Salvation Colony

Chapter Twenty-One

129 Salvation Colony: Sequel to No Way to Die Chapter Twenty-One Elken Moore I n this bloodyfucking sonafobitch-of-a-diplomat, you have to draw up your weekly programme buddy, otherwise these niggars will suck the hell out of you. They would want everything for just nothing. I usually got out of bed at 7.30 every morning, took my breakfast at 8 o’clock, and went to work at 9. They must have been something like 10 blokes waiting to see me. I went through the visitors’ book and then shut it. “Let them come in the order of filling the form,” I instructed my secretary. I must have lost my memory when the bloke came in and stood in front of me and introduced himself. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” I said. “Dennis Nunqam Ndendemajem the artist,” he repeated. My right palm rose to my forehead and struck it twice. “Doesn’t still ring a bell,” I said. There was a silence and then Dennis said: “I had an exposition here some seven years ago. I was even given a government scholarship to study art in America, but it all ended up in smoke because of some kind of politics. A friend of mine, Dr. Maximillian Essemo came here seventeen months ago to arrange for an exposition...” I could feel my expression change suddenly. I smiled to him as my habit was, and told him: “Of course I know you. I remember the good doctor who came here last year to talk on your behalf. Age is creeping fast on me,” I confessed. An inexplicable overture of 130 Linus T. Asong friendliness had suddenly entered my voice. I had been smoking my cigar, and why not? I returned the cigar to my lips and, placing my right hand on Dennis’ shoulder showed him where to sit. Once comfortably seated he told me how after temporarily abandoning art he had resumed it at The Salvation Colony where he had already made 46 paintings including several murals for the halls and ALCA churches across the province and the world over. He had come to ask for permission to mount an exposition in the near future. “Of course,” I beamed. “You know what?” I asked. He looked at me rather quizzically, but with subdued excitement. “We continue to hold you in very high esteem,” I told him, and I actually meant what I said. I could see his eyes open with pride. “I told your doctor friend when he was here last year that I had taken a particular liking to your works. I told him how much we did to encourage you. But, as you know, we only make suggestions and leave to your government to implement... I show the film of your vernissage every time we have a great occasion involving aspiring artists.” My artist friend seemed to smile faintly. I asked him to wait outside until I had attended to the last visitor. I took him into an inner room where we usually relay the news from Washington. I sorted out his video cassette, mounted the equipment and called on Dennis to see himself and his works ten years ago. Throughout the show which lasted fifty minutes, Dennis looked on in a serene contemplative silence. He did not react to the running commentary I made all along. At the end I summed it up with a challenge: “How can you beat that?” “I can beat it,” he said confidently, defiantly. “I’d be glad to see you do it,” I said. “I’d be glad to help. Where are you from right now?” I asked. 131 Salvation Colony: Sequel to No Way to Die “I spent the night at PYC, the Presbyterian Youth Centre,” he said, “coming from Mbongo.” “And during the intervening years, where have you been, what have you been doing?” I asked, “especially since your friend contacted me.” He took his time and said: “Since I lost that scholarship darkness enfolded my life and I could not get myself to do anything. Now that I have found another fellowship in Jesus, I can see clearly. Before, I shut my door and my life to God. Now that I have seen the light, I can do just about anything...” “I happen to be an atheist,” I said. I hate niggars trying to preach the Bible to me! That response seemed to have injected...