SEAN OF THE CONGO by Sean McCarthy

Author:Sean McCarthy [McCarthy, Sean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-10-14T21:00:00+00:00

As if the lift and the departure of the bikers wasn’t pleasing enough, someone smiled down on us again, for the driver decided to travel all night.

“Hey, Shaggy. If he keeps going at this rate we’ll be in Kisangani tomorrow morning,” I said (although perhaps I shouldn’t have. Not after his “We’ll be in Kisangani by Monday night” had heralded the last puncture).

Whilst the idea of reaching our ultimate destination gave me some solace, journeying at night had its downside, for it also meant the cold night air would again rush through my mum’s once–clean towel and my thinner–than–thin sheet and mosquito netting, and again I regretted not keeping hold of the blanket Ali had given me.

Despite the cold I didn’t sleep too badly, until I was woken by a painful throbbing located somewhere around my shins. This, I discovered, had been caused by a fellow passenger’s tootsies, or rather the footwear to which they belonged — hobnailed boots — now embedded into my shins, thank you very much. Hence, although it was still rather chilly at this time in the morning, and therefore lying flat was definitely the preferable option, I nonetheless opted to liberate my tibias and rose to my feet, fervently awaiting the exposure of the blanket–covered, shin–crushing fiend.

Impatient as usual, I started drumming my fingers. Awake since 6:30am, it was now 8am and I hadn’t a clue how far away Kisangani was, although one of the crew let on we would be there before noon. Certainly we were near, for the road was both wider and flatter, and the sides of the route were far more colonised (by shacks and little stalls) than during the previous day. This, however, served only to rile me, as the driver persisted in stopping, seemingly every other minute, to purchase various items — notably dead porcupines and monkeys, the latter strung up on stalls like handbags, a small slit in the end of the tail with their heads popped through.

Quite why the frustrating git couldn’t wait until Kisangani before obtaining such paraphernalia, who knows? “It’s probably cheaper” is an obvious assumption, but then again simple sociopathy could also explain not only his willingness to leave Shaggy and me to the bikers had we not the fare, but also his decision to splatter some poor kid’s pet dog, a sickening incident that, to be honest, would have been very easy to prevent.

As our truck drew closer to Kisangani, my attention began to focus on the hobnailed fiend who had gouged my shins to pieces. Whoever it was, they were still fast asleep under a blanket that masked their identity, which irked increasingly the longer it stayed there. To the point that whenever we reached Kisangani it didn’t matter now, I had to see who it was. Not that I was after revenge or anything like that — although that would have been perfectly satisfactory — I just wanted to know who the hell had mangled my shins. Another half an hour and my patience was rewarded.

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