Melissa And The Cowboy (Western Night Series 1) (27 page)

The Boeing 767 was the latest and second largest passenger plane after the jumbo jet. It was a second pride for Boeing after the 747. The South African Airways from OR Tambo International airport was making its way to Terminal 4 at the John F. Kennedy International Airport. Aboard it was probably one of the largest number of immigrants into America from Africa in a single plane; pauline was no exception. Clutching her hands, she made her way to the exit. She had meagre possessions her small back pack, but a great hope of her new future; a new place she could call home. Her husband was at the Nyayo Torture Chambers. President Moi, a tyrant, was out to prosecute and torture all he believed were out to get him and his presidential power. The August 1982 coup, eleven years earlier, had really shaken the powerful ruler. He had become a tormented soul. Every person was out to get him and he could not trust anyone. He had made a cabinet reshuffle countless of time. Being a Kalenjin, he had used the once powerful Kikuyu Attorney General, Charles Njonjo to get the seat of power after the death of Kenyatta. Now Njonjo was the enemy. The mouse that was planning to put a bell on him. He would persecute anybody he deemed a traitor to his 100 year rule by KANU.

Pauline’s husband was an activist and a journalist working for Kenya Television Network, a rogue news channel that was under the radar of the government for spreading malicious tales about Mzee Moi’s leadership. Despite having a young wife from the village with whom she had bore him a beautiful son named Martin. That evening when her husband had been picked by the Black Maria, he had only given her one order. As the policed shoved him to the ground and roughed him up, he gave a single command,

“Fr. Kaiser….” And with that he was gone.

That night as the darkness creeped in, she took the only valuable she knew. Her son, the passport that had always been ready some spare clothes and some cash. She quickly got onto the old Peugeot that had seen better days. Quickly shifting gears she went to her sister’s home to spend the night where she would strategies’ on her trip towards Uganda and meet with the Catholic priest and help her.

The following morning she ditched her car and went to an agent where she hired a Toyota Corolla. She kissed her sister and with eyes brimming with tears and Martin next to him, she bade her goodbye.

“Take care and good luck, dada,” Monica pleaded

“Don’t you worry about me, dada? I was born lucky and will stay lucky. Remember, I laugh in the face of danger.”

Had not their parent said so? She had indeed been a tall in the faces of many dangers throughout her life.

At the Kenyan – Ugandan border the cars waiting to get into Uganda were advancing slowly in a long line. Many political dissidents were fleeing the country and seeking refuge in both Uganda and Tanzania. Those lucky went too far off countries such as England and France. As Pauline moved closer to the immigration stall, her whole body begun twitching nervously. By now they would have known that her husband had handed her the seditious documents and would be looking for her at all exit points. If they caught her, she shuddered at the thought, she knew she would receive a life sentence if they were lenient; the Firing Squad would be their alternative. That is not to forget the days she would spend under the torture chambers.

She inched closer to the border patrol officers knowing too well that her fate and that of her son lay there with the two stocky built personnel. Suddenly, a Black Maria speedily pulled up at the stall and a commissioner full with the Kenyan armed forces regalia stepped out handed over what seemed a photograph and left. It was her photo.

She had reached the immigration officer.

“Passpoti tafadhali madam.”

Pauline handed him the blue passports from the small space of her car window. As he took it, he glanced at her. From the corner of her eyes, she saw a puzzled look come into his eyes. He looked at the passport then to her eyes and back again, this time more carefully. Pauline felt her body tense.

“You’re Pauline Wanjiru Chege,” he said.

Her hand clenched the steering wheel till her ebony fingers darkened. Her foot stood expectantly, poised above the gas pedal. If things turned to the worst she would step on the accelerator, fury her way into freedom.  One look at her son, saw the innocent looks of a three year old and returned the glare to the officer.

“No!” she cried. The blood drained from her face. She looked for another way to escape. There was none. And suddenly to her, to her disbelief, the guide was smiling. He leaned towards her and whispered,

“Your husband is a close friend. We support his course. You may pass through. Reach Fr. Kaiser in Kampala. He is waiting for you. He has orders to see you safely to South Africa. Good luck.”

Pauline felt dizzy with relief.

“Asante.”

She stomped on the gas and drove the remaining forty meters towards the Ugandan border. Her drive onwards was with no incident. She was with a sigh of relief, full of hope for the future, hers and her son.

Looking back she could not help but feel relieved as she walked to the taxi stands. It had been a long journey. First the disguises used to gain entry into apartheid South Africa then the entry into New York City with fake immigration papers. The falsified documents had been from a former military officer who had served in organizing the coup to dethrone Moi.

Martin Chege was walking towards the posh executive offices of Luculenus Talent and Modelling Agency. The elegant and magnificent building was emblazoned on 1420 5th Avenue. The agency occupied three floors on the Bank Center building that towered over the Seattle skyline. The coming to Seattle seemed like a dumb idea.

“Well, if they accept me, great. If not, then back to the small home. To the small old same old.”

What was home? The dilapidated apartment building that was an excuse of a home at Sugar Hill, Manhattan. A well-known black’s community. To the same battered routine of living hand to mouth. To the excuse of a job at McDonalds. Life was hard enough. Even at the Borough of Manhattan Community College, where he was enrolled to do his economics degree. He had to cycle for close to quarter to an hour over nine miles. Where he had to pass through Hudson River Greenway.

As he looked at the imposing sixty-two steel and glass structure. He felt defeated. Life had defeated him. His mother was at that moment working for a rich architect. The arrogant fool was always paying his mother peanuts.

As he looked at the two day journey, he felt butterflies in his stomach. He had taken the Lakeshore Express at New York Penn Station. The nineteen hour journey had seen him get robbed of some of his hard savings. Whilst at the Chicago Union Station, a Caucasian woman had screamed, while indicating towards him.

“Thief, Thief!” Puzzled he had looked back expecting to see a hulk of a man rushing away from the station. But there was none. Out of nowhere two patrol police officers approached him. His cell phone was ringing and since he had no seen any action, he reached for it from his inside pockets. An innocent act had turned all way wrong. Fearing he was drawing a weapon, the officers of the law pounced on him and immediately took him to custody.

Three hours later, a free man and a broken spirit, he was sure this was an omen. Telling him that no good outcome would be forth coming in this job hunting expedition. Turned out the woman was just a racist who had a loathing for blacks, Mexican and Indians. Her issues, no one knows why.

“At this age, racism still exist? Oh. Cock!” was all he had told the precinct when they had released him.

Back at the station, he was tempted to cancel the now ill-fated trip and turn back home. His tail between his legs.

On second thoughts, he decided against it. His mother hadn’t raised a quitter, she always said. He wouldn’t quite. Not when Morris had been as kind as suggesting he take the offer and use his good looks to mint some cash

“You can change your lives and show dem niggas that you can make it.”

“Darling, fuck them and laugh at them,” Julia had been audacious

Noelle’s quip had been the most exciting. She spoke with vigour

“You take dem black as to dem white bitches and fuck de richest bloke u can get. See, all dem whites are sex starved fuckers and they be fightin for a piece of sexy black ass. They know dat we black niggas are equipped,” she had said.

As he walked into the reception on the fifth floor, Martin was welcomed but opulence. None he had ever seen in his years. The gold themed office with majestic lights was breath taking. The reception lounge was filled with so many artificial lights, so many that they had the illusion of overshadowing the sun. His daydreaming was cut short by a petite blonde. Over the solid mahogany and sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young woman croaked in a rather unpleasantly manner at martin. She was wearing one the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt ever seen by him. The business suit hugged her provocatively. She was mesmerizing.

She arched her eyebrow slightly as Martin stood self-consciously before her. He begun to wish that he had borrowed one of Morris fake dinner suits rather than wear black sweat shirt and blue leather jean pants. He had made an effort and worn his favourite reebok sports shoes that he used to work out with. For him, this was smart. He wouldn’t let the posh offices intimidate him.

He approached the hostile but smile wearing receptionist and said softly,

“Martin Chege, had an appointment to see Madam Ella Troye Henderson. I think am a little way early.” He said it with the alluring smile that was like a charm. He had used it countless of times to get some of the ghetto girls to bed with him.

“Right, please have a sit and will usher your to Ms. Ella’s office once she is ready.”

With that he sat down at one of the lounge chairs and took one of the fashion magazines that had been lined out at the coffee table. While at the corner of his eyes he could feel her poring over him. It wasn’t like he could help it. What was disturbing him was the letter his mum had received from home. Kenya was in shambles. The opposition was crying foul over the just concluded general elections. The opposition leader, Raila Odinga, was accusing the incumbent of stealing the presidency from his face.

The bitter exchanges had now led to a fully-fledged ethnic war. Almost all forty one tribe was against his Kikuyu tribe. Most had accused it of spoiling with power. First was the founding president, second was Moi’s successor, Mwai Kibaki. Now he was refusing with the seat of power. People believed that he was grooming the founding father’s son, Uhuru Kenyatta, to take over from him.

A nagging feeling had occurred to him. Ever since he had learnt that his father had been tortured and brutally murdered for fighting for democracy, the feeling of being a traitor could not leave him. He was here enjoying a peaceful democracy yet back home they were skinning each other. A home he had never even known.

His train of thought was disrupted by the call of his name. He stood up and threw the yet unread magazine back on the table and was directed to a meeting room. He was ushered into a room that was lined with executive leather chairs

Behind the leather chairs was a magnificent and spacious glass-walled room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there was a French floor-to-ceiling window which gave a breath taking view of the Seattle skyline while compelling it to the wonderful sounds.  He had gotten used to the numerous gun shots and sirens that filled the crime riddled neighbourhood he had grown up to.

“It is a marvellous vista. Stunning and I’m here soaking it with delight. Please God, if you exist, let me get the modelling job.”

Martin had never been a Christian. He had no religion

A short and small lady entered. She was the chain-smoking type, which was well manifested into her yellow teeth and foul breath. Her face and hard stare attributed her more of being unsociable, unsympathetic, heavy handed she was speaking to some photographers and models by the door and she was threatening and swearing out loud.

As soon as Ella, saw Martin, the annoyed look on her face left her and with it was replaced by a sheepish grin that further enhanced her tobacco stained teeth. She had prided herself at knowing the right models, those who could cut it and those who wouldn’t see the last face of a magazine. Priathol needed a black male for their soap advertisement, and here right before her eyes was a more than perfect specimen.

Her decision had been swift and final. No introduction had been made. Hardly less than fifteen words had been used. Only the scratching of fountain pens on paper was only heard as the proper contracts were signed. Martin left the Agency more dazed than ever. Surely the gods were smiling on him.

Janelle Scot felt the pang in her belly. She was already in her mid-forties and she had no family. Scott Industries had been her husband and child. In short, the company had been her family. It wasn’t that she could not get a man to marry her. She was an exceptional beauty. The problem was that she was intimidating. She was powerful enough as it was. No male was a suitable suitor. No one was in her rank.

Now as she made her way to thee elevator, her ego had shaken. Just the look on the sweetest thing had warmed her rather cold heart. The little bundle of joy was a sight to behold. The longing deep inside her was increasing and for once she wished she had a cute angel she could hold on her laps; it was good that she had told her escort, Ignatius, to wait at the body. She dreaded the idea of any one seeing her in anguish.

As the elevator whisked her with terminal velocity downwards towards the ground floor, it suddenly stopped at the fifth floor. The doors slid open and that was when she saw him. Standing there anxiously waiting for the doors to arrive, an obvious cheek to cheek grin, the black god stood. Definitely, he had been hand crafted by Zeus himself. He was a demigod.

Martin took a look at the lady in the lift and quickly put her away from his mind. He had gotten the deal and he was so egger to tell his mother. She would be proud of him. All her hopes and dreams of his bright future would be realised. Ever since their escape from Kenya, life had been a painful journey. Full of thorns and the misery prevailed on and on.

As the doors closed, Janelle was fidgeting and squirming in her pants. It had been long since she had known a man. Slowly her brain was in limbo. She started undressing him. First took come off were the black reebok shoes. Then slowly and seductively, she raised his t-shirt and gotten it off his body. Hungrily she tore the thin white vest that was in between the fleshy, masculine and shaven clean chest. Without further thought, he launched herself to him and ripped his pant all the while the black stranger stood there, gazing with wonder. She unbuckled his fake leather belt and unzipped his jean trousers. She was hungry like the wolves closing in on a kill. As she slid down the boxers, there it stood. In all splendour and glory, in its roots, his male member. It was so thick and long. Throbbing and pulsating. She got on her knees. The male hardness in one hand as her wanton mouth approached him.

Janelle was awoken from her reverie by the ping of the elevator as the doors opened. She was trembling and her hands were shaking. Her whole imagination had taken the better of her and her heart was steam rolling in her chest. Never before had her wants of a man been this great. It had been four years since a man was between her legs.

As Ignatius approached her in the lobby, her eyes wondered to the black man exiting the building.

“Ignatius, have Eddy follow that man please.” The urgency in her voice piqued him

“Is anything of the matter, mum?”

“No, just have him followed!” and with that she was sane again.

Eddy stood stock still next to the waiting Mercedes-Maybach S600 and as soon as he saw her walking up the front entrance door, he opened the back doors of the executive sedan ready to usher her in. he had worked for her for sixteen years now and was grateful. Unlike his previous boss, a telecommunication tycoon, Janelle was never hard on him. She exuded power, but she was never aggressive.  Best of all she had tasted her body. Was she not a fine woman? She was like a sex machine. Her starvation getting the better of her. Sadly it was only once then she never needed him again.

He had contemplated quitting but she had calmly objected it without so much as an indication of emotion. She had then gotten into the car and just like normal, he drove her to her lair. He remembered the day very well. He was driving the white long wheeled Range Rover Autobiography. And with that, he was back at his job. Since then she had never mentioned or hinted at rekindling the incident again.

As she came closer to the car, he could sense panic in her face.

“Ms. Scott, be panicky? Never,” he could feel the laughter echoing in his eyes, as he held out the doors for her to get in. He was expecting as usual, Ignatius Mendes to enter the front passenger door but now he was standing next to him. A puzzled look on his face. He quickly but gently shut the door and walked over to the Spanish security escort and waited to be briefed.

“Follow him,” pointing to a young but well-toned ebony male figure that was now heading to what seemed to be for the station. With that, Ignatius left the huge driver and got into the driver’s seat of the luxury sedan and drove off.

On cue, Eddy followed the black male and immediately knew what was needed. She now has found another fuck boy.

Edward Sanchez, commonly known as Eddy, had been used to the boss’ audacious actions. Once in a while, she would pick a random stranger from the streets. Her picks would range blondes to any that suited her needs. Her orders were simple. Follow her pray till he got to his house then accost him with the wand of money given to him into having a night of fun with a rich lady. The lucky chap would then be forced into a non-disclosure agreement. Then have the privilege of having to bed one of the most powerful women in the United States of America if not the whole world.

Most of the time it would be at the official Scott residence in Los Angeles where Scott Industry was headquartered. At other times it would be at her other homes scattered all over the country. One at  4800 Pine Drive Miami, Florida. Twice at the European Style lakefront estate on 13 Johnson Road in Charleston, South Carolina. A number of times at the palatial house at 2500 Aha Aina Place Lot B, Honolulu, Hawaii.

However, had she not in any one time done any of those seditious acts in Seattle, Washington?  It was her birth place and she respected her home. Her sister lived at the mansion but it would be awful to desecrate the place, especially now that she had given birth to a son; it was against her ethics, this, Eddy knew for sure.

As Martin turned the corner of 4
th
street and Pike street towards the bus stop, he felt a shiver run down his spine. For the past three minutes he had felt a growing sensation of fear rise deep inside him. The huge male brute was following him. The lady at the elevator had somehow sent this person. But why? He had no idea. All of a sudden the incident at the Chicago Union Station replayed itself in his mind. But unlike the bitch at the station this was an affluent person. She had gotten into a luxury limousine and was driven off. Suddenly he saw the bus and he made a rash for it.

Inside the bus, he surprisingly saw the brute get in and have a seat next to the exit. He went to the back and sat down. The bus pulled off the stop and made its way to the stop in Olive Way & 6
th
street. He begun to breathe easily and dismissed the feeling as paranoia. The man was just any other ordinary citizen.

As the bus made its way towards Everett, Martin was gleaming with happiness. He had walked in the offices at a few minutes to two. His mother was a very time conscious person. A trait he had grown up with. Half an hour later he was out in the open inviting sunshine.

The vibrating Nokia cell phone brought him back. It was his mother. He could not wait and pour out all the good news.

“Hello, Mum, guess what?”

“What darling?”

“I made it!”

“Wow, that’s great. Like I said what is yours is yours.”

“Thanks for your blessings.”

“By the way, son…..”

“Yes, Mum?”

“”Hope is not those nude pctures. I did not raise a gigolo.”

“Hell no mum, but you wait and see. You see me in all dem fancy commercials.”

Pauline was always concerned with what his son got up to. Martin was all she got. Then had come here when he was three and lost a father whom he had not grown up with when he was seven. Life had been a constant battle to survive. Reverend Father Kaiser had been sending them occasional stipends in order to sustain them. However this had been cut shot as the great father had been captured and executed at what was now a war toned country. His death had crippled her and her son financially. Being an immigrant was hard enough. She had to live off some giveaways and now she was earning a small yet steady income.

As the bus neared its destination, Martin peered and looked for the man he had presumed to be following him. He was not at the entrance. Maybe he had boarded off. But then out of the blues he realised that he was seating right next to him. Staring at him. Planning. Fear gripped his body so much that he could hardly breathed. He started weighing his options. If the man was out to harm him then he'd be in for a fight. He obviously knew that he couldn’t take him out, but he was sure that he would make a struggle.

It was then that Martin realised that the bus had reached the station. He picked up the small white envelope that carried his new job with him and rushed towards the exit. The man behind him quickly advanced at the same direction. Just outside Seattle King Street station where he had planned to take the Empire Builder 8 to Chicago, the man moved towards him. Cautiously, Martin prepared to counter attack any movement. The man reached into his leather jacket and then proceeded to draw a weapon.

Martin knew he was facing death. Who was out there to kill him? What had he done? He had never wronged anybody. Then he knew why. It was because of Latifah. Probably Robert had heard of their secret affair with her. He knew he was the king of the Black Gangster Mob and he had affluence. He had sent a hit man to take care of him. Here and now. Right there before the public.

As he waited for the inevitable death, he saw a stash of hundred bills been thrust to his face. He looked at them in a confused manner and then looked at the opponent. He was even confused. But what he was told seemed to have melted away the confusion he had.

“More of this from where it came from. Follow me if you want them,”