The Chronicles V- Hypocrisy II

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The border post closes in the evening and I interrupt the monologue to point out, if they want that tent I really should get going. Vaughn agrees and tells me Pet will have the stuff needed ready for collection. I hit the road, pass through the border with minimum fuss and am glad to see the bushvelt again. The N1 has Game Farms scattered on each side and I see zebra, giraffe and antelope. Crossing one river I see some hippo and crocodile. This is where I actually belong. I am in a hurry as my time to get back across the border is limited. I speed into Malalane and go to Vaughn’s house. Pet is not there. I decide to go to her favorite pub and see if she is there. On my way she passes me on the road, as I have a bakkie from Cretecor with all the logos and name on it she has no problem spotting me. I do a U turn and follow her to the house. Here I find out Vaughn has sent her to Johannesburg to buy that silicone stuff, a lot of it. I find out that I am expected to smuggle that, a 50lt can of oil and motor vehicle spare parts back over the border. I am fucking un-happy. Like I said, if I am going to risk getting thrown in an African jail I will smuggle something that will make ME a lot of money, drugs or diamonds. Now my “good” cousin is risking my freedom for his gain. I do not have a choice really. I will do it, but file this incident for future reference.

I hide the tubes all over the cab, the boxes of spares too. The oil is a big problem; Pet calls Vaughn and tells him I do not want to take the oil across the border without the paperwork, too risky. He tells her I have to. I am not sure this cousin will stand by me if I get caught, actually I believe, after taking a measure of this man called Vaughn McIntosh, that he will deny any knowledge of the smuggling. I am pissed off, need a drink, but only on Grandpa’s at this stage. Time is running out, I hide the oil drum as best I can under the Marquis and all its poles; this is so pathetic even a child could find it. It is now dark, on my way out, a few kilometers from Malalane a vehicle in front of me hits a pedestrian. Shit, it is pitch black and we are the only people on the road, in the middle of nowhere. I manage not to hit either the car or the body. It is quite clear the man is dead; I was going around 180km an hour. I slow down, see that there is nothing I can do, and then I push on to the border. It is warm and I am sweating, but for other reasons.

I get to the border, do all the paper work, and then just as I am thinking I will get away clean, a female border guard stops me. She speaks very little English and asked in a mixture of Portuguese and bad English what the hell the tent is. I tell her it is a marquise for a wedding in Maputo. She pulls at the canvas, under which is the oil drum, but on hearing about a wedding she gets all excited and tells me something about, I think, her wedding. I make all the right noises and she waves me off. Apart from being scared I have a cold anger building toward my cousin.

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View the Mexican Horse Thief’s Page

Short Story

THE MEXICAN HORSE THIEF I – ANGOLA

lie-vs-truth

 

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