"t flinch, †Sata had told me, as he held apart my lower
and upper eyelids. "I can see the offending insect. I will
remove it for you, †he had said softly. Then the unexpected
had happened.

He had pushed his face on mine and gently, with his tongue,
removed the insect from my eye. He had then held it at the
tip of his finger, showing it to me, "there, that is the animal
that was eating your eye.†He had then examined my eye, bringing
his face close to mine as if peeping through a microscope,
to see that his handiwork was done well. He had gazed at me,
as if saying "what are you waiting for, why don"t you kiss
me?†But, I did not do it. Then, as if to justify what he had
done, Sata had said, "my grandmother taught me how to do
that.â€

Quick reasoning had made me not do it â€" kiss him. What if he
reacted differently? What if he shouted and the others
came bearing down on me? But I could not stop wondering,
was I wasting a golden chance? Maybe he was also in a dilemma,
how to approach me. But in a homophobic society I had to be
careful. In Tanzania, like many African countries, homosexuality
is frowned upon, though it takes place daily. Gay people
have to pretend that they are heterosexual for the benefit
of society.

"Ladies and gentlemen we are soon going to land in Manzini,
Swaziland. Passengers connecting to Johannesburg should
remain in the airport lounge….†The voice of the flight
attendant draws me from my thoughts. Swaziland is one of
the smallest countries in Africa, surrounded on all sides
by South Africa. I am wondering whether from the air it would
be possible to see all its borders if they were marked, given
its tiny size. But it is not the size of the kingdom that has
captured world attention. Rather it is its king, Mswati
111, who every year picks a virgin from a reed dance as his
wife, who has made the tiny monarchy known.

Only yesterday I was listening over the BBC that he has picked
up a 18 year old, Xolile Magagola, to be his 17th wife. The
king, 34, has spent huge amounts of money refurbishing
palaces for his wives and 24 children, the BBC announcer
said. In fact, the BBC reports that he has spent over $ 16
Million (100 million Emalangeni) on the palaces.

But soon I will be in the land of Nelson Mandela, he who is
revered all over the world. So for a moment I forget about
Mswati and his wives.

It is at Manzini airport that I meet Dr Mureithi. He is going
to the same conference, though of course not under the youth
category. The mature adults will in most cases offer their
experiences to us "dotting young ones.â€

Dr Mureithi is a nice old professor. He speaks with a heavy
Kikuyu accent, his mother tongue from the highlands of
Kiambu in Kenya, stressing every word as if he is slowly
reading from a radio script.

He worked with my father at the University of Nairobi"s
Sociology Department. That was before my father landed
a lucrative three-year contract to work in Dar for a non-governmental
demographic research organisation. But my father has
always remained a lecturer â€" in mind. I guess if the contract
was not so lucrative, he would have opted to remain in the
lecture room, molding young minds - as he always called
it. I have always pitied my father. He wanted me to be an academician
like him. So he was very disappointed when I could not achieve
the grades to make it to university. He had been more devastated
when I had come home spotting earrings and informing him
my dream in life was to be a rap musician.

He would have wanted, I imagined, a son spotting heavy rimmed
glasses, in a tuxedo suit, stooping behind a stack of books
researching one thing or another about Max Webber"s ideal
type! Yet, he is still proud of me â€" parading me before visitors
at home whenever they come knocking. I guess he still smacks
from the outdated notion that to have a son is the greatest
blessing in life. This is so because I am the only son in the
family. When I told him I had been selected to attend the
conference he was overjoyed. Maybe the invitation acted
as a redeeming factor â€" that maybe after all I was not such
a dunderhead! On the eve of my departure he invited a horde
of his friends to our home to bade me farewell, yet I was only
going for a week, and summoned Rashid the taxi driver to
make sure he picked me at the house the next day to the airport.

Sadly, I have to part ways with Dr Mureithi at Jan Smuts Airport
in Jorburg, that is what they call Johannesburg in short.
We are supposed to catch different flights to D.H. Malan
Airport in Cape Town.

On Monday, the workshop starts with earnest. We are divided
into two groups â€" the youth and the â€adults†for some discussion.
I want to join the adult group since Dr Mureithi is there,
but they chase me away light-heartedly, saying that I have
come to spy on their discussions so that I can leak the information
to the youth. Dr Mureithi has very nice arguments and I would
have liked to sit and discuss with the group. He seems to
understand that everyone has a unique identity and that
there are sexual maps that people belong to. These are some
of the things that we discussed in the plane. "There is a
lot of hypocrisy in Africa and other parts of the world.
People do not want to admit that homosexuality exists,
that their brothers, sons and fathers may be gay. This is
why many gay men still marry in order to portray a false facade, â€
he told me.

On Friday, the organisers indicate that the youth group
will visit Gugu Letu. This is a rough neighbourhood, a violent
slum, we are told and nobody should dare move alone.

Our host is going to be Mafeking, a black man, who is organising
residents in the slum to make their lives better. The Gugu
Letu Community (GLC) is organising seminars on HIV/AIDS
and offering micro credit facilities, we are told. Mafeking
is the Secretary of the group.

Mafeking is a tall man who walks with a limp. One of his legs
is shorter than the other. We become instant friends. Maybe
I just admire people with great arguments, such as Dr Mureithi,
and now Mafeking. After the tours of the projects run by
GLC, Mafeking takes all of us to a Shebeen. This is a place
where local beer is sold. He would like us to see the wild
side of life. He assures us that we are very safe. At first,
Mrs Milligan, our tour matron is against the idea. But she
has known Mafeking for long. Mafeking is the king of the
slum and nobody would dare harm his charges. He even wears
a thick golden chain, but nobody would dare grab it, something
that happens every day to other people in the streets of
Gugu Letu every time, before you can say Halleluja!.

Mrs Milligan refuses to accompany us all the same. She seems
like a high-class sort, with her pointed nose and sharp-heeled
shoes that go plater, plater, as she walks. I suspect she
suffers from panic attacks. When things go wrong, she gets
very jittery. For instance, when Moses â€" one of the youths
â€" went missing on our second day here she was biting her fingers
and walking up and down muttering to herself. He had only
walked down to the candy shop at Alfred and Victoria Waterways
area for a few minutes and could not understand what all
the fuss was about.

At the Shebeen, patrons are bemused to see us there. I guess
they think that we are some sort of classy folks, like Mrs
Milligan, and that we are out of place. But they welcome
us heartily all the same. One old man, his hair white like
snow flakes, is particularly happy to welcome us. Mafeking
tells us about his exploits as a fighter for the African
National Congress (ANC), now the ruling party of South
Africa. This is the party that ushered Nelson Mandela to
power after long detention in Robin Island. "I have talked
to Mandela many times, †he says excitedly like a small
child. He keeps a picture of the younger Mandela, when he
was a boxer, in his thick wallet. But when I ask him what happened
to his leg he goes mum. Maybe he has a troubling story that
he keeps to his heart. When I ask him about family he goes
mum again. I am learning to tread carefully in order not
to upset him.

Then just as we are chatting excitedly, after Mafeking
has recovered from his "mum†moments, enters a young man
in the Shebeen. I am awestruck! He wears very tight blue
jeans and a sleeveless top that only reaches his belly button,
thus exposing his firm stomach. He is rather thin, but this
complements his cherubic features. The locals are shouting
at him excitedly in a language I cannot understand.

He seems to be very popular here. Eventually, he comes to
where Mafeking is seated with us. Mafeking introduces
him to us and as he greets us I have a feeling that his hand
lingers long on mine. I am no longer interested in Mafeking
and his anti-apartheid stories. His name happens to be Kiddo â€" what a sweet
name!

Now my mind is fixed on Kiddo. Everyone seems excited at calling his name.
Kiddo sits right next to me, squeezing his body against
mine. I chart with him, oblivious of everyone else. Kiddo
has an infectious lopsided smile. When he smiles, I also
smile, as if I am a mirror of him. His hair is neatly done in
plaits, cornrows that run down his head.

"I would like to take you to our cinema. Would you like to
come?†Kiddo asks me after some time at the Shebeen. I say
yes. Who would say no? Kiddo asks Mafeking whether he can
take me away. Mafeking says NO.

Earlier on, Mafeking had asked me whether I wanted to go
to a football match, and then spend the night at his place.
"But your place will be crowded. What about your wife and
children?†I had enquired, bringing in again the subject
that Mafeking does not like. "I have no wife or children, â€
he gruffly had said to me.

"He is my charge and I have to ensure his safety, †he says
to Kiddo. Now I am pleading with Mafeking, "please, allow
Kiddo to show me the cinema.†At last Mafeking succumbs.
It is getting late and if I have to go to the cinema then I have
to spend the night with Kiddo as I can not make it back to the
hotel where we are staying. Kiddo is telling Mafeking that
he will take good care of me. "But I thought that you were
interested in the football match?†Mafeking asks me. I
was, but that was before the entry of Kiddo.

"You take care of him and make sure he is up by 8 a.m. so that
I can take him back to his hotel, otherwise Mrs Milligan
will fret the whole day. Do not take him to any dangerous
place†Mafeking says, though I can it clearly that he does
not like me to go with Kiddo.

The cinema hall turns out to be a big, darkened room with
a huge TV screen. We sit at the back and Kiddo immediately
puts his arm around me. We are not interested in the thriller
showing on the screen. "I just wanted to be with you, †he
says. His lips lock on mine and we engage in a long kiss. I
can feel his hand under my shirt, stroking my long nipples.
My nipples are very sensitive. The reason why I never learnt
to swim was because of the nipples. As a child, other children
would taunt me, pulling at my nipples, whenever I removed
my shirt. For me, there is nothing greater than the hand
of another man exploring my chest, stroking gently my nipples!

My hand falls on the hard bulge on his trousers. "Lets go, â€
he says suddenly and stands up. I do not care where we are
going, am ready for anything. We emerge from the room into
the sunshine holding hands. As we move along, Kiddo stops
at a kiosk to buy chips, which we munch on the streets as we
move. About a kilometre later we arrive at a row of dilapidated
shacks. Kiddo proceeds to one of the rooms, secured with
a huge padlock. "This is my place, †he tells me. This is
a pathetic neighbourhood, but as long as I am with Kiddo
I do not care!

Inside the room is a large, unmade bed. Scattered clothes
litter the floor. On one side stands a basin and a bucket
of water. Kiddo throws me on the bed and starts to undress
me until I am only in my boxer shorts. He holds my hard organ
through the soft fabric of the shorts, fondling me with
increasing pressure. He then pulls the boxer shorts off,
exposing my throbbing organ. Soon I am also undressing
Kiddo, staring with his flimsy top, then his jeans. I then
pull of his pants and plant my mouth on his dick, sucking
the tip in slow round motions while stroking his tender
balls. We kiss passionately, kneading each other. We have
the most explosive sex. Later, as we lie in bed, exhausted
but stroking each other"s bodies, I ask Kiddo about a long
scar that runs across his stomach.

"I was knifed, †he tells me. Kiddo works at the minibus
ranks, the so-called taxis, where rivalry is great in the
lucrative public transport business. Sometimes, rival
minibus operators fight each other violently, using guns,
knives, axes and every weapon available. I feel sad about
this. Why is life so cruel? Why should Kiddo be subjected
to such a life at only 19? He dropped out of school at second
grade and since then life has been one big struggle. But
he is ever cheerful. The only parent he has ever known, his
mother, died too poor in a council clinic after battling
Malaria for three days.

He has been arrested several times and has even served a
six-month jail term. I know that rapes in South African
jails are endemic. But I do not want to ask him whether he
was raped, this will only make me sadder if the answer is
yes.

The next day, we get up at around 9.00 a.m. after hours of
kissing and fondling. When we open the door, Mafeking is
standing outside, his shorter leg placed on a raised culvert.
Let"s go, he says curtly. How long has been standing outside
here, since 8.00? I wonder. Why is he so moody? Why didn"t
he knock? Is he jealous that Kiddo has spent the night with
me? Could he also be gay, a jealous gay who I shunned for Kiddo?

One Month later:
I am back at my father"s imposing bungalow in Oyster Bay
in Tanzania. The song Soweto plays in a low volume from my
stereo in my bedroom. Kiddo took my address and promised
to contact me every week. I have not seen a single letter
or email. He does not have addresses of his own, so I cannot
contact him, I have to sit and wait. Could he have been arrested
again, could he be lying in a ditch with his throat sliced
by some maniac rival taxi operator? What could have happened
to the young man, Kiddo, who gave me a taste of Eden in a shack?
If he does not contact me, maybe one day I will revisit Gugu
Letu - not to see Mafeking and his ANC stories, but in search
of my angel, the cherubic Kiddo!

Ends
Caleb Muchungu is a gay journalist living in southern Africa.