INDUCTION

By Victor Williams


 

 

 

 

 

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2011 by Victor Williams

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance of characters to actual persons, either living or dead, shall be deemed as pure coincidence. The author owns exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is strictly prohibited

 

 

THE INTICATE CIRCUIT SERIES

UNDUCTION- book one

 

 

 

 

 

 

To Stella and William

 

 

Prologue

My name having to be Barefoot, and my father’s name being Lee, there was some necessary need of getting to know a mother whose spirit, on my being born, could hardly make it out of the birth-stool. Growing up without mother’s love then establishes, on account of some very peculiar psychological emptiness, a shroud of predicaments whose immensity was a derivative of my father’s resulting frustration.

The impossibility of keeping my natural genius at bay had finally welcomed, in a very confused concourse, a groping confirmation of some very unique fortune that always had a westward course. In an attempt to avoid any forthcoming betrayal into an anomalous pool of determination of which I might have confessed to my father upon my being confronted by him, I then decided to make west without informing my hunter. And with 1988 ageing desperately, I found myself dislodged into a street family somewhere between three very large compost pits. Seventeen hours into an evening that was only a superficial hint to a very uncertain battle against a peculiar species of terrorists, I was inducted into a class of autistic Russian cadets with photographic memory under the authority of Sergeant Howard Green an American combat soldier. Tod 64, X-Files RXC2346HX, John Tailor!

 

 

CHAPTER 1

 I was referred to as Barefoot Kid, the son of a man of an oriental pedigree. Born and reared, or so it went, in the primeval bliss of the suburban outskirts of Nairobi the Kenyan capital city. Jet Lee was my father, or so it might have been, traced from Taiwan by imperialist spies in the era of the scramble and partition of the continent.  Onto him, with respect to the dictates of the spies were conferred beastly threats, as well as brilliant promises of a perfectly miserable lifetime in incarceration with strictly not a thing to joke around about. It ghostly sapped his energy even with the slightest notion that, soon he was going to be let into the terrible mastication of thoroughly flirting with a fire meant to baptize him for a second time, in the name of the splint, and of the lighter, and that of his manhood!

There was apparently no dignity to emulate, in the imaginative spree of dismembering male captives of war a little before exile on the noisome claim that, after all, it was a blunting fashion inspired by the outbursts over the costs of maternal care brought about by the humane empathies of the female sexual venom stretched out to the starving male counterparts. But then, although deadly painful for Lee, such uncouth scale of economies had long fallen short of the fact that his seed of continuity, most probably, had already been spat from man to woman. Like so, it was expected that I shall once be, and… to be, I actually did.

Karen, then, was just but a little more than an average village. Just a little more. Sometimes having to go by the name Devil’s Kettle. Karen Top Security prison was thus lucky enough to be a major inclusion of this particular Kettle. Settled onto a discomforting fifty meters to the railway station number four, it strictly shed nothing less than an equidistant threat to the poor creatures whose only home was Ashleigh section 5 village, the best into which Lee, after serving his ten-year period of exile, was finally thrust upon.

 

With one great finality, people would now smile that Karen Top security prison, had come of age as one of the most dreaded rectification facilities submerged deep into the inner quarters of Karen. Karen that you presently know. The only one that you are obviously aware of. Situated half a kilometer or so from the western perimeters of some city they always cornered as Nairobi.

The townsfolk knew it as a no-go-zone! The bickering in the imperial politics that was then, ridiculously described it as a heroes planet on planet Earth, but strangely, the heroes themselves-the fighters of freedom, only knew it as a little Ellis Isle.  Strangely one of asylum rather than of a bounty of honey or plenty of waters. The only place where torture was always in the box office. The silent killer to some unseen guest!

As well as the loyalty pledge, imperialism was the dominant creed at that particular point in time, and the perpetrators generally stopped not at anything to make it their objective turning moment. As ambiguous as their perpetual reasons for their domination were, they cared only too little. It was an adventure after all, they would say. An adventure into the forests. Into the darkest of them. Hostile as well as friendly encounters with African messengers, the suspicious stamping-black-feet, and the stamping of black feet. Stamping on black and onto the wild terrain about the fierce flames of African camp fires.

The thunderous drum beats and the smoke messages. The strange waving of the dark-green canopy about the dark continental elephant forests, colliding— in the silent villages, with the cheers and jeers of malnourished children, chicken and chicks! The battle with torrential precipitation. The king of the jungle, and that of the mountains. The signing of petty treaties. Insincere agreements and the breaching of gentleman’s promises, as the black breed of primates mingled with the reluctant white, who under certain nondescript jungle law would rather not.

In those early days, when neocolonialism had begun to get into the nerves of many natives, Lee’s wife Sarah gave birth to a baby boy—or so it went, who, shortly after her sudden death on the birth stool, and not before some thoroughly brainstorming at a local joint, her husband addressed as Barefoot Kid. I might have so much acknowledged my cheerfulness in preference of my being so naive but the fact is that my constant smiling was a consequent of a perfect maintenance from the laughter I might have encountered after a series of preliminary exodus. So it went.

My father Jet Lee was a lofty and plumb man, with a series of curls on the facial skin above his pair of oriental eye lashes. His hair hung in loose strings over his broad shoulders and his moustache always stuck out at the world aggressively. His smile would be described as impish, most of the times tugging at his mouth beyond control.  I, being his only son—as it came to light, was no exception. I had similar features, or so it was perceived. In any case, it might have been not logical enough to qualify the statement `like father like son’.

Our life thereafter, as it appeared even before, was that of abject poverty; but still, even after the passing away of my mother, there was a life to live and we had to live it. A life of frustrations and everlasting moan. The moan of not just a loved one but that of a mother, a wife, a true patriot, a luminary, a go-getter. Mother Sarah, rest in peace!

It might have been solitude. Though it must have been more of poverty than mere solitary. Anyhow, days did pass, haphazardly in a monthly fashion, and…like so, months equally gave birth to years. Two years, three, five years, six…. These revolutionary years opened up to too narrow a life for us.

The paternal attitude of, my one and only father, finally broke into a constant wobble. The signs, clearly having to be those of alarming fragility, heaps and generations of acquired stupidity. His, would have been best viewed as only artificially input idiosyncrasy rather than intrinsic personality, percolating deep into the surface of his ignorance. I beheld the neighborhood observe promptness in making dashes now and then to cut him off, and sometimes lying in the wait to smell him closely at secret points of vantage.

This neighborhood notwithstanding, took it upon its very own self to highly disapprove this selfish arrangement. It had learnt, not altogether without interest, in reference to Lee´s recent retrenchment wag about the Reinsurance Company that, my earliest predicaments might not have been entirely connected to an alarming deficiency of corn or vitamins in my domestic diet. Neither could it have been a piece of solitude of anyone nature. Right from the staircase to the central Station of his ignorance, Lee had finally engaged his knuckles onto the indoors to the very retrenchment he would have hardly wished himself. Finally!

 Finally away from the screeching at the Central Business District, away from hooting, away from the curses of drivers. Away from Mr. Big—his boss, away from Miss Big—the secretary, away from Mr. Larry who might have been the accountant and husband to Carol— Bag’s ex-wife, were it not for the intervention of Johnson and Johnson’s law firm. And away, from this big building where… where the thirtieth-Floor remained totally dump until it received grievances projected in a vertical scale. Here, where employees were not really beings until they learned the art of convicting themselves as waste messengers to the delight of the big man at the twentieth Floor.

There was a Mr. Jagger too, on whom not anyone would have liked to set one´s eyes upon.  There was this retrenched one too. Mr. Lee. The desolate thought of end month-no money, had submissively acknowledged his monthly yam as being perfectly out of the frying pan into a fire so fierce. This, eventually, gave way to a habitual drunkard, a deviant and irresponsible dad, a brilliant fornicator, a lazy bone, a lousy sycophant, a petty swindler and thief, always flocking along with birds similar to his feathers.

Now, in his own private and personal capacity, he had resolved he wasn’t just going to be seen in company of just a few about his descent for crash-landing. His egoistic mannerism had begun, submissively, to evolve into some very gloomy horizon, so that now, he suffocated under an endless pressure for cash by not less than one creditor.

His harshness and cruelty was clandestine to the outsider, but the enigmatic eye of the neighborhood was only keener in pointing out my encumbrance, rather than those of my darling father. Its individual concern for more edification of Jet Lee´s attitude, however, did not bare any fruits positive enough to be reflected into the squalid condition about which I languished. Instead, it was as though its worries had spat thicker blood into the already existing pool and finally slung a tin-bottle and a piece of meat about Lee’s neck to, literary, baptize him in the name of the strangest fairy-tales of the spirits of alcoholic lubrication.

As was to be trivially appreciated, it wouldn’t be so much an unhappy life though for, the pub was his refuge. The multitudinous barmaids his dinner. The beer-tumbler his tea-cup. The dew his bedding and…and the trench his bed. Reincarnated into a seemingly immortal spirit by the strangest fairy-tales of the Kanyuaji—the so called local brew, he would follow his head for a blurred arrival at his apartment.

So did it happen. Hardly seldom. And would it be, as was often not unusual and…and as it usually were, then, I was not only expected to clarify why the head had to be followed so accurately, but also play the dreaded role of a victim of none other than of what was better viewed as my father´s very own circumstances.

So it went. And so it was. So it was that Jet Lee´s malignant growth into a delicately jobless family man had him chock himself so graciously into a frail being as well as into a fatherly impotence so great. And… and trivially capsized his ego into the conviction of being a misfit of the highest power. Now, his stick was his weapon, his mouth his attorney. His buddies were his greatest back-up, his dearest fans. Sailing in the same boat was the only option that they all appeared comfortably assigned to.

Stumble and they all stumbled, puke and they would piously join in. A thud deep into a pit, and the rest would blindly follow, and… and not anybody would have been able to salvage the other against the imp at the very bottom. So infectious was this conviction of being a misfit, that it also begun to stitch its way into my young mind of how unfit for human consumption I was probably going to be in the near future.

Each day’s wear and tear was accompanied against a peculiar mental and physical stress. But then, and not altogether trivial, so anxious was I in my effort of finding out whether, in true sense, this tomorrow would have punctually disposed me a little earlier than was definitely expected. It felt rather not at all unusual that I would have appreciated this as being a very necessary deal.

So, Monday, Tuesday and… and Wednesday passed; and Thursday having crawled away meanly so suspiciously, came the 21st November. A Friday so late into the very depths of 1988. The turning point for me. A year of decision.  Barefoot’s day! Clearer than there before, on this day… this memorable 21st day of November, the thought of breaking into the streets refreshed me exceedingly, insomuch that I found it not difficult to relax into an air ever new.

The street. The… streets. The admission was reached! The acceptance! The final signature! Not without any trace of reluctance though, for it seemed to have been reached through a dejected walk into a super-time of sentimental childhood confessions and memories. The street. Streets. Streets and alleys of which I, for a long time, had heard about but hardly encountered. Whatever the case, I had made my decision. A decision that I hoped would trivially acknowledge my enthusiasm and hope of being better and happier. Now.  Or some other day.

I had tapped onto the most important string of my psychological discovery. And, by simply and critically understanding my inner-self and by learning how to modify my engine and maintain it to dampen certain melancholic ripples to considerable levels, I had gained incredible confidence and power over how accurately I would strip and clean myself. It might have been vague or ill-defined to my conscious self whether I realized it or not.

Sanity was a composite of some very peculiar dynamics underlying some very active cavities of my analytical mind. Sanity was an involuntary command of my critical mind. And wholly depended upon rationality. The optimum of it, which entirely meant optimum sanity. But sanity here might have been better defined about a platform of maximum rationality. That was sanity. That was happiness. That was survival. My survival kick!

It was the twenty-third day of the month of November; a reflection that was going to be of tremendous importance to me in some very near future. And, without doubt, would be so to anyone that should fall into such distress as going as far as adhering too keenly to the vigor of one’s personal ambitions.

 I, in this particular reflection, would have confessed not to have entertained any other notion other than a perfected confidence to do whatever was in my capacity, to help myself out. Salvage myself. Salvage myself from the swelling vapors of rage that seemed to have discovered some very unique nest deep into my conscious mind. Seemingly steering me deeper into a carriage for some nervous breakdown.

I had two more days though. Two more! Only two!

Apparently, dad had lost his job just a few months ago, allegedly, after opening a one Mr. Jagger`s post card sent from India. At the reinsurance company he worked as a messenger then. Truly, Jagger was right by his side on the very Sunday he was relieved off his duties. It all begun with a short date with his boss at the Giraffe Centre, then a short ride to the office under thorough interrogation. Jagger seemed to have arrived at the office probably a little too early for, even long after Lee and the boss had made their way in; he still stood next to the window staring blindly across the streets.

 `Jagger, good afternoon,’ the boss interrupted his present theoretical death.

`Sir, good afternoon,’ replied Jagger. `Am sure I have seen your vehicle twice across the street.’

`Is everything okay?’

`Yes, sure.’

`Got into the ravel of traffic frayed out about an hour drive to the north.’

Jagger’s punctuality on this particular day, wound have been agreed upon even by the entire staff as being strange if not very unusual. Apparently, meeting these two gentlemen, as it went, was associated with meeting the bad side of human nature. Comparably to a bad omen. Or so it must have been. For, after this particular Sunday encounter with…the bad side of human nature, Lee had to be relieved of his duties. The stage had been set! Or was it just fate…beyond chance, or beyond doubt. I might have been correct with my perception that certain species of mail and packages would really miss his handling.

`He’s unimportant now,’ twice, Jagger repeated. `Sir, you are dismissed! ´

As for Lee, it was ridiculous to entertain a certain thought that it was not a bad side of his very nature to address anyone as…sir. It was not until this happened though, that he indeed realized Jagger´s impeding eagerness and willingness of his immediate disposal.  As he remained silent struggling with the necessity of possibly dislocating Jagger´s neck some day in the near future, Jagger appeared to have debited his smiling account with the legacy of having vanquished one more leech!

`Mr. Lee, you are now your own carpenter. Your own plumber, and your own gardener, and…and possibly your own messenger,’ the boss finally acknowledged Jagger´s wish.

`You are now dismissed!’

The mere utterance of these words plastered a peculiar state of great excitement about Jagger`s face, its presence of which finally derailed Lee´s attention to his boss in an attempt to comprehend the solid foundations onto which this decision might have been laid. What purpose Mr. Jagger had in mind by inciting his boss to seize the moment with such brutality, Lee could hardly understand.

It would have been certainly acknowledged that the accuracy in the delivery of dad´s misdeed had inspired his boss’s confidence into a specific distinctness and characterized it as an asset derived from the necessity to the present seasonal retrenchment tactic as well. You would have agreed with Lee’s conscience that Mr. Jagger might have been a practicing hypnotizer!

Or might it have been just but his usual interest demanding the slaughter of certain species of mankind? With regards, it might have been better noted that man´s primary fight was not just with his likeness, rather than those simple elements that might have stood as potential obstacles to him as a mean species. Some barring of his thrust towards his usual conquest of greed. He’s most definitely convinced that the reward to survival activity is pleasure and his success shall heave his survival potential towards a survival platform so infinitely sturdy. He’s now trying to generalize a certain period of his life with potential objects of clearing his way before him and… and that he believes that he would accurately do so better by at once assisting the weakest of his targets take off very fast through their present bedroom windows! Without these, he feels as though he would… vanish! Insecure! Weak! Powerless!

Two days after:

Without doubt this month of November 1988 seemed to be really a justified dais onto which I would hook up my mind not against the expense of my present expectations. This was a month of decision, one would propose. A turning point, one would acknowledge.  This day. The twenty third. It was for this day the 23rd November, 1988, that saw me dating a city so deep into the heart of East Africa. A city so chronically unconscious of its imminent pursuer. A city so indifferent to its predestined suitor.

Be it as it may, my fears might not have been altogether spent foolishly scheming against the seemingly scorched tissue that was the skin of my date. It was only logical that I should not keep myself at bay away from such littleness as were the characteristic of this particular skin. A skin that was sculpted with the preferential logo of very late adolescence and… and eventually imbalanced by the pivot of some predicted United States of Africa dynasty.  A city that appeared so bored by the monotony of having to apply the very same oilskin of the house.

 

 

 

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Williams, Victor. INDUCTION (THE INTRICATE CIRCUIT) (Kindle-Positionen 191-192). victor williams. Kindle-Version.