Rough Diamonds

By Ian Robinson

WRITING TO RACE AT LE MANS 24hrs 2018 Motor Car Endurance Race

What makes me somewhat different to other writers, I had a massive stroke in 2011. It left me totally paralyzed on the entire right side of my body. But, that was then. I’m slowly, very slowly, recovering.

I've started with the launch through an intensive campaign of my book, which is called Rough Diamonds. I’ve been writing my book off and on since 1994.

Family ripped apart! A killer read...
In the sixties, this killer read takes you to a mining village called Scallyclare in South Africa. There is deceit, evil, malice, negligence, blackmail, rape, murder. It starts when the three children's Grandfather give them three uncut diamonds. Along with those, he gives them each a bracelet with their names engraved on. The diamonds and the bracelets become their blessings and their terrifying curses... This killer read is not for the gutless!

Rough Diamonds is going to fund my dream to return to motor racing wIth the ultimate goal to take part eventually in Le Mans 24 hours in France in 2018. (I raced in South Africa in the seventies). This is the greatest sports car race in the world. I attended the race in 2016, and it was phenomenal, mind-blowing! I was joining over half a million people watching the race. The racing car is emblazoned with the bright, in-mistakeable colours of the cover of Rough Diamonds, and the car will recognize my backers. I feel my book Rough Diamonds will make a great film and have started the ball rolling.

I was brought up on a coalmine in Durnacol, KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa as a young boy. This is where the story takes place. My Grandfather secretly kept the three uncut diamonds in a tin at the back of his cupboard. He died and my mother discovered them. I imagined how I would see the rough nature of the diamonds, and did an abstract visual for the cover of my book on the way they would have glinted in the bright sunlight. (Uncut diamonds can glint).

Life was filled with adventure and thrilling moments. I spent a life in advertising and motor racing. Filled with a sense of adventure, widely travelled, a capable chef, raced and rallied cars, competed in three day long, gruelling canoe marathons, ran an ultra marathon of 87 kilometres (I pathetically baled after 36km....), and an average snow skier. I used to be a part of an eight man wine tasting group, (called the Circle of Eight - there were eight of us), I've rejoined a wine-tasting scheme. In both groups, we don't take the wines too seriously.

My first book was a non-fiction Some Picnic!, about our gourmet picnic business in South Africa. My wife suggested: "We need to get a quiet little place in the mountains, where we can chill out on weekends." But the opposite happened - we ended up hectically working almost every day of the year on a picnic business with a difference. This book is a true story which takes place on Horizons, a high-end, gourmet picnic destination in the Midlands of KZN, South Africa. It follows the inspiration, the setting up, the running, the problems with the staff and the selling of Horizons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Robinson
• Release date: Feb 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9780620749015

Ian Robinson

WRITING TO RACE AT LE MANS 24hrs 2018 Motor Car Endurance RaceWhat makes me somewhat different to other writers, I had a massive stroke in 2011. It left me totally paralyzed on the entire right side of my body. But, that was then. I’m slowly, very slowly, recovering.I've started with the launch through an intensive campaign of my books, which are called Rough Diamonds and SOME PICNIC!. I’ve been writing Rough Diamonds off and on since 1994 and I wrote SOME PICNIC! starting in about 2007 and launched it in 2011.This is the evidence for Rough Diamonds:Family ripped apart! A killer read...In the sixties, this takes you to a mining village called Scallyclare in South Africa. There is deceit, evil, malice, negligence, blackmail, rape, murder. It starts when the three children's Grandfather gives them three uncut diamonds. Along with those, he gives them each a bracelet with their names engraved on. The diamonds and the bracelets become their blessings and their terrifying curses... This read is not for the gutless!My books are going to fund my dream to return to motor racing wIth the ultimate goal to take part eventually in Le Mans 24 hours in France in 2018. (I raced in South Africa in the seventies). This is the greatest sports car race in the world. I attended the race in 2016, and it was phenomenal, mind-blowing! I was joining over half a million people watching the race. The racing car is emblazoned with the bright, in-mistakeable colours of the cover of Rough Diamonds, and the car will recognize my backers. I feel my book Rough Diamonds will make a great film and have started the ball rolling.More about SOME PICNIC! further down.I was brought up on a coalmine in Durnacol, KwaZulu-Natal, South Africa as a young boy. This is where Rough Diamonds takes place. My Grandfather secretly kept the three uncut diamonds in a tin at the back of his cupboard. He died and my mother discovered them. I imagined how I would see the rough nature of the diamonds, and did an abstract visual for the cover of my book on the way they would have glinted in the bright sunlight. (Uncut diamonds can glint).Life was filled with adventure and thrilling moments. I spent a life in advertising and motor racing. Filled with a sense of adventure, widely travelled, a capable chef, raced and rallied cars, competed in three day long, gruelling canoe marathons, ran an ultra marathon of 87 kilometres (I pathetically baled after 36km....), and an average snow skier. I used to be a part of an eight man wine tasting group, (called the Circle of Eight - there were eight of us), I've rejoined a wine-tasting scheme. In both groups, we don't take the wines too seriously.My first book was a non-fiction Some Picnic!, about our gourmet picnic business in South Africa. It talks about the activity which we ran from 2004 to 2007.“Big sky.” Athena, my wife, would say sometimes looking up at the vastness above.“Wow, where did you get that from?” I’d asked the first time she said it.“I felt it the first time I came to Africa. There’s just so much space and when you look out at the landscape it just seems to go on and on and on to the horizon and up into an endless sky.”Big sky.What a profound thing to say. This captures the feelings which we set out to achieve in Horizon's Gourmet Picnics.My wife suggested: "We need to get a quiet little place in the mountains, where we can chill out on weekends"; But the opposite happened - we ended up hectically working almost every day of the year on a picnic business with a difference. It's a true story about Athena's and my business just outside Rosetta in the Midlands of KZN, South Africa. Follows the finding of the property (it wasn't what we had in mind...), setting up the concept for the Gourmet Picnic business, naming the place;Horizons; (which says; as far as you can see; and sends a message "to stretch our guest's expectations). We sold the business as a going concern.We started with glasses of free sherry on arrival.We walked them out of opposite end of the home, and they were impressed by the expansive views. Next, we sat them on specially made bean bags or stylish chairs at a selection of tables. Then, we offered towellettes (heated in winter and chilled in summer) to rinse their hands. We would make sure that the bar would have kept their drinks flowing.Every dish had a WOW factor. Our waitrons offered guests some snacky eats. Then, the sumptuous picnic would arrive packed in refined picnic basket containing half a dozen or so imaginative dishes. The guests ate with proper cutlery, from proper plates, drank from stylish glasses and used proper serviettes. There was plenty of ice to keep the ice buckets topped up and keep the wine chilled. After eating, they were welcome to sleep off their full bellies until they had a refreshed appetite for dessert. We found that Horizons was popular for couples that were getting engaged.

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LEGAL STUFF

Author: Ian Robinson

Publisher: Ian Robinson

All rights reserved

Cover design by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express permission of the writer.

ISBN No: 978-0-620-74901-5

Published: February, 2017

Copyright 2017 I D Robinson

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Rough Diamonds

Family ripped apart! A killer read...

In the sixties, this takes you to a

mining village called Scallyclare in South Africa.

There is deceit, evil, malice, negligence,

blackmail, rape, murder.

It starts when the three

children's Grandfather gives them

three uncut diamonds.

Along with those, he gives them

each a bracelet with their names engraved on.

The diamonds and the bracelets

become their blessings and terrifying curses.

This killer read is not for the gutless...

LEGAL STUFF

DISCLAIMER

DEDICATIONS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

INTRODUCTION

FACT & FICTION

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CONNECT WITH IAN ROBINSON

SOME PICNIC! A taste of the first delicious chapters…

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. (See Fact and Fiction on the last pages, but please read the book first.)

DEDICATIONS

For my wife Athena.

Remember, you said: Big sky.

I took it you meant that the sky is limitless.

What a profound thing to say.

And for my daughters, Courtney and Olivia,

and my step-children, Zoe and Jack.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’d like to thank the following people for the part they played:

James Marshall B. Proc. for his guidance on the legal process.

Michelle Bovey-Wood, my editor, for her hard work, enthusiasm and belief in this novel.

My wife, Athena, whose belief and inspiration never waned.

I am also grateful for my childhood years, during which I spent some interesting moments among my friends, surrounded by life-threatening risks and adventure.

This book is written from the perspective of the first person.

For example, in Chapter 1, the man Bafozi speaks with his perspective of things. In Chapter 2, Jan van Wyk speaks with his perspective of things, and so on.

BOOK 1

INTRODUCTION

It was the summer of 1969.

Already thousands of flies from the nearby gutters of the native miners’ compound and the unhealthily close sewerage works had gathered for their daily ritual.

The sound of the swarm, which reached its peak now in February, almost drowned out the distant whine of the mine headgear.

After only two hours in the hot, early-morning African sun, the sickly-sweet smell of flesh beginning to decay gave a clue to its nature.

Their black, green-blue and purple bodies reflected little of the blinding sunlight as they wriggled for better positions. This was before vomiting their digestive juices teeming with bacteria on to the oozing flesh and then consuming their putrid meal. Others, now satisfied, injected their eggs into the new host before moving on.

Congealing blood, some of it escaping the flies, slid slowly down the fence post that had been specially planted at the main entrance to the compound. At its base, carnivorous red ants emerged from their nest, fighting each other, with the odd stray fly for rich protein. Sometimes they consumed others from their army as they quickly became covered in a sticky coat of plasma.

To the white mine workers at the Scallyclare Colliery in the coal-rich region of Northern Natal, this revolting scene typified the vulgar and barbaric nature of the native work force. But, to the spans of underground black labourers, this gory morass of decaying ox innards (still warm from the trading store butchery where the animal had been slaughtered just before sunrise), it represented a great prize.

It was an incentive that drove the Zulu, Xhosa, Sotho and Swazi miners to higher productivity levels as they sweated deep within the bowels of the earth: To be the first to meet their quota and claim their reward - this flies’ feast that hung waiting in the hot African Sun.

CHAPTER 1

Bafozi

Nearly one thousand feet below ground in Section E, 17-year-old Bafozi removed his hard-hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. While he waited for the loose coal to be loaded and removed, he thought how this place could sometimes be as warm as a maiden’s sleeping place on a summer’s evening, and as damp and moist as her young fertile womanhood.

It reminded him of the touch and pleasure that Selena, the 14-year-old girl who had just entered womanhood, had shared with him back in the wattle forests near Mbabane, Swaziland.

Here at Scallyclare, female contact was rare for most of the 3 000 men, for the only women were the wives who lived in the married quarters. Fortunately, Bafozi’s exciting new way of life gave him little time to think about Selena.

The work was hard and fast, with few breaks, and he looked forward to the end of the shift and the chance to rest.

In his new sleeping place in the compound room, which he shared with 23 other Swazis, Bafozi had repaired the thin mattress (inherited from the late victim of a mine accident) by stuffing it with the soft grass that grew in early spring.

He had seen some of the men covering themselves with sacks when they slept, but he didn’t do that. The room never got as cold as the high misty hills in Swaziland where he had often spent nights searching for lost cattle. At Scallyclare, the small stove that filled the dormitory with sulphurous warmth while it burnt the magic black rock made sure of that.

As the youngest of the men, he got the bunk furthest from the stove, and it was his job to keep the fire burning when he was not working. It fascinated Bafozi how the dark stone burnt much hotter and longer than the dead trees from the forests. It was a gift from the spirits that there was always an endless supply of coal to burn.

It was on this coal stove that the winning span would cook their prize of ox innards. The sweet smell would fill the poorly ventilated room and tantalise those who were unfortunate enough not to share in the feast.

The windows were kept shut at night to keep out the evil Tokoloshe spirit. Apparently the lingering food odours blended with those of the sleeping men were not tempting to the evil spirit. To Bafozi, it almost felt like staying in one of the grass and clay huts at home - only the fire smelt different.

Bafozi thought how happy he was that nine months before, his brother, Gungu, had invited him to work on the mine with him. Gungu had arrived back in Swaziland, proud of his first year’s wages and with the news that Scallyclare was offering jobs to fit men. All they needed were men who could work hard in the confines and humidity of cramped, narrow tunnels nearly 1 000m beneath the Earth.

So Bafozi, his oldest brother, Edward, and their uncle, Goodwill, whose family lived with them in their kraal, decided to join Gungu to travel the 300km to Northern Natal where the black gold awaited them.

After sad farewells, they left for the coal fields with only the clothes on their backs and the Muthi from Sakela, a wise old witchdoctor. Sakela said that the evil-smelling potion made with blood from a puff adder (one of Africa’s most venomous snakes) and other ingredients they never dared ask about, would placate the ancient spirits.

He had added in his hypnotic voice, referring to the white people: Those whose sacred burial ground they might be plundering. He continued in that same tone of voice: "This was as they were doing it for the white man’.

Bafozi enjoyed the challenge of the work. It was Gungu who had suggested to Bafozi that he become a pick-boy who cuts slots. His thin, wiry frame would make it easy for him to slide into the narrow space under the seam overhang to undercut the coalface in order to make it collapse when it was blasted with dynamite.

The time at Scallyclare had been rewarding for Bafozi and his brothers. With little to spend money on, most of it was saved. Today was their last shift and he looked forward to soon taking his hard-earned wages back home. How pleased his mother would be when she learned she’d be able to pay for clothes, books and a small blackboard for Bafozi’s nine- and 10-year-old brother and sister, who could then attend school.

What a good Christmas this would be for the family.

____________

Back underground, Bafozi placed his hard-hat on a jutting point of rock. He positioned it so that the cap lamp shone deep into the narrow slot. Even though it was against the safety rules to work without head protection, only one thing mattered to Bafozi: Meeting the day’s quota of 38 tubs for his span, so that he, the two loaders and the trammer could be first to clock out of the shift and win the ox innards.

He felt beside him for his pick-handle and gripped the familiar, intricately carved meranti wood. Pressing himself flat against the shards of shale and coal so that it cut into his cheek, he followed the beam of light into the claustrophobic space. Moving the light from side to side, he picked up the slight changes in colour and hardness of the rock face.

As Bafozi looked at the dull, black, bituminous coal seam, where it butted up against the sandstone, he signalled to Gungu, Edward and Goodwill, his span mates, to be quiet.

The millions of tons of rock and coal, only inches above his head, were silent. Singing gently to this mass to co-operate, he co-ordinated his arms and wrist movements in the limited space. Bafozi swung the pick head at the sandstone, neatly driving in the sharp point where he knew the coal face would be the softest.

The sound of steel against rock was just trailing off when something inside him made Bafozi pause.

Then he heard it.

A distant groan, like an angry bull, that coursed through the earth somewhere way up above them.

Take care, my brother’s son. Goodwill’s whisper barely worked its way through the narrow space.

Bafozi listened intently for the earth to speak to him.

For an instant he wondered if he should have supported the overhanging coal face with the two, short, wooden sprags, but then pushed the thought aside. He could speak to the coal. Besides the sprags got in the way, and time counted for everything.

Once again Bafozi’s sweet voice harmonised with the steel as he swung it at the shale. It penetrated the visible soft layer, and then suddenly the shock kicked back down the handle into Bafozi’s hands as it struck an aberration. The wall of coal shuddered.

Shards of razor-sharp shale spat on to his neck as tons of fossil that had lain undisturbed for 250 million years briefly complained and then swallowed its annoyance in a deep grumble.

Bafozi gripped the carved handle, but the rock face refused to release the pick. He wedged his shoulders against the smooth roof above and the gravelly bed below as he wrestled to remove it.

Now, the only sound was the wood as it twisted but refused to surrender in the forged iron sheaf of the pick head. Only a few grains of coal lightly dusted his cheek as the Earth’s crust seemed to go back to sleep again. His span mates shifted their weight uneasily as they waited.

Be still, my brothers. Bafozi held his breath and listened.

Hearing nothing, he pushed his shoulder up against the roof to feel for any tremble. Somewhere far above, a sound, like rolling thunder, gained momentum and then faded.

Bafozi twisted and squeezed back out of the slots. Bring me another pick, he said as he looked up into the glare of the cap lamps that were trained on him expectantly. And water to drink.

Refreshed, Bafozi handed back the battered old jam can water receptacle to Goodwill. His uncle’s eyes seemed to be pleading with him to take care as he slithered back into the narrow slot, to the welcome of a faint rumble. Bafozi knew only one thing mattered: To finish the quota as quickly as possible.

CHAPTER 2

Jan van Wyk

Two hundred metres east, Jan van Wyk, the shift boss, checked that all the sticks of dynamite were correctly charged. Shifting his 1.82m frame with the ease of a ballet dancer, he gently tugged on the wires to make sure all the fuses were well embedded in the dynamite.

Kom, umfaan, Bring the cable. The young Zulu boy unrolled the copper core wire as the huge white man worked his way back out the tunnel.

Jan easily reached up to the ceiling to ensure that the brattice cloth was firmly tied across the tunnel to restrict the force of the blast. The pair made their way around the corner and sheltered. They would be protected from any shards of rock that had the potential to shear through the brattice cloth with enough force to take off a man’s head.

Jan stripped off the ends of the two wires. He checked the safety switch and screwed the bare copper ends around the terminals. Pasop, umfaan. stand back.

Jan’s voice carried through the nearby tunnels as he bellowed the instruction: Ears!

Some of the older mine workers ignored the order, as they were already partially deaf from years of unprotected exposure to the booming explosions.

The Afrikaner’s big hands gripped the handles of the Healy & Burgess plunger and pulled them up to ready the ignition box. He flicked the safety switch and easily used his weight to generate the 2,000-volt charge to ignite the 36 sticks of dynamite.

Jan enjoyed the power of the blast, as the airwaves thundered through the tunnels, nearly knocking men over. With satisfaction, he felt the ground tremble as the explosion released nearly 10 tons of coal. Slowly, the eerie quiet returned to the tunnels as the last loose pieces of rock and coal tumbled to the floor.

Then they heard it.

The Xhosas called it the waking of the spirits.

The Zulus said that it was the earth complaining from its bowels against disturbance. Anyone who had worked in the mine for long enough knew that the terrible sound meant a fault had sheered and that wherever the weakest point was, it would give way.

Everyone stood still. Oh my God! Jan crossed himself.

Again the distant thunder coursed through the earth beneath the men’s feet as the rock pulled and stretched, fighting to release millions of years of pent-up energy.

Splinters of shale spat through the fine coal dust, showering the miners.

And then it came.

First one creak then another and another as the roof sunk all of its weight on the 20cm-thick wattle and pine poles. Then the earth shook as somewhere nearby the roof could wait no more, and a blast of air washing over Jan told him a major fall had happened.

It’s dropping in Section E, Jan shouted over the noise, instinctively moving in the direction of the danger.

Leading his crew, they rushed through the tunnels, easily finding the fastest way forward.

As they entered Section E, the deep, distant groan that warned the men that the danger was not yet over was drowned out by panic and shouting.

Gungu, Edward and Goodwill were being helped by nearby spans as they franticly tore at the rubble blocking the tunnel and access to the slot.

How many are in there?" bellowed Van Wyk.

Goodwill gasped between lifting rocks: Baas, it’s my brother’s son, Bafozi. Only him. He told us to move back just in time.

Maak gou, hurry up and bring the skips and the first aid!

____________

Half an hour later, with sweat and blood from cut hands greasing the fallen rock, the final pieces that blocked Bafozi’s body off from the rescuers were removed.

Jan van Wyk watched the Swazis’ limbs swing in unison as they sang their workers’ song from the Ezulweni Valley:

"The day is young,

My limbs are strong,

The blood of a thousand cattle

Make my labours easy."

It never failed to surprise him how the workers would rhythmically chant themselves into a trance in these situations. Despite already having laboured