Henry Fuckit Goes South

By Ian Martin

The setting is Cape Town in the late 1960s. Young Henry Fuckit has moved to South Africa after leaving the private lunatic asylum where he grew up. He soon discovers he has entered a world that is quite as crazy as the madhouse he has just left. In part two of The Life Of Henry Fuckit Ian Martin continues the ridiculous saga that describes his alter ego’s journey from the cradle to the grave. Henry makes a friend or two, he finds a job only to discover he’s allergic to work, he has his first sexual encounter, he gets caught up in a bizarre drama in a gun shop, he leads the life of a student without doing any studying - and all the while he keeps up a hilarious commentary about the absurdity of the human condition. This is pseudo-philosophical comedy at its very best.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Martin
• Release date: Mar 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458195203

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.

Book preview

Henry Fuckit Goes South

PART TWO OF SIX of THE LIFE OF HENRY FUCKIT 1950 – 1980

IAN MARTIN

HENRY FUCKIT GOES SOUTH

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IAN MARTIN

Discover other titles by Ian Martin at

http://www.ianmartintheauthor.com

http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/hubris

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

Kikaffir: a Black Comedy - http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/34561

Copyright © Ian Martin 2011

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Contents

1 Mr Welgemoed helps him on his way

2 Conducted South

3 A prize heifer

4 Getting to know Cape Town

5 He becomes acquainted with Ivor Hopper

6 Henry's first fuck

7 Henry starts work at the CU

8 He contracts existentialist nausea

9 Rats. Big rats.

10 He decides to resign for the sake of his health

11 The departure of Mr Snow and Mr Fuckit

12 Two dreams

13 Polonius crap

14 Talking of armed robbery

15 Curiosity leads him into a gun shop

16 Ugly, unnerving, depressing

17 Bedford Street

18 A member of the upper class

19 Henry differentiates between two types of suffering

20 She makes the earth move under his feet

21 End of an era

1 Mr Welgemoed helps him on his way

Figtree is a siding some twenty-five miles southwest of Bulawayo. It was here, in the middle of the bush, as the locomotive took on water, that Henry first experienced homesickness. The previous three days had been filled with activity and excitement as he prepared himself for the great adventure. The altering of his mother’s passport had taken many hours of work by that master of calligraphic steady-handedness, Septimus Braithwaite. The last supper had been a mixture of ill-concealed sorrow and high-spirited festivity which had ended with an emotional rendition of We’ll Meet Again, and handshakes all round. Then in the still hour before dawn he had risen, tiptoed with his bags along the dimly lit passage that smelt of sleep to the kitchen. The coffee urn had been left simmering. He cut himself a thick slice of bread and ate it with butter, marmalade and cheese. Two cups of coffee warmed his stomach and stilled the nervousness that was inflicting a certain rigidity upon his jaw. From the fridge he took the plastic box of sandwiches, cake and fruit and let himself out through the kitchen door. It was nearly five o’clock but there was still no sign of a breaking dawn and he was obliged to use his flashlight as he made his way down the road. Before he reached the side road he heard the starter whining and then the clanking of the engine. The smell of diesel fumes drifted to him on the cold dry air and then he saw the lights approaching.

Dolf Welgemoed was habitually surly and when he bade him a cheerful Goeie more, Oom Adolf, Henry had not been at all offended by the deep phlegmy snarl that served as a reply.

As they passed through Gwelo the first grey paleness was beginning to overtake the blackness and give background to the shapes of buildings and trees and hills.

Around seven-thirty, out on the open road well clear of the town, they pulled up at a lay-by with a tree and a rubbish bin and a concrete table with two benches. Frikkie’s father had walked a little way towards Bulawayo and Henry had walked a little way back towards Gwelo, and they had both stood facing the veld whilst the hot steaming fluid spurted from them. There was no traffic and Henry could hear the other stream splashing a hundred yards away. Meneer Welgemoed produced a flask of coffee, two mugs and sandwiches – white bread with salami and tomato.

Lovely grub, said Henry out of politeness. Baie lekker.

The road rolled over the slow undulations of the plateau and kept a course that was straight and true. At eight-thirty they had passed an oncoming cyclist. The old man in an ancient black suit and trilby had pulled his bike well off the verge and doffed his hat subserviently as they passed. Dolf Welgemoed had swung to the centre and straddled the road the moment he had caught sight of the lonely figure.

Then half an hour later they had come over a rise and there ahead of them was another cyclist, on their side of the road this time. Dolf immediately banged hard on the hooter several times. Strapped to the carrier was a large box from which protruded the mouth of a hessian mealie bag, its neck choked tight with black string. The man had veered towards the edge of the tarmac and begun to wobble. To Henry’s horror Welgemoed steered left, the offside wheels of the bakkie bumping on the gravel verge, and he kept his hand on the hooter. The cyclist stole a brief glance over his shoulder and his eyes went round with terror. As they passed, Henry saw rider and bike fall sideways and slide into the grass. When he looked back the figure was sitting up, hand to forehead. The mealie bag had burst open and the yellow kernels lay in a tongue that licked the edge of the road.

Yissus man, you nearly hit him!

Fokken kaffir. These bastards must get right off the road. He heard me hoot but he wouldn’t move. Cheeky munt. He sounded entirely justified. Might have smashed up the fucking bakkie, the donner.

You know how much a bag of mealies weighs? A hundred and eighty pounds. Henry had felt the anger rising up in him. Even if only half full, do you have any idea how difficult it is to balance a bicycle with that weight on the back?

Shut your bleddy kaffir-lover rubbish! bellowed Welgemoed senior, his heavy features contorting with rage. You’re just a bleddy commie trouble-maker. I know all about you. You’re a bleddy traitor, a deserter, a fokken coward. How would you like me to take you straight to the police and tell them all about it, hey? Strues God, if you were my son I’d give you such a thrashing you’d never open your groot bek again.

Henry forgot the injustice done to the man trying to gather up his precious load at the side of the road and concentrated on enjoying a verbal skirmish he had long yearned for.

Don’t make me laugh. Try reporting me and I will personally see to it that your services are terminated forthwith. Mrs Rabinowitz hates the sight of you and only keeps you on because she’s fond of Frikkie. And as far as giving me a thrashing is concerned you’re more than welcome to give it a try. I have long relished the prospect of knocking you to the ground and placing my right foot firmly on your fat neck. Henry allowed several seconds to elapse before resuming. May I remind you of some basic pugilistic statistics? I stand six foot three inches in height and consist of one hundred and ninety six pounds of lean muscle and bone. I am young and extremely fit. On the other hand, you are not so young, you are five feet seven in height, and you are approximately the same weight as I. Unlike me, you are extremely unfit, as a consequence of unhealthy dietary habits, lack of exercise, and the excessive intake of brandy diluted with Coca Cola. Should you wish to ignore the…

Mr Welgemoed had been gripping the wheel tighter and tighter and pushing the accelerator harder and harder to the floor. The excessive speed at which they were now travelling was making the vehicle difficult to control, and it was beginning to float and drift. They cleared a rise and unexpectedly came upon a car travelling in the same direction at half their speed. He careered to the right and the driver’s side wheels left the road. He wrenched the bakkie over, and then it was the turn of Henry’s side to be churning up the dust. Fortunately the maniac had lifted his foot from the accelerator and was able to regain full purchase on the tar and resume a steady course at a reduced rate.

Yissis Oom, that was verskriklik hazardous! Imagine the consequences! Henry removed his sweaty hands from the dashboard, which he had been clutching in an attempt to brace himself against the forces encountered when a vehicle leaves the road and rolls through the veld in compliance with Isaac Newton’s three laws of motion. I didn’t realise you were so sensitive. Shit but that was close! And then, I was only trying to make conversation.

Not another word was to pass between them ever again. For the rest of the journey to the station Dolf Welgemoed hunched himself forward, his knuckles white on the wheel, his breath rasping in his throat. The speedometer needle flickered between eighty and ninety right into the suburbs of Bulawayo. In front of the station building he skidded to a halt and Henry got out. As he reached for his luggage in the back the wheels spun and the bakkie shot forward, and Henry narrowly avoided having the bags knocked from his grasp.

2 Conducted South

There were few white passengers and he had a compartment to himself. The initial excitement with the novelty of his situation had begun to dissolve not long after the train left Bulawayo. Now halted at this siding, in a strange limbo of almost complete silence, the enormity of his undertaking was growing upon him. For a while a wave of panic filled him as he contemplated the vastness of the unknown future confronting him. He felt a strong urge to halt what he had set in motion and to scurry back to the familiar safety of Ingachini. Strong emotions welled up: fear for the cold unfriendly world into which he was stepping; nostalgia at the memory of his friends, mentors, Mrs R, even the boys busy about the house