Refuge, a Collection

By Tommy Dakar

A collection of stories with the common theme of refuge. Of sanctuary, either from outside forces, or from those within. Tales that range from the vast plains of the Rift Valley in A Desert Rose, through suburban Britain in Not Even Shakespeare, and on to the snow-capped peaks of Sierra Nevada with Refuge. Tales of fear and despair, of lonliness and confusion, of hope and an unshakeable will to survival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tommy Dakar
• Release date: May 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005614072

Tommy Dakar

Born in England Tommy Dakar now lives and works in Granada, Spain. Author of short stories, novels, novellas and song lyrics he is also a musician and composer. He has worked in factories, on construction sites, in the investigation department of an important bank, as a busker, a shopkeeper and a gardener. He was a language teacher for many years, breaking into translation and bilingual representation. His works have been published to critical acclaim on various literary sites, including Storychord, SNReview, Write this, Write From Wrong, Language and Culture etc He has also been published in Spanish on Palabras Diversas and Ariadna. A collection of short stories, Unzip and Other Compact Stories, has recently been published, along with his satirical novels Balls, and Thick and Fast. The Trap-Door, which is literary fiction, and Falls the Shadow, a dvandva or twin set of separate yet inseparable short novels are also available at Smashwords. He is also working on another novel, due out soon. Here are some links to his published work. A World Apart published on Storychord. (http://storychord.blogspot.com/2010/11/issue-17-tommy-dakar-melanie-plummer.html) Also accepted for publication on MondayNightLit. Also published in print form by SNReview, Summer 2011 issue. Bellavista published on Language and Culture (http://www.languageandculture.net/backdrop.html) News of the World published 15th Feb 2011 on WriteFromWrong (http://writefromwrong.com/2011/02/14/fiction-february/#more-636) The Mystery Tour published November 2011 on Write This (www.writethis.com.) La Noche Mas Larga published in Spanish July 2011 at Palabras Diversas (www.palabrasdiversas.com) and Ariadna.com (http://www.ariadna-rc.com/numero51/lab56.htm). And if you are into music, check out Critical Moment (https://criticalmoment.bandcamp.com/)

Book preview

REFUGE

A COLLECTION

BY TOMMY DAKAR

Distributed by Smashwords

TOC

A DESERT ROSE

SHOW OF STRENGTH

REFUGE

WHITEWASH

NOT EVEN SHAKESPEARE

MAY NOTHING COME BETWEEN US

OTHER BOOKS BY TOMMY DAKAR

DESERT ROSE

Lenambere pulled slowly to a stop at a fork in the track. There, surrounded by small stones, inconspicuous to the untrained eye, was the sign he had been looking for. A desert rose.

- Here, come, get down and take photo. Is a desert rose, only flower in the savannah. Very beautiful. Come, come, is safe.

The tourists scrambled out of the safari wagon. Stunned by the long journey and the midday heat, they took their pictures obediently.

- Now we go there, to the next mountain. Two men are waiting with guns. They escort us to Adenium Lodge. No danger!

He laughed heartily at the look of concern on some of his clients’ faces.

- No danger. The bandits see the guns, they go elsewhere. Lenambere protect you!

He herded them back into the relative security of the four-wheel drive.

They drove on along sandy tracks, under the scattered canopy of acacia trees, with the sensation that they were utterly alone in that timeless wilderness. They had spotted wild camels, antelope, even a majestic Grevy’s zebra cantering alongside the truck, but the overriding impression was of solitude, of being adrift on an ocean of dry shrub and dust.

The noise and bustle of Nairobi seemed now to belong to a different world. On leaving the airport they had edged their way through dense traffic, past makeshift stalls selling fruit or ceramics or handmade furniture, on to the outskirts of the city where the wealthy hid behind well-tended hedges and tourists could be entertained. From there they had driven north, watching from their open windows as shabby town after shabby town slid by. Here were the beauty salons, the knocked up hotels, the Ground Zero Bars and Top Techno shops with all the latest state of the art gadgets. Breeze block establishments set back from the road, with garish, hand painted signs and a buzz of activity. And between each small village long stretches of country roads studded with groups of children, immaculately dressed women, workmen, all walking, walking, walking with their customary energetic ease.

Then the tarmac died out, and the dirt roads began. Wide at first, with ample room for two trucks to pass, then thinning down to single track. Homesteads became fewer and fewer, potholes appeared, rivers had to be forded by horsepower alone, and the journey became arduous and slow. At times the travellers were asked to leave the vehicle to make it easier to climb boulder strewn ridges or navigate uncertain ground, the jeep churning and grinding with gritted teeth as it battled forward. Out here human presence was testimonial; the settlements a mere collection of mud huts surrounded by rings of acacia thorns. This land belonged to wildlife. Loping giraffes moving in slow motion, or invisible felines skulking in the undergrowth. As their truck approached dik-diks dashed out in front of them as if by accident, only to rush away repentant.

Lenambere knew them all, from the birds in the sky to the lizards bathing on rocks. His eyes could pick out the slightest stir or patch of colour in the undergrowth, and he had a name tag for everything that moved. Impala, genet, agama lizard, flap-necked chameleon. When giving this information his smile would disappear and he would become very serious. Knowledge was not a laughing matter; it was professionalism. Except for the names of the birds, which particularly amused him: Donaldson-Smith’s sparrow weaver, Shelley’s starling, Whalber’s eagle.

- Why does the white man give an animal his surname? An African would not do that.

Stated simply, no offence taken or meant, just another fact to assimilate.

They had not seen another soul all morning. Once a dust plume suggested other travellers far off, but there had been no encounter. They were headed for the remote Adenium Lodge, a paradise perched on a high ridge commanding impressive views of the valley and distant mountains, and all but inaccessible by road. Most of its guests flew in by helicopter from Nairobi, landing on circular lawns and feeling for a moment like film stars, the staff lined up to greet them with fresh juice and moist, heated towels. Exclusive and unique, an oasis of luxury carved out of the harshness of the African savannah, after a hard day’s drive it was to be their prize; the promise of fresh water pools, clean linen, mosquito nets and room service.

On the top of a small hill two men sat in the shadow of a brick hut, their rifles propped up against the wall. Lenambere strolled over to meet them. Smiles, a slapping of hands, a joke or two, then the two escorts were at the door of the truck.

- They sit at the back. They take us to Adenium Lodge.

His wards expressed concern.

- Standard procedure.

He could sound like an old English official at times.

- No cause for alarm. They escort us to the Lodge, then we are ok. There are bandits round here. Maybe some intruders from the north. No worries. Hakuna matata!

Everyone knew that expression, and its familiarity appeared to have the desired calming effect. The two men, in quasi-military uniforms, took up their position at the back of the vehicle, and they set off once more.

A line of tall trees at the base of a long ridge suggested a river, and that meant a settlement. As they approached a church appeared, no more than a shed with a cross on the top, set well apart from the rest of the buildings as if it were still not totally trusted. This was the new scramble for Africa. In this abandoned territory Catholics, Jehovah’s witnesses, Presbyterians and any other number of sects and splinter groups vied for the only thing the natives had to offer – their souls. They received second-hand first-world clothes, biblical names, and a religious education. In return the tribespeople would gradually forego their traditions and their culture and embrace the modern, homogenous world view. It was inexorable and inevitable.

They pulled into the quiet village, surprised to see so much plastic trodden into the dusty streets, like tawdry ambassadors of the modern world. The escorts took their leave.

- Soon we are there. Only one more hard drive. Up!

Lenambere pointed towards where the lodge was supposed to be. A stony strewn track rose up from the river at an impossible gradient, and snaked off into the undergrowth of the hillside. Once more he laughed at the look of apprehension on his clients’ faces.

- This jeep is a lion, a mountain goat!

Then, more professionally,

- Bottom gear, slow but safe. No danger!

Incredibly, metre by metre, the vehicle clawed its way up the hillside. The travellers clung on tight, ready to leap out at a moment’s warning while Lenambere stubbornly nudged the jeep up the apparently unnavigable tracks, his huge frame concentrated on the task.

- Adventure!

He dared not turn to look at his passengers, but he would keep them animated.

- Africa is adventure! Lenambere will show you. This is my land. Here I am the king, eh?

He knew it was what his clients needed. His strength, his self-confidence, his jauntiness. They needed to feel that no harm could come to them in his hands. He was Lenambere, King of the North!

- Two minutes, there, behind those tall trees, and we are at the top. Flat land, easy driving from there.

He stopped once they finally reached the top of the ridge.

-