CHAPTER FIVE

As the elections drew even closer, the polity became increasingly heated. There were daily threats and counter threats from terrorist, militia and self-serving politicians who wanted to hang on to power at all costs.
All five political regions of the nation were jostling for a chance to occupy the highest seat in the land; the presidency.
The next morning Bezil was at work waiting for a company driver’s return from an official assignment so he could drive him out to follow up on a story lead. He was still waiting when his attention was caught by a live interview on a rival news channel showing on TV.
On the screen was Ismael Dariko ex-militant now turned unofficial spokesperson for the incumbent president contesting for reelection.
When asked by the host of the early morning political show if he was in support of the incumbent running for re-election against the seeming wishes of some rival politicians and a section of the Kivan society, Dariko became visibly angry.
His massive chest vibrated in his tightly fitted T-shirt and his blood shot eyes widened with anger. His voice became louder as he stated forcibly that the incumbent did not owe anyone an apology and neither did he require anyone’s permission to contest.
He was of the opinion that the president was a Kivan and as such was free to contest. He went further to state that in the next election the incumbent would be returned to power whether or not anyone liked it.
That didn’t sound very democratic to Bezil but then again, that was the nature of Kivan politics; the politics of brute force and total disregard for the wishes of the electorate. After what seemed like an eternity, the driver finally walked into the studios.
Bezil picked up his bag and walked toward the driver standing close to the exit. He wasn’t pleased at having to wait so long. The driver began to smile at Bezil as he drew closer to him but Bezil wasn’t in a friendly mood. “Where the hell have you been?”

Eight large men, five of them with big beards, had gathered together to discuss. The time was 12:51pm and the venue was Royal blue hotel in Gobaro Eke state. Three of the men were easily recognizable. They were the smallest of the eight men. Most distinguished amongst the three was the Chief Minister of the state John Taki.
The other two distinguished men were the local chief of security, Maji Azwinaki, and the ex-militant and former leader of the now disbanded death-squad militia group, Capone.
The venue for the meeting was heavily guarded by security operatives. It was the Chief Minister who spoke first.
“Are your boys ready for the operations”, the Chief Minister asked the security chief.
“Your excellency they are. The boys are ready to move into action, as planned and at your command sir.”
“Good. We must make it clear to those ingrates that this state and the nation belongs to us. They seem to have forgotten who the boss is; let’s give them a rude reminder. Tomorrow at noon, we strike.”
The other men in the room spoke in agreement and nodded their heads.
“Now let’s talk about the coming elections. Capone, have you began recruiting the special hit squad I requested? They are crucial to my plans for re-election.”
Capone spoke up. His voice was cranky and low pitched. “Sir the boys are ready. All I need now to complete the preparation is the money you promised. They are ready to die for you your Excellency, as long as you treat them well and they get the money you promised them.”
“The money isn’t a problem”. The Chief Minister said smiling. He signaled to one of his aides who dragged in a large bag and placed it beside Capone.
“That is for you and the boys.”
Capone drew back the zipper on the bag and smiled when he saw it was full of money stacked in bundles and packed tightly together. “My Chief Minister”, he said, now smiling from ear to ear. “You will be our Chief Minister forever. Anyone who says you won’t return to the state house will die. We will make sure of that. It’s you or no one else.”
The Chief Minister nodded in agreement and his smile grew even broader. “That’s the sort of thing I like to hear.”

It was early in the evening when Bezil got home. The day hadn’t gone too well for him and he decided to get off work early.
George was at Mrs. Thandiwe’s playing with her son Henrik when Bezil arrived. Bezil was hungry so he hurriedly fixed some dinner for George and himself. When he was done, he went over and picked up George. They would eat together and Bezil would get a chance to ask the questions he wanted to ask.
Back in their apartment, Bezil and George sat down together at the small kitchen table and ate dinner in silence. Dinner for that night was cooked white yam and fried eggs eaten with red peppered sauce. Bezil knew it was bad manners to eat and talk at the same time but he was anxious to get some answers.
“George I need to talk to you about the dream you had the other night; the one about the exploding bus.”
He paused for a while; not knowing exactly what to say next. “How did you know it was going to happen? I mean…, just like you said in your dream..., a bus exploded and lots of people died. How did you know it would happen?”
George shrugged his shoulders. His gaze was directed at the kitchen table and he stopped eating. “I don’t know”, he said. “I just see them in my dreams. I see lots of things in my dreams; and they happen”
Bezil took a deep breath. Was it possible that George always had these dreams; even when his father was alive? “How long have you been having these dreams?”
Slowly George raised his large innocent eyes and looked at Bezil. He spoke softly. “Since I was little.”
“Did you have dreams about your dad”, Bezil said, now staring intently at the boy with great interest.
The boy was quiet as he looked again at the table. He did not respond.
“George”, Bezil called his name in a softer tone. He leaned forward toward the boy, “Did you have any bad dreams about your dad?”
After a long wait, George slowly raised his head and his eyes met with Bezil’s. They were misty and tears began to trickle down his cheeks. The sight of tears running down the boys cheeks tugged at Bezil’s heart. He felt compassion for the little boy. Perhaps he had asked enough questions for today.
“It’s okay George; it’s not your fault. Everything will be okay. I’ll take care of you”. He got out of his chair and pulled the boy close to him in a reassuring hug.
“Now finish your food and we’ll watch some TV together before we go to bed.” Bezil tried to change the subject. He didn’t like seeing the little boy looking so sad.
Bezil stepped away and walked over to the kitchen stove to get some more food. “Uncle Bezil…” George said.
“Yes dear.” Bezil stopped what he was doing and turned to face the boy. “What’s up”, he said.
Again the boy was silent and he didn’t say anything; he just stared at the table.
“Do you want more eggs?” Bezil wasn’t sure what the problem was or what the boy needed.
“No”, George said, slowly raising his head, and looking straight at Bezil. “Uncle Bezil, I had another dream last night.”

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