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AFRICA.
The witching hour stole the continent as I ran through customs and exploded through the arrival gates. Sir Seretse Khama Airport welcomed me back before spewing me out into the chilly night of Gaborone. I hadn’t been in Botswana for two years, yet it felt as if I’d never left.
I avoided coming here. I couldn’t handle the emotional currents from our workers. I hated feeling their toil and trouble. I hated seeing secrets and shimmers of how unhappy they were.
The last time I’d come, I’d talked to Kes about doing something about it.
He became our official mediator. Behind Cut’s back, he travelled often and built a rapport with the men who’d been in our employment for centuries. In his quintessential style of helping and generosity, he improved the living conditions, gave them higher salaries, safer workplace, and secret bonuses for their plight.
He ensured Cut’s slaves turned into willing employees with health benefits and satisfaction.
Cut didn’t know.
There was so much he didn’t know.
But then again, what Cut didn’t know didn’t hurt him. And it meant our enterprise ran smoother because no ill will and destitution could undermine it.
“Goddammit, where are the fucking drivers?” I jogged toward the vehicle stand, searching for any sign of hailing a lift.
Taxis were few and lingering opportunists rare at this time of night.
I hadn’t slept in days. My wound had ruptured and my fever grew steadily worse. But I didn’t have time to care. My senses were shredded from the flight and it was all I could do to remain standing.
But Nila was with my father.
Nila was running out of time.
I’m coming.
A single shadow appeared up ahead. Turning my jog into a sprint, I clenched my jaw and approached the scruffy African man. His long hair was braided and his jeans torn in places.
I pointed at his muddy car. “Is that your four-wheel drive?”
The guy glowered, crossing his arms. His black eyes looked me up and down, his muscles priming for a fight.
In Africa, you didn’t approach strangers unless you had a weapon and were prepared to battle. Humanity wasn’t as civilized here, mainly because so much strife kept the country salivating for war.
“What’s it to you, white boy?” His Afrikaans accent heralded memories of playing in the dirt at our mine as a child. Of digging beside workers and chipping unwilling diamonds from ancient rock.
“I’ll pay you two thousand pounds if you’ll drive me where I need to go.”
His territorial anger faded a little, slipping into suspicious hope. “What about I just steal the money and leave you dead on the side of the road?”
I stood to my full height, even though it hurt my side. “You won’t do that.”
The man uncrossed his arms, his fists curling. “Oh, no? Why not?”
“Because in order to be paid you have to take me. I don’t have the money on me.”
“This a scam?”
“No scam.”
The guy leaned forward, his eyes narrowing for battle. “Tell me who you are.”
I smiled.
My name carried weight in England, just like it carried weight here.
However, here I was more than an heir to a billion dollar company. I was more than a lord, and master polo player, and vice president to Black Diamonds.
Here, I was life.
I was death.
I was blood and power and royalty.
“I’m a Hawk.”
And that was all it took.
The man lost his indignation, slipping into utmost respect. He turned and opened the door of his dinged-up 4WD, bowing in welcome. “It would be an honour to drive you, boss. I know where you need to go.”
Of course, he did.
Everyone here knew of our mine. They knew it was untouchable. They knew not to raid or pillage. That sort of respect went a long way in this country.
I clasped his hand in thanks. “You’ll be repaid. But I expect you to drive fast.”
“No problem.” He smiled broadly. “I know how Hawks fly.”
I curled my hands, unable to ignore the ticking time bomb in my chest.
Nila.
Glaring at my driver, I ordered, “Do whatever it takes, but I want to be at Almasi Kipanga before sunrise.”
