An Examined Life

By Raul Aurora

Conformity is never real security, only an illusion. Breaking away is seldom easy. Try we must.

Have you lived a lie every single day of your life? Have dark secrets been kept from you by the people you trusted the most? What if you woke up to discover that you are not who you think you are? In fact, have never been. What do you do next? Is there a way out or are you trapped forever?

Set in the mid-twentieth century South Africa amidst the bitter three-way struggle for dominion between the Boers, British, and black South Africans, An Examined Life is a tale of extraordinary courage shown by a remarkable white man, who dared to challenge the status quo, forsaking everything he had worked so hard to achieve, and what most people would hold dear above everything else. Most, but not him.

Every bold move has its consequences. Courage commands a steep price. He pays with interest.

Meanwhile, far away and oblivious to all the commotion, a boy born in the lap of luxury grows into a fine man. However, all is not as it seems. Beneath the surface, a terrible past looms.

Outraged by the ways of the world, he tries seeking order and meaning. Life wears on, and he begins to question destiny until it finally reveals itself, shocking him beyond belief, ending everything the way he knows it to be.

Slowly, he tries to make peace. But can he? More importantly, is it even worth?

In this world of popular opinions, constant comparisons, standards to live up to, reputations to maintain, only real men can stand up for their beliefs.

In the form of a story, the book subtly asks essential questions of us, forcing a long, hard look in the mirror. Hatred, misery, sorrow, hurt pride, vengeance - emotions we have been burying since childhood, bottling them inside, screwing the cap tighter. Are they worth hanging onto or would we be better off without them? The final pages help arrive at a suitable conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Raul Aurora
• Release date: Oct 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386148777

Raul Aurora

Raul was a born rebel. Rebellion without a cause. Entering into a career at sea with the navy during his late teens followed by the merchant marines, he discovered most of the world through the dreamy eyes of a boy, gradually gaining wisdom and poise. A natural storyteller, he combines the knack with his broad experiences to satisfy the deep yearning for peace and tranquility felt since a child. Things never clicked until he began to write. Life is a story. Better make it a good one with profound purpose.  Raul's works intend not only on thrilling but also enlightening his audience upon various issues that plague the mind. Societies have more questions than answers, and he tries to address them through fiction. To be precise, he helps readers arrive at solutions, perhaps even questioning the questions. His first novel, An Examined Life, helps understand the very basic emotions we often feel stuck up with and that prevent us from leading a more fulfilling life. His next book (out in 2018) will follow similar but more advanced themes. Whatever they are, in the end, Raul believes that if the stories are fascinating and make a positive impact on his fans' and readers' waking lives, his job is complete, his mission accomplished. Other interests include motorcycles, pets, machinery and tools, literature, and home mods. Please visit his website Mind Investigative where he discusses life from a deeper perspective http://mindinvestigative.com

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Prologue

Iwas born of the winds of the southern hemisphere nearly eight decades ago, though at times it seems over a century has passed me. Now I lie in wait for the final journey, which never seems to begin. Old and cynical, barely getting through the days, lonely and desolate, more scared than scarred, I wait for the Devil himself to come and get me.

Sitting on my porch, smoking my pipe, sipping sour whiskey, the untouched bread growing harder, the soup colder—cold as the blood flowing through my veins—I sit out my days, waiting for the final call, the last dimension. For it is only in dying that I shall ever be delivered from my sins, which, though few and far in between, remain, as I am sure—Unforgiven.

A fly treads the back of my hand, skin as dry and leathery as the sun-scorched earth of Africa—the land where I was born and shall die. I make no attempt to drive it away. I do not feel it, quite unlike when I was younger, my skin grown too old and too thick for such sensitivity. My chiseled face is weather-beaten, badly. But my hair, though dusty & gray, manage to retain their strength. Hair that was once flaunted with every strand detailed to near perfection is raffishly brushed back now. However, strong and thickset they remain, unwilling to wither away, akin to my unvanquishable will to evade death for as long as it takes me to settle the score. It’s been long enough, I wonder at times. Perhaps even a bit too long. I know I should have died many times over, a long time ago.

Hatred has kept me alive. Hatred—absolute and pure. It has nourished my soul and kept me, giving God—or perhaps the Devil—reason enough to keep me alive. Hatred towards the hypocrites, too corrupt and greedy to dwell honestly as they went about committing larceny and chicanery, robbing the innocent of earnest labor, snatching their every single shred of sanity. For those in whose lexicon there exist no words as mercy or humanity. One by one I have toppled them over, and bit by bit I have crushed them under. It has been I, well, at times, behind their decline. And for all I have done, I retain not an ounce of remorse. Guilt for punishment rendered to the wicked makes the righteous weak, blurring their vision, detaching from them the very sense of righteousness.

And even though all my life I strived to walk this rugged path, at times I had to stray to commit hideous crimes. Crimes that remain justified, at least in my eyes if not in God’s. As I relive them over countless times, I fervently hope they do not weigh against me when I am finally gone. For at the end that is all that matters. If anything ever matters at all.

My Afrikaner maid interrupts my wavering thoughts. Your supper has gone cold, again, she says.

It takes me a while to come back to this world, and all I can manage is a blunt groan, my hand dismally waving her to take it away. My appetite is gone. That’s another thing that goes away with time. Just like your hopes and your dreams.

I slide my glass over, hoping for it to be poured with another generous shot of whiskey. The maid gives me a familiar look, her broad face, usually wearing a smile, looks down at me with a frown. A frown I have grown accustomed to. A frown filled not so much with disapproval as the disappointment. Her lips gently part as though trying to say something, but all they let out is a sigh.

I better put the bottle away, she says, pouring me one last drink.

Slowly rocking in my chair while puffing on the tobacco grown on my own estate, I think of what I am about to do. Surely, my dear departed wife, who watches over me from the heavens above, will understand. So too will my living kin and grandson—a child still raw in the ways of the world, and who views me as a living legend, someone from an old, waning generation. At times, I do feel a survivor, but not the lone for there still exists another man for whom my heart continues to beat.

Not with affection, but contempt and disdain. The man whose deeds have stained my soul so that it won’t wash away. The only way lies in killing him, slowly. Giving him a taste of his own medicine. Watching him die. Feel every shed drop of his blood cleanse my soul, heal me from the insides.

I load my rifle. It is time.

PART I

SEEDS OF SORROW

Chapter 1

Braving a perilous journey across the raging Atlantic, the Shaws first stepped foot onto the shores of Africa at Cape Town in 1900. The British Empire stood at its zenith, stretching from India to the Far East, and from South Africa all the way north to Gibraltar. Trade was luxuriating throughout Africa, resulting in a bitter scramble amongst the European powers.

Rewards for plundering and exploitation were through the roof, and so was the demand for the ruffians and crooks who could execute it with precision. Although the natives did provide sufficient labor—bonded or otherwise—a huge gap of men, who could tame these beasts and put them to use, was felt. The council board of South Africa expressed this to the British Empire, who responded with trademarked swiftness. Every prison and dirty street of England was scourged for any and every able-bodied crook, who were then gang-pressed and sailed down to Africa, where they were promised a chance to start over. Start over they did.

In the melee that ensued, gangs, thugs of all sorts, and con-men flourished. The ‘Dark Continent’ was a land of opportunity. The mere requisites being that you had to be white and willing to get your hands dirty. Any black man trying to carve himself a career in this line of work was sent to rot in the mines or prison—places he was destined for anyway. Hence, to save themselves the trouble, they lined up quietly, every day, to get beaten and abused by their masters. Rapes and murders were common. Africa was a fine place to live in; plenty of the sunshine, exotic food, deluxe housing, and a booming trade. Belle-Epoque for the whites. The blacks, on the other hand, could dig mines and choke on the dust, their only perk in common with the whites being ‘plenty of sunshine.’ Most of them were homeless.

No state can hope to be able to govern itself by solely relying on the crooks. Crooks, too, need governing, especially the white crooks. This splendid work was conducted by a different set of crooks, the sophisticated ones. Too educated and too smart to make a living by breaking-leg, they shared nothing in common with their fellow white man, except for the ambition of having a finger in every pie, no matter how dirty or bent. They came in the form of politicians, civil servants, administrators, businessmen, lawyers, and bankers. Neither did they mingle with the masses, nor did they frequent public houses. They wore wigs and traveled with chauffeurs. They possessed various degrees and titles and legitimized their professions by giving them fancy names. They established institutes, banks, companies, and most importantly, government. They designed bridges, railroads, and ports. Using the black man for a guinea pig, they made significant advances in medicine and science. They were the pioneers in Africa, the men responsible for what this great continent today is—fed up and hungry.

Tightly squeezed between the two layers of society, the white society, of course, there existed a third layer of conscientious people, hard working and honest. Craig Shaw, an employee of a rapidly expanding tax firm, was another of this thin crust. Taking home a decent paycheck, handsome, single, and still only twenty-five, he stood pretty much pleased with life and the direction in which it was headed. Though not in particular favor for the treatment reserved for the blacks—or the whites who got out of line—he didn’t let it bother him. Having had struggled out of the lower rungs of society, he kept lofty goals, determined to achieve the better things life had to offer—a private office, a larger house, lots of servants, a pretty wife, and beautiful children. So, like most, he looked the other way, continuing to live in bliss. A bliss which was soon to be shattered beyond his worst nightmares.

On a hot summer afternoon in 1931, after a rather sumptuous lunch party, Shaw made his way on foot to the largest fine wine store in town. His firm had had a very profitable quarter, and Shaw, who had earned accolades for his contribution was being upped, significantly. It was time to celebrate.

Just as he turned into a back alley, a shortcut that was to save him a few minutes, he saw a sight so hideous and repulsive, it made him stop dead in his tracks. Never in his life had he felt more repugnance.

Three whites set about mercilessly beating a black. Outnumbered and overpowered, the black man, somehow, seemed unaffected by his misery as he struggled to break free, despair and a sense of extreme urgency oozing out through his protuberant eyes. Ordinarily, there was no way he could have even stood the beating, but something seemed to be giving him inhuman strength, severely testing the skills of the thugs. For a few yards away stood another white man, holding a little, black girl, barely thirteen or fourteen, and apparently the black man’s daughter.

The white man’s hand wrapped the girl’s mouth, while the left fumbled and squeezed her budding bosom from above her sweat drenched clothes. A desperate plea accompanied her muffled screams, with a nemesis in her eyes that something dreadful was about to follow. Struggling and squirming in the monster’s grasp, she looked towards her father with the false hope that he would somehow overpower these men, and rescue her from her agony, which turned into instant horror as she felt the hairy hand grope its way down to below her waist, violating and humiliating her modesty. She squirmed her legs tight as the hand of the devil reached her bare thighs, lifting the hem of her skirt, forcing its way between her legs, rendering all her deterrent efforts futile.

All this occurred rather quickly, but to Shaw, who stared in disbelief, it seemed as if an eternity had passed him. An eternity through which he felt an array of emotions, an array of very conflicting emotions. Emotions felt by altruistic warriors, who, despite knowledge of certain death charge into battle, and emotions felt by selfish cowards, who time and again turn a blind eye to the atrocities suffered by others, for they do not possess what it takes to stand up to anyone or anything—courage. Courage, a sense of revolutionary rebellion, a touch of insanity, and knowledge of the fact that your life will never be the same again. Whether he possessed such courage, he did not know, but he was about to find out.

Obviously, he had two choices—intervene or turn around. Although the latter was not easy for any righteous man, it undoubtedly was the sensible one. Its only consequence would be a guilty conscience, one that would fade away with the passage of time. But the very thought of the former caused his palms to sweat and his legs shake. His future flashed before his eyes. A future full of pain and suffering inflicted upon him by the very man holding the girl. The face was unmistakable. Neil O’Sullivan.

Sullivan, underpin of the society of organized crime, remained no run of the mill gangster. And if his ruthless methods provoked fear in people’s hearts, then his fascinating past did conjure up a certain awe as well. Before boarding a ship for Africa, he had been an escapee from a Belfast prison, navigating his way to Cornwall, all alone in a ten-footer Mackinaw, across the choppy Celtic Sea in the freezing winters of the northern latitudes. And depending on which version you heard, he either carried no compass, or it got washed overboard. Whichever was true, one thing was for certain, you messed about with Sullivan at your own peril. Standing over six feet tall, with a cruelly handsome face, and lush, wavy hair, he imposed an intimidating presence. He dressed like a business tycoon and swore like a sailor. The bigger criminals respected him, and the smaller ones revered him. The police steered well clear of him. His generosity with the ladies of pleasure and their managers had made him a living god in the brothels and gambling dens of Cape Town. To top it all off, he was on the firm’s secret payroll and just happened to be conducting its business, even though the methods seemed unnecessarily harsh.

Although most of the firm’s clientele were wealthy and white, they were not the only people to whom it extended its services. Trapped in the never ending cycle of greed, it deployed a broad range of tactics to grow wealthier, one of them being usury, lending to the blacks at ridiculous rates via one of its many daughter firms. When they couldn’t pay back, which often was the case, it would then seize all they possessed, which, unsurprisingly, never turned out to be enough. Having done so, it would then demand the remainder. Desperate to pay off their ever increasing debt, the poor souls would toil their lives away in one of the mines or other enterprises that vested the interests of the firm, thus, allowing it to sit back and enjoy yet another fruit of someone else’s labor.

The diminutive black man in front of Shaw was just another of those fools, who had gotten his feet stuck in the spider’s carefully woven trap. His arrears were long overdue, and he had gone absconding. When even the law had failed to locate him, it was decided that enough was enough. Sullivan had been summoned.

Leave it to me, he had growled. I know where to look for these rats. In the sewers.

Surely enough, not before long, the trap had been laid, and the rat caught.

Shaw was well aware that interfering in Sullivan’s business did not warrant a bright future. A loss of job and being hunted down by Sullivan were not the only guarantees to follow such a plucky act, but also rejection in society, the inability to secure work, and constant trouble with the authorities. Of course, all this, provided he let you live that long.

All this trouble to save a black, who perhaps had good reason to get beaten up and even see his daughter get molested, maybe even raped. If he could cheat the firm, a white establishment, how much more his kind had he scammed? And even if there was no justifiable cause for all this to be happening, it certainly was no reason for Shaw to get involved.

Oftentimes, man makes decisions based solely on impulse, logically incomprehensible. One such was made by Craig Shaw on a hot summer afternoon in 1931, the very same day his life had taken a giant leap towards realizing his dreams. Now, he was challenging the very dream, openly. A decision that would flip his life over and shake it so violently, he would wish that he never was born. He swung into action. The brave fool.

Chapter 2

As Sullivan tugged on the girl’s panties, nearly ripping them apart, a sharp pain flashed through his torso, followed, almost immediately, by the sickening crack of a breaking bone. Sneaking in from behind, Shaw had thrown all his weight behind the punch that had broken the Irishman’s ribs.

Having grown up in a rough neighborhood, Shaw remained no stranger to street fights. Acutely aware of the rules of urban combat, he applied them perfectly. Rule number one—strike when least expected. Rule number two—never stand back and admire your shot. Strike again!

Shaw’s second punch caught Sullivan right on the nose, causing blood to splash, and his low-aimed kick made the gangster go down without a word.

Meanwhile, having broken loose, the little girl lunged at one of her father’s assailants. Akin to a young hyena, hurt and wounded, withal determined to survive, she bit into his face with such brute force that the man cried out in pain. Finally managing to squirm free, and with rapidly increasing hopes of survival, the black man, too, wasted little time. Sullivan down and their colleague on the wrong side of the receiving end, the remaining two thugs, resembled sheep, who had lost their shepherd. Shaw was the wolf coming to get them. One fled right away, going as fast as his legs would carry him. The other offered little in the form of resistance, soon following suit.

The girl, who by now had managed to make a bloody mess of the man’s face, turned her attention towards her violator. Her teeth red with blood, she raced to the edge of the street, snatching a loose stone from the sidewalk. Filled with rage and longing for revenge, she then almost succeeded in an act that would qualify as an intent to murder in any court. Raising the stone above her head using both her hands, she walked over to Sullivan, standing over him, before hurling the massive stone at his head with Herculean strength.

Shaw’s eyes squeezed shut, his face grimacing at the thought of what was to become of the Irishman’s good looks. However, the former inmate, now lying in the street, spotted the missile in the nick of time, dodging it, but not before it had found some contact with the top of his crown, causing an instantaneous trickle of blood to flow out and stain his collar.

Her savage like thirst for the blood of the man, who had forever made an impression upon her, remaining unquenched, the girl reached for the weapon again, only this time with what seemed an intent of smashing it repeatedly over Sullivan’s face. But her conquest remained unattempted for her father grabbed her midway through it, firmly locking her in his grasp, calming her down, whispering soothing words in her ear. After an unsuccessful struggle, she finally relented, wrapping her arms around him, their bodies trembling in unison, gasping for breath.

Temporarily relieved, the accountant assessed the situation. Sullivan and the other man were down, but wouldn’t be for long. Squatting by the side of the alley, he tried to recover from the physical exertions of the scrap, perhaps even mental. The adrenaline rush was quickly fading with a cold reality taking its place. The high was gone. Now there would be hell to pay.

His nostrils were filled with the stench of fear, coming right from him. His mind squirmed with thoughts of the repercussions his incongruous behavior would inevitably bring about. Terror flashed before his eyes, and in those maddening moments, during which he struggled to come to grips with what had just transpired, Shaw cursed just about everybody and everything he could think of.

He cursed himself for taking the shortcut, cursed the champagne that had blunted his analytical edge. Had only lunch lasted longer, or had he ate slower, or more. He cursed the waiter for bringing him his coffee so promptly. Those bloody, snobbish British waiters, so conceited and pompous, serving the upper echelons of society had made them think they were a part of it. Shaw’s mind was shaken, and his emotional responses desperately looked for relief, and someone to blame. He blamed everyone he could, but most of all he blamed God. He blamed God for giving him courage that never failed to do the right thing. All throughout his childhood, he had struggled to stand shoulder to shoulder with his own people, had struggled to educate himself, and on days, had even struggled for three square meals. Now, when he had finally left his past behind to achieve a distant dream, here he was, again, blowing it all away in the spur of the moment. He found himself dropping back into the deep, dark abyss he had only crawled out of. Jostling with the underworld was no little offense, but doing that to save a couple of blacks was unpardonable, even unheard of.

Convinced that he had pioneered a field which would have no followers, Shaw tried to think of what was to be done next. The two men, who had managed to get away would be soon meeting with the rest of their lot, assembling enough bodies to teach the whore-son a lesson he would not forget.

Shaw didn’t want to die, but compared to the treatment Sullivan rendered to his enemies, death seemed an enviable option. A quick and painless one at that. But he knew that it wasn’t coming. Sullivan would roast him over a slow fire before tearing his limbs apart. There was only one way out. Disappear, forever.

But where could he go, and what would he do there? Having lived his entire life in Cape Town, Shaw knew of no other place. Besides, what was to stop Sullivan from finding him there? No, fleeing to another city was no good. He had to flee the very country. Best if he could get on a ship and head out. Any destination would do. But how long until the first ship out? Hours, days, weeks? Till then he would have to hide, and there was no place he could. Docks, streets, hotels, and inns, were all within Sullivan’s reach, and no one would risk incurring the Irishman’s wrath.

Shaw panicked. The walls were rapidly closing in, and with each passing second, his situation was getting desperate. Then, suddenly, he saw a light at the end of the tunnel. Albeit a faint one, but it was there. An insane thought occurred to him, but after all that had transgressed, he had serious doubts regarding his ability to adjudicate between the sane and insane. He made up his mind, hastily, for there seemed no other way out. It was a last resort, and his only one. Only one of them could live. Sullivan or he.

In that gut-wrenching moment, when the whole of Africa seemed too small to run and hide in, Shaw proceeded to do something he never thought he could. His entire system of moral checks collapsed as he walked over to Sullivan, feeling the Irishman’s ankles for a knife. It was customary for thugs to wear one on their bodies. One never knew when one’s life could be cut short for want of a concealed knife.

The leather sheath was hand stitched and seemed well used, much like the blade itself. Sliding it out, Shaw wrapped his palm around the handle and readied himself. Not possessing the stomach for savagery, he planned to thrust it deep, finishing the job in one go.

However, just as he raised his arm, a hand wrapped around his wrist, easing away the knife. He half turned in horror, expecting the worst, only to see the face of the black man whose life he had just saved. His head shook, saying no, but there was no mistaking the look in his eye. It wasn’t Shaw that was to take Sullivan’s life, but he. Shaw could very well live with that.

Moving Shaw aside, the black man knelt beside Sullivan, spitting words of venom. In return, the Irishman, half unconscious, solemnly stared at the sky, barely moving a muscle. The girl watched from a few feet away, her father’s blood stained shirt draped over her shoulders as though trying to make up for her nearly lost modesty. A strange serenity came over her face, but her eyes still wanted blood.

The game is over, Sullivan, the black man hissed. But before you die, I want you to take a look at the little girl you touched and know that it was her father that avenged her. I want to hear you beg for mercy, you bastard, beg. Beg for me to spare your life so it may be known that the mighty Neil O’Sullivan begged before a black man just as he died.

Saying that the black man chopped off Sullivan’s little finger, causing him to scream. Picking it up, he then dangled it over the Irishman’s face, while laughing cruelly.

Open your eyes, Sullivan! he commanded, and Sullivan slowly opened them. He wanted the ordeal to be over. The black man had other plans.

You have strong hands, Sullivan, the black man went on, A man’s hands. But you are no man, just a coward, who preys on little girls. Therefore, before I kill you, I shall chop off your fingers one at a time, the very fingers that felt my daughter. Then I will chop off your hands, the very hands that held her. And then I will carve out a part of your body, the very part you use to pleasure whores. And when I am done, I will tear your heart out and feed it to the dogs. So, be prepared for the long haul, Sullivan, the longest of your life, for by the time this is finished even the Celtic sea will seem like paradise.

Shaw, who stood a yard away, could not quite believe his eyes and ears. Indeed, the black cretin had lost his mind for even though still alone, there was no telling when Sullivan’s men could return. Time was of the essence.

The cretin, however, disregarding, seemed to be enjoying his newly acquired role of life-taker, with no apparent intentions of speeding up the process. Just as he was on the verge of chopping off another finger, Shaw grabbed him from behind, causing him to look up with bewilderment.

What do you think you are doing? Shaw shouted out loud. Finish him and let’s get out!

The black man didn’t welcome the interruption. Sir, he said, I am in no hurry to finish him. He must suffer for what he has done. There was a childish stubbornness in his eyes. That, along with the icy cold reply infuriated Shaw, who, from the corner of his eye, saw the girl, nodding in agreement with her father.

Shaw tried to talk sense into him. Someone could arrive at any minute. Then it is you and I that shall suffer, he said, but to no effect.

Brushing the warning aside, the black man replied, Sir, I am grateful for what you have done. This debt I owe you, which I cannot repay. But you have to let me do this or I will never be able to look into my daughter’s eyes, again. I must avenge her. You are free to go.

The girl kept nodding along, and Shaw flew into a rage. He couldn’t believe how stupid these people were. Surely, Sullivan must have had more heart than they did brain. Little wonder they were third-grade citizens in their own country.

Grabbing the man by his undershirt, Shaw screamed to his face, Free to go? Where to? Your stinky, little hut? Don’t you see that if this man lives, I will never be free, ever?

The man glared, shouting back, He shall not live!

Then finish him or give me the knife. Saying that Shaw reached to grab the knife, and a tussle ensued.

Somewhere amidst that tussle, he heard the girl cry out for her father. After that, he dove for cover.

Chapter 3

As many of his admirers will tell you, it is not to God the credit for making men equal goes to, but to Samuel Colt. Born with a rare genius for explosives, his obsession with firearms began when his grandfather presented him with a flintlock pistol. Although a formidable weapon, its need to be reloaded and cocked after every shot did little to appease the boy. No, young Samuel desired something which could fire at least five times before going through all the trouble. After numerous experiments, a fire accidentally started by him in the year 1830, cut short his schooling, forcing his father to send him to be a sailor. On a voyage to India, young Samuel came up with a wooden model of the very first revolver. Impressed, his father decided to finance him to build a rifle and a pistol. The former worked, but the latter exploded when fired. Fed up, Christopher Colt declined to lend his son any more money. The son, however, never gave up, and four years later was issued a