Kikaffir: a Black Comedy

By Ian Martin

This is Macbeth in 2030. The apocalypse has come and gone, and Earth is a smouldering wasteland. For the last remnants of the human race there is no possibility of a future. In desperation they set about butchering one another before they choke to death in the toxic vapours enveloping the planet.

If you enjoy your violence ripped, hacked, pulped and skewered, and your sex sadistically pornographic, you’ll love Kikaffir. And for extra titillation you’ll find scenes of cannibalism and bestiality, interspersed with a disembowelling and several beheadings. And before you get to the main rape sequence there’s even a wonderfully graphic episode that will delight the coprophiliacs. It’s all so gross you’ll be laughing aloud by the end of the book. And be warned: there’s also some brain food tucked away in the plot for those who are really greedy. Enjoy!

Kikaffir is the second in Ian Martin’s Shockspeare Series. Which means you just have to read Pop-splat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Martin
• Release date: Dec 23, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458128270

Ian Martin

Ian Martin has led UN human rights and peace operations in countries including Rwanda, Timor-Leste, Nepal and Libya. A former Amnesty International secretary-general, in 2011–12 he was Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon’s post-conflict planning adviser, then UN support mission head, for Libya. His publications on UN intervention include Self-Determination in East Timor.

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Kikaffir: a Black Comedy

IAN MARTIN

KIKAFFIR: A BLACK COMEDY

Smashwords edition published by:

IAN MARTIN

Discover other titles by Ian Martin at http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/hubris

POP-Splat - http://www.pop-splat.co.za

Henry Fuckit’s Nursing Notes - http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/14853

Copyright © Ian Martin 2010

All rights reserved.

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1

The vultures and the buzzards saw them coming from a long way off. So did the kestrels, the kites and the crows. They all stopped chewing and spat out the indigestible scraps of shit they’d been working over in their gizzards. The Kikaffir crew was coming back, and that meant another feast of tasty carrion on the way, if their luck was in.

Atop what remained of the steeple, that noble spire that soared heavenward to proclaim the glory of God (what a fucking joke!), a buzzard shat out a stream of green and yellow muck and promptly fell off its perch. No sweat, no panic, though. All it had to do as it tumbled and picked up speed, was to extend its wings and catch the thermal. Just like that. Up it went in a spiral, lifted ever higher on an up-draught that was being generated by the fires of hell.

The convoy below was making its way across a plain devoid of life. Outcrops of black rock littered the landscape, and in between there were skeletons of Karoo bush. Poking from the grit these bones also appeared black, scorched by the sun and charred by fire.

Forty-nine! said Bongi, as he turned the big 4x4 off the highway and followed the bikes towards the town. Forty-fucking-nine degrees at 4 in the fucking afternoon.

Mike Mbethi removed his baseball cap and wiped his glistening face, the shaven dome of his head and the back of his neck. The hand towel was wet with sweat.

Hey, watch that pothole! he called out. Go round it, we don’t want any more damage.

Some pothole. It looked like a bomb had blown a crater in the road. Bongi eased two wheels onto the crumbling verge and the trailer clattered behind them. This had been the story of their trip. Three weeks to get to Joburg and back. Alright, so they had spent two days foraging through the abandoned city. But the rest of the time they had been travelling, trying to make their way along roads that had been ravaged by twenty years of accelerating deterioration. Holes, cracks, washaways and subsidences all the way, not to mention barricades and abandoned vehicles.

This wasn’t a town, it was a dorp. Just a main street with a roofless church, some shops, a score or so houses, two filling stations. All the buildings were gutted or badly damaged.

They passed the side street where the bodies had been heaped and left for the scavengers to process. Yes, it was a process. Ten Bacoons and three of their own men.

Man, that’s not a dog. That’s a fucking hyena!

They had both seen the animal loping away, head turned to look back at them, round ears in graphic cut-out, eyes unblinking.

The spa lay two kilometres beyond the dorp, and in the distance behind it was the flat-topped koppie. It looked like a scaled-down version of Table Mountain.

A wall surrounded the resort. Within its perimeter there had once been an oasis, but now the trees were dead or dying and the lawns had long since shrivelled away to be replaced by an expanse of grey dust. They drove through the entrance and pulled up before the main building, where the bikers had already dismounted.

Four quads and four scramblers. The men they had left to guard the Bacoons had emerged and were enthusiastically greeting the new arrivals. And in the background several of the Bacoons were hovering, their eyes alight with interest and expectation. No sign of fear or resentment, so they had accepted their fate and were resigned to assimilation. Bacoon or Kikaffir, what did it matter in the long run?

Mike and Bongi had alighted and were greeting their comrades before moving inside. They were both big men, well-proportioned and heavily muscled. They moved with every confidence, and there was more than a hint of aloofness and arrogance in their body language.

More vehicles were turning in and Mike shouted instructions.

Tell the others to turn around and park in the road ready to leave in the morning. And get the prisoners inside immediately – those Frikkers will turn to biltong in this heat.

There were five of them: two mechanics and three doctors. One of the doctors was an elderly woman. They all had to be helped down from the truck and then almost carried inside to the relative coolth. Clearly, these white-skinned specimens were more threatened by the worsening conditions than were their dusky captors.

The spa buildings were dilapidated but had remained intact. This was due to the fact that the freshwater spring had held out and there had been a continuous human presence there. Violent transfer of ownership might have taken place several times in the last twenty years but there had always been some band of people who thought the place worth preserving as a refuge. Even now there were vegetables growing under shadecloth out the back. Vegetables and some weed.

Talking of weed, Sello had found the stuff on day one after the main party of Kikaffirs had continued north on their foraging mission. He, with three men under his command, had been left to guard the Bacoon prisoners until the convoy returned. With the aid of the herb they had all become friendly and had managed to stay relaxed and unconcerned about the future – which, for the Bacoons, would entail a certain amount of forced labour. And maybe some forced sex for the women.

So when we gonna hit the road, Mike-boss?

This style of address was meant to be deferential, but it also carried with it an undercurrent of irony. He called Bongi ‘Bongi-chief’.

Everybody up at four, said Mike. And we must be away by six the latest.

The evening meal was over. They had drawn off some precious diesel from one of the tankers and their own mechanic had persuaded the spa generator to come back to life. Instead of groping about in the dark it was so much easier to prepare food under electric light, and get ready for the next stage of their journey back. But they all knew that power was an old-style luxury, something from the past that would soon disappear forever.

Hey, how many Bacoons does it take to change a light bulb?

Alright, I dunno. His belly full, Bongi felt he could afford to indulge the guy. How many Bacoons to change a light bulb?

Only one Bacoon, but it takes three light bulbs, har har har!

Sello was always manic. There was a mad glint in his eye, his teeth flashed white and his expression cavorted from one exaggerated emotion to the next. Constantly hungry, he seemed to eat twice as much as the average man, and yet his boyish frame (he was little more than twenty) remained wiry and lean.

Sello was also a bibliophile of the most voracious kind, one who consumed written words indiscriminately and on just about any occasion. Two of his favourite books, chunks of which he had committed to memory, were the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations and The Biggest Joke Book Ever.

’The Moving Finger writes; and having writ, moves on.’

Oh yeah? said Mike Mbethi, arching his eyebrows.

Yes, said Sello. ’Nor all your piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all your tears wash out a word of it.’

What’s that got to do with anything? said Bongi, getting up from the table. I’m going outside to see if it’s cooled down any.

Of the original Kikaffir contingent of 65 there remained 50. After so many days on the move they knew the routine well. The sooner the chores were done, the longer the precious hours of rest. And chores done correctly, if they didn’t want a meaty fist leaving its imprint. There was a bustle of activity.

What’s that got to do with anything? Sello repeated, his voice a deep growl, his face suddenly gone all dour.

Mbethi looked at him sternly, not wanting to encourage familiarity or insubordination.

What it’s got to do with is fate and the future. Do you believe in fate, Mike-boss?

Like there’s a plan that we’re part of, and there’s no way we can change it? said Mike. No, that’s like religion. That’s a load of shit.

Oh what a beautiful definition of fate! Sello enthused. So succinct! He rolled his eyes upward to show just how succinct he found it.

So you wouldn’t believe it’s possible to foretell the future? he went on.

Of course not, said Mike. Predict the future, maybe, but not foretell it, as if you can actually see what’s going to happen. You can only make an intelligent guess, that’s all. He thought for a few moments and then added, If the future could be foretold it would need to have happened already. That doesn’t make sense.

But, said Sello, what if the future was like a story that’s already been told, or is in the process of being written by the Moving Finger, and we are now living out that story, or that sequence of events?

Where d’you come with this crap? Mike demanded.

Unlike Bongi, whose soul was more like an instruction manual and nothing like a poem, he didn’t mind talking about this airy-fairy stuff. It could actually be quite stimulating, even if it did lead to nowhere.

There’s this old white guy, said Sello, lives in a cave up at the koppie, who says....

A fucking Vitfark?!

Mike’s eyes seemed to inflate in their sockets, he half rose to his feet and his hand went instinctively to the pistol in its holster on his hip. This was a knee-jerk reaction triggered by the keyword ‘white’, and typical of a shell-shocked maniac suffering from PTSD.

No, no, no. Sello held up a hand of restraint. This is just an old hermit. Lives on his own and never been part of the Vitfarks. Or any other group, for that matter.

He knew all about Mike Mbethi’s hatred of Vitfarks. They had murdered his father and then raped his mother and sisters before disembowelling them and, so the story went, half eating them. Mike reluctantly sank back in his chair, some of the tension leaving his body.

No, this old man’s harmless, Sello went on. He says he’s eighty but he looks like a hundred. But his mind is still sharp. Anyway, the Bacoons say he can tell the future. I’ve been up to see him three of four times and I find him fascinating. But he won’t perform for me. Sello transformed his expression into one of wretched dejection. He says I’m only a minor character in the narrative, and therefore whatever happens to me is purely incidental. But, and he brightened up, as a minor player I have a certain degree of autonomy. Whatever that might mean.

Bongi came back into the room and flopped down in a chair. He ran the back of his hand across his forehead.

Thirty-eight degrees, he said. It’ll be midnight before it starts to cool down enough to sleep. Fuck, I hate this heat.

Just think of the Fog, said Mike. In a couple of days we’ll be back in the Fog.

Yah, it’s crazy, said Bongi. It’s either suffocating heat or bone-numbing mist. I can handle the cold – that’s no problem – but that constant dampness and swirling fog that seems to choke you and you can’t see a fucking thing – that’s when you long for the sun, even though you know it’s going to kill you.

Yes, it’s too hot to sleep, said Sello. So why don’t we go and visit the old hermit? He’s expecting you.

What old hermit you talking about? Bongi wanted to know. Sello told him about the reclusive white man living at the koppie and Bongi seemed mildly interested.

It could help to pass an hour or two, he said. Alright, we can use the quads. Okay, Mike?

What d’you mean, he’s expecting us? Mike demanded of Sello. What have you been telling this old baboon? I don’t need any white trash telling me my future. Fucking bullshit!

No man, calm down, said Sello. Just see this as some entertainment, that’s all. But we can’t go by quad bike. He won’t see us if we do.

Why the hell not? said Bongi.

He says driving in a vehicle with an engine prevents you from becoming sensitive to your surroundings. You wouldn’t be receptive to what he has to say. No, we must walk. It’s only about two ks, even less.

You expect us to go tramping about in the dark in a strange place? Mike was indignant. That really would be looking for trouble. You must be fucked in the head. Too much ganja.

You’re forgetting the moon’s almost full, said Bongi. It’s bright as day out there. But I agree with you, Mike – who wants to go for a 4K walk in this arse-end of hell? Not me, thanks.

Oh yes, said Sello. This place has got to be the arsehole of the world. He paused for effect. And you guys are just passing through.

Hey, fuck you, man! said Mike, taking an open-handed swipe at Sello’s head. But Sello had already ducked and moved out of reach.

Alright, alright, he said. But hey listen, I’ve got another idea. The Bacoons have got a donkey cart. We can go in that.

2

The moon glared down, throwing her vicious white light in all directions and causing every object in her way to cast a razor-sharp shadow, uniformly black to its very edge.

This fucking donkey should have been turned into glue ten years ago, said Bongi.

There weren’t any glue factories around ten years ago, Mike pointed out. You’d have to go back nearly twenty years to find a working glue factory, or any other factory, for that matter.

Whatever, said Bongi. You know what I mean. This donkey’s beginning to piss me off, big time.

They were lounging in two leather seats that had been stripped out of a luxury sedan (probably a Merc) and bolted to the floor of the cart. The Bacoon driver had already climbed down and was trying to cajole his paragon of obstinacy into pulling harder.

Sello! Mike shouted at the monochrome backcloth depicting a lunar landscape stretched before the looming black hulk of a karoo koppie. Sello! Sello! His hoarse shouts were shot through with the shrillness of frustration and impending rage. Sello, come and help push!

Sello skidded to a halt in front of the donkey and dismounted. He was riding a mountain bike intended for a 10 year-old.

Sancho Panza to the rescue! he called out. Don Quixote is having trouble with his noble steed, is he? What his Excellency’s horse needs is a carrot. Anyone got a carrot? Oh, my kingdom for a carrot!

Stop talking shit and push, ordered Mike. You, driver! You pull.

Sello began to push at the back of the cart, and the driver to pull at the stalled draught animal’s head. The donkey took two steps forward and then stopped again, this time with an air of uncompromising finality. It leaned back against the tugging rein.

Looks like we’ve blown a cylinder head gasket, Boss, said Sello, coming round to the front. Nothing for it but to walk the last stretch. We’re nearly there, anyway.

They were indeed more than halfway and, to give the donkey its due, the track was beginning to climb more steeply as they approached the koppie. Unfortunately, the Kikaffir commander and his lieutenant were not in a sympathetic mood, though. In fact, the stress and fatigue of the past weeks had built up to the flashpoint at which something had to give. And it was the sight of the donkey pulling back and refusing to obey orders that finally caused the explosion.

Like fuck I’m walking, snarled Mike, as he leapt to the ground, AK-47 in hand. He was holding it like a beak poised to peck.

Move, you bastard, move! he screamed, poking with the rifle barrel. When I say move, you move, you fucking lazy piece of shit! Move! Move! Move!

Then, the donkey not having moved, seemingly not having got the message about moving, he twirled his rifle like a drum major and, holding it by the barrel, brought the stock down on the donkey’s neck, like he was trying to behead it with an axe.

Instead of scampering forward at a brisk pace, now all eager to draw the very important passengers to their destination, in style and without further delay, it fell forward onto its knees. Maybe the rest of it would also have collapsed but the harness and the shafts of the cart prevented this.

There was a pause. The moon looked on

Reviews for Kikaffir

[ravenswoodpublishi-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

IAN MARTIN'S "KIKAFFIR" (A REVIEW)Yet another great read by Ian Martin. This darkly humorous book takes you on a dangerously gritty path. It was an enjoyable adventure. I definitely recommend for those that truly have an interest in dark comedy.-Kitty Bullard / Great Minds Think Aloud Book Club

[cwaldrum_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

So I`m a huge reader and almost never stop reading a book. No matter how horrible I usually finish. In my entire reading lifetime there have only been two books I couldn't finish: Anne Rices Violin because I literally kept falling asleep and an incredibly long titled sci fi book that just made me wanna cry in frustration. This one almost became the third. I persevered of course or I wouldn't be writing a review. My almost insatiable need to stop reading this book had nothing to do with poor writing, boring topic or a lack of understanding of what was happening. The story was just disgusting. The world has come to an end and there really isn't an explanation in all the book. All we know as readers is it started with the fall of Internet (don't all the world ending stories do that now?) and now the human species is at it's end. There is no procreation and the world is slowly devouring itself. So is the human race. The characters are possibly the most depraved, degenerate, disgusting beings I have ever read. And I've read serial killer novels, horror books. Yet these characters made me want to retch and close the book. Only the strong survive and in this case the one willing to do the most horrific things to another of the human race lead. Cannibalism, rape, murder, torture all of it's in this book. Yet as disgusting as it was, the story was well written. I could see the end of the world and how we as a species would become as primitive as the beasts around us. I would not recommend this book to anyone who has a weak stomach, soft heart or any victim who has survived any of the atrocities noted above. If you're a twisted fuck though, this book is for you.Since I actually finished it I'm starting to wonder about my own sanity and mental well being. Although I've worried about that for awhile now!

[scoshie · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

William Shakespears MacBeth meets Anthony Burgess A Clockwork Orange. In a word, WOW. Shapespear's already violent play gets an even more violent turn in this rewrite. Not recommended for the faint of heart or easliy offended. I also enjoyed the Afrikaan language used it, it makes the story very interesting.

[gmtapublishing · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

IAN MARTIN'S "KIKAFFIR" (A REVIEW)Yet another great read by Ian Martin. This darkly humorous book takes you on a dangerously gritty path. It was an enjoyable adventure. I definitely recommend for those that truly have an interest in dark comedy.-Kitty Bullard / Great Minds Think Aloud Book Club

[cedargrove_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Post apocalyptic, near future vision - not for the faint hearted.The story is set in a future where even the environment has turned against man, forcing each person to fend for him or herself. There may be safety in numbers, clans coming together to protect what few resources remain, and eek out a living, but even within the clans there is cruelty, hardship and depravity. Nothing and no one is safe, and that especially goes for Mike and his some-time friends and hangers on, and his woman, Lady, characters each with their own flaws and vulnerabilities, through whose eyes we see the story unfold.The language used in the book is appallingly blunt - four letter words abound - but it is entirely appropriate in the context of the story, the setting and the hardships faced by the characters. In fact the only time I found myself wincing over the language were the odd occasions where tamer words were substituted for stronger ones - the use of the word 'bum' for example. The harsh language helps to set everything more deeply in context, and where we're treated to everything from graphic violence, murder, rape and even cannibalism, anything less would have been ludicrous. In spite of the language choices, or perhaps because of them, the book is incredibly well written, holding the reader as a in a state of macabre fascination, compelled to find out how the story ends - just how bad could it get?The answer to that is 'very,' and while I enjoyed the quality of the story, the content still leaves me a little queasy, and I cannot stress enough that while well written and captivating, in a very dark sort of way, this story shouldn't be read by anyone that is easily offended.

[jynxpierce · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This was hard for me to follow based solely on the slang used. I found it hard to grasp the meanings of a lot of the slang words used. The basic element was violence. If you like that you will like this.

[twochris · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book is not for the faint of heart. It follows the story of the main character and what happens after an apocalypse. The book has over the top violence and is extremely graphic in detail. It is a well written book, and the plot is exciting and well paced. The characters, although horrible, are likeable. It is a sort of modern twist on Macbeth, and people who know Macbeth will likely enjoy the book more, although I do not think you would have trouble following the book if you have not read the play. The book was not really my cup of tea. It was supposed to be a dark humour book, and if you like that, I think you would find it funny. I did not find it funny. It was horrifying in places. I rated the book so highly because it is well written and I would highly recommend it for people who like dark humour based around extreme violence. If you do not like extreme graphic violence though, I would give this book a definite miss.