PRISONERS OF CITIZEN KWEKU (WORK IN PROGRESS)

Chapter 1

A WORKMAN IS WORTHY OF HIS WAGES

He makes sure that the drain valve is shut, before quickly completing his body suit with his pressurized Steinke hood, only closing the lower hatch by a remote control device after he climbs up into the exit chamber. When the door to the sea opens, the man swims out from this docking airlock, out of a submarine about a hundred meters down the depths in the coast of cape verde, quickly breaking the blue surface and back stroking to the shoreline of a white sandy beach. On this quiet, deserted beach, he removes his diving emersion gear piece by piece, till he is wearing only a drab gray singlet on a pair of forest green boxer shorts. The man is alone, he walks with a steady gait, a purposeful stride with a bundle of wet things under his arm, along the beautiful shore of Every Man's Island, towards Kwanzawali, the training camp base of an African brotherhood known on the lips of guilty rich men by a secret name; where his assembled team of thirty skilled expert mercenaries await his next command.
Its a long distance from the boat, usually he is accompanied by a select, lethal brethren from his faithful flock, but today the first day in the new year, he decides to walk the distance alone, deep in thought. To a passer by, he looks just like a fisherman because of his raggedy, well worn clothing, but he is anything but. This man, is Citizen Kweku, an elusive, dangerous mercenary even now as he walks in a laissez faire and a somewhat disheveled state, his guns, grenades and sharp knives are skillfully tucked away in pockets not clearly defined by design in his beach bum attire, he is not the type of man to take unawares, indeed, that will be a mistake.

Kweku needs the silence to think alone, the cool morning ocean breeze is very relaxing, soothing his taut nerves like the soft hands of a deep pressing masseuse... normally he cares so little about anything in this life, but currently he feels he is being taken for a ride, shanghaied, by international partners he has grown to trust the most over the years. It is a jarring feeling; a wake up call, like the scent of hot coffee brewing bitter affront to one who prefers just lemon tea. Why is he here? He should be resting on a beach somewhere, maybe a place like Panama, certeris paribus, except for the matter of the monks, the terrorist, Hafeez Ibrahim and the other matter of the money... Cape Verde has called him to judge the witch-hunting monks, to conclude on United States's most wanted botched up experiment, and fees owed him by Fourie Botha.
A workman is worthy of his wages. The volatile nature of his work does not give room for any combustible deterrents; an angry killer is worse than a mad man. It is because he is feeling unhinged, that Kweku paces his solitary trek with slow steps, he walks, waging unseen battles in his mind, trying to ward off the many decaying faces of the dead; people he has assassinated for wages, constant in their vicious clawing at the iron walls of his conscience, forever trying to escape their graves of gruesome injustice, screaming at his ears in silent, deafening cries, voices so loud in condemnation but heard only in wailing winds of stormy nights, haunting his days with troubling times, conspiring with life to mock his expectations against his fragile peace of mind, money is what he uses to block the darkness trailing his deeds, but it's been too long letting the Mzungu mess with his money.

Recently, he and a select few of his comrades narrowly escaped that nasty business in the Congo Brazzaville and then in that other operation in Liberia, where, forty innocent people trapped in the middle of an altercation between his forces and the political rival group, lost their lives, their cries begging for mercy just before the bombs detonated still shatter the facade in his mind, no matter how many times he builds back up resistance. It was a senseless killing, a ground offensive which went horribly wrong; nothing at all could be done to salvage any form of peaceful negotiation, or to prevent the infernal blast, nor save those villagers so suddenly and unexpectedly caught in that cross fire. ..
Just another job undertaken by his elite group on behalf of the Mzungu organization, a job for which he is still being owed. Now, yet another past mishap is come haunting him in cape Verde.