Isiginali: The Legend Of Neville Shedd

By Sloane Swinton

"It is only through the tragic lens of death that we may be able learn the beautiful meaning of life."

Nowhere was the above-referenced quote more relevant than to the existence of MAVUTO LOYISO, a former South African officer turned gun for hire. Since adolescence—Mav—as the world had come to know him—was forced to endure.

Beginning with his father's unsolved murder to making ends meet in present-day Johannesburg, some might gather that nihilism had a stranglehold on Mav's consciousness. That it was the danger that he had become most attracted to.

His latest job promised that and much more as he was contracted with the responsibility of transferring and protecting NEVILLE SHEDD, a rogue British national with more aliases than clean pairs of knickers.

For one night, Mav must keep him safe until British authorities arrive in Jo-burg. Unbeknownst to him, there's a substantial bounty on Shedd. His enemies are both far too many to count and determined to make sure the mercenary doesn't make it off of the continent in one piece.

What began as an opportunity for some fast cash has been transformed into a dance with the worst the devil has to offer—putting Mav's nihilism to the test. The signals may not be the only thing that have been crossed.

The past has a way of catching up to us all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darn Pretty Books
• Release date: Jan 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781955476140

Sloane Swinton

A native New Yorker, writing has been a passion for Sloane Swinton since pubescence. Instructors in high school and college alike noticed the raw talent and creative enthusiasm Sloane displayed, encouraging the author to pursue fiction as a trade. Little did the author know that a bohemian lifestyle of low wages and even lesser praise awaited. Swinton is an avid basketball fan and lover of mathematics, classical music, sweatpants, Black Cherry soda, Fruit Punch Snapple, fried plantains, the New York Mets, and the occasional ham, egg and cheese on a French roll for breakfast. For the latest information regarding this author and more, please be sure to follow @darnprettybooks on Instagram and X.

Book preview

Isiginali By Sloane SwintonThe past has a way of catching up to you...

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Sloane Swinton

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

First Edition: January 2022

Cover Design by Micaela Alcaino

Library of Congress: 2021924468

ISBN: 978-1-955476-14-0 (e-book)

ISBN: 978-1-955476-15-7 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-955476-16-4 (hardcover)

Published by Darn Pretty Books

Instagram: @darnprettybooks

PREFACE

There are people in every time and every land who want to stop history in its tracks. They fear the future, mistrust the present, and invoke the security of a comfortable past which, in fact, never existed.

– Robert F. Kennedy

APPRECIATIONS

Just wanted to take a moment to give a special shoutout to a man about town. A New Yorker for all four seasons. If you ever want to know how he’s doing, be sure to ask why he’s so wonderful. He induced me into moving this particular project up to the top of the queue, when it was originally slated to be developed further down the road. With that being said, I am immensely grateful for his power of persuasion as creating this book has been one of the great joys of my life thus far. If only they could all be like this.

(my father, I say)

So to mein vater, sage ich: This one’s for you. I’m intrigued by your thoughts once you’ve finished reading it.

-SS-

PROLOGUE

A

cool stream of air blew across Mavuto’s cherubic face. His teeth chattered at the same time his eyes squinted open. It was the middle of the night and his bedroom had a bluish black tint to it. A scant of moonlight was peeking through the window.

He opened his eyes widely and glanced below. His comforter was no longer covering him. Now he understood why he had been feeling so cold. He looked over his left shoulder and rolled his eyes. Not only had his younger brother crept into his bed—foregoing a perfectly good mattress of his own, but he had inexplicably stolen the covers on top of that. Nepthali was only a few months removed from turning three-years-old and he already was an exceptional thief.

Mavuto leaned closer to his baby brother and breathed on his face—in an attempt to force the issue. Nepthali crinkled his nose, but remained asleep. After a good minute of failure, Mavuto licked his index finger and stuck it inside the diminutive bandit’s ear. For a couple of seconds, Nepthali seemed unaffected by his counter-attack. Mavuto probed the ear canal even deeper. A few moments later, Nepthali squinted and squirmed, fanning at his ear.

In his moment of distraction, Mavuto pulled the comforter out from under his brother’s bottom and rolled himself back under it. At long last, he would be able to return to his slumber. He nestled his head deeper into the puffy pillow and closed his eyes. Just when he thought it was safe to drift back into the nirvana that was his subconscious, he could feel his little brother hugging him from behind. Mavuto released a guttural sigh and rolled his eyes.

I sure hope they don’t have any more kids. Otherwise, I’ll probably never get another good night’s sleep until I’m a grown-up. This is too much.

ONE

Africa

Q

ueen of Camp Bay’s Beach. At least that was the manner in which her husband, Ndaba, had phrased it as he hurried out of their suburban home without saying so much as a goodbye to their children. This was the third time he had promised to take them—only to have a work commitment spring up at the very last moment, leaving Saidah to pick up the pieces of their shattered hearts. Her precious little boys—Mavuto and Nepthali—adored their father. Sometimes she felt even more than her. It was upsetting that his latest political responsibilities were precluding him from reciprocating their love and adoration with his time. Boys needed to be with their fathers. Unfortunately, they would never be able to learn how to become a man from her. The same way her husband would never be able to show their future daughter what it would mean to be a woman.

When Ndaba relocated the family from Johannesburg to the Western Cape four years prior, Saidah never expected his career to ascend as quickly as it did. After all, her husband was an indigenous black South African from the other side of the republic competing against the well-connected, moneyed-class of white and coloured Afrikaners—who maintained a stranglehold on the city. Afrikaans may have originated on the continent as a distinct language, but over the generations it evolved into a colloquialism used to describe a specific-type of South African citizen. Kitchen Dutch to the uninitiated. While they often considered themselves to be of a higher-status than their black counterparts, the English-speaking whites that emigrated from the United Kingdom treated them in almost the exact same fashion. She observed that the caste system was in full effect—even amongst the less melanated.

However, the characteristics that attracted Saidah to Ndaba in the first place were also making him an increasingly popular figure in Cape Town politics. Ndaba was a decent looking, clean-shaven man, but he was not handsome by any stretch. What he lacked in sexual appeal, he more than made up for with his charm, honesty and authenticity. Whenever he spoke—average, everyday people stopped what they were doing and listened. While he was probably not the next Nelson Mandela, he was inspiring a lot of confidence in people the political structure had long since forgotten about. Thus the reason he rarely was able to make time to be with her or their children.

If he was going to upset the establishment and bring a fresh perspective to the mayoral office suite—Ndaba had to be all in. A victory at the polls would change their family’s legacy forever, with the possibility that Ndaba could be seen as a legitimate challenger to the presidency in the years to come.

Saidah sat under the beach umbrella and looked around. The Afrikaner sunbathers were out in full-force. The young, pale ones among them must not have believed in modesty. Their beach attire left nothing to the imagination. Disgraceful. There were many families on this beach—not that they seemed to care. A woman’s jiggling breasts and buttocks should not be on display when in the presence of adolescents.

She noticed her boys were no longer building sandcastles and playing with the other children, but to her surprise were grooving to the sounds of a band that serenaded tourists and locals alike with the catalogue of Fela Kuti’s greatest hits. She scoffed and shook her head. After all of their begging to bring them here, neither one had allowed the ocean water to even touch their toes. She could have put a Fela record on at home if this was what they were planning all along. When the band’s latest song came to its conclusion, the two boys raced back over to her.

Mommy. Can we have some money? Mavuto said in their native Xhosa.

Money. What do you need money for? She asked.

The bucket. He pointed. Everyone else is putting money in it.

Saidah took another glance at the beach band. It seemed that they were receiving tips for their performance.

Please mommy.

Please. Nepthali was right behind his older brother.

She sighed. She clicked open her carryall and searched for the cheapest coins she could find. She found two fifty cent pieces and handed one to each of her sons.

That’s all I can spare, nothing more.

The boys raced back to the band and dropped the coins into the bucket. The band leader tipped his cap to them in appreciation. Saidah smiled. While this particular family outing had not proven to be what she anticipated, the boys were enjoying themselves nonetheless. And at the end of the day, that was the only thing that mattered.

I no be gentleman at all o, I be Africa man original.

Saidah rubbed her forehead. The traffic alone around Camp’s Bay was enough to give her a headache—without the unpleasant crooning she was receiving from her two boys. Every time she pressed on the brake, she could feel the grains of sand between her toes. She was in desperate need of a shower. She remained hopeful that her headwrap was able to protect her hair. She had just gotten it done a few days prior.

She glanced in the rearview mirror at Mavuto and Nepthali. Big smiles were on their faces as they sung their little hearts out while strapped into their car seats. Once again, the beach had proven to be a big hit with her two little ones.

Dusk was slowly transforming into night. The downtown area would soon be run amok with tourists, party animals and swindlers alike—hell bent on doing what they do best. Cape Town was one of the southern hemisphere’s hidden gems for nightlife and entertainment. It was unfortunate that her family life meant Saidah was rarely able to experience it.

All right. That’s enough singing for one day. Mommy needs to focus. She said.

The boys quieted down. Saidah returned her eyes to the road ahead. The traffic away from the beach was subsiding. Hopefully, when they returned home, Ndaba would be there waiting. She drove the Toyota Camry another seventeen kilometres until they were back in the southern suburb of Claremont.

Claremont was one of the most diverse neighborhoods in Cape Town, with almost a third of its population coloured or black. Ndaba intentionally relocated the family here to appeal to the common man and woman. Had they gone-through with their original plan of moving to the affluent suburb of Constantia—there was a good chance that Ndaba would have been seen as too posh to make a difference in Cape Town. Just another in a long line of black puppets to the western powers embodying the same ideals as the white Afrikaner who came before him. As long as the social, economic and political hierarchy never strayed too far from the status quo, the opportunity to advance would be there for the taking.

Saidah veered the Camry onto their street and passed several homes before slowing the vehicle. She turned into the driveway to see that Ndaba’s Mercedes was still gone.

Allah help me. I can’t believe he’s still working.

She put the vehicle in park and could hear the sound of the seatbelts unbuckling. She looked backwards to see Mavuto had unbuckled his seatbelt and Nepthali was trying to follow his older brother’s lead.

What are you doing? She asked.

Both boys were tongue-tied.

I didn’t turn the car off. Put your seatbelt back on. Now.

She waited for Mavuto to put it back on.

I’ve told you this before. You don’t take your seatbelts off until I have turned off the car. Do I make myself clear?

Yes, mommy.

I can’t hear you.

Yes, Mommy!

Good.

She turned back to the front and turned off the vehicle.

You can take your seatbelts off now.

The boys were itching to get out. She exited first and moved to the rear driver’s side door. Upon opening it, she immediately stepped back. Mavuto raced to the door with his younger brother right behind him. Saidah scoffed and walked to the trunk. She lifted it and pulled out three tote bags. One for each of them.

Mommy. Hurry. I need to use the bathroom. Nepthali said.

She would have been moving faster if either of them were the least bit interested in helping her. She placed the tote bags on the ground and closed the trunk. She grabbed them again and walked to the front door.  She playfully bumped them out of the way with her backside and set the bags down. She unlocked the door and pushed it open. They raced into the house as she picked up the tote bags for the third time. She entered the house and closed the door with her foot.

She followed them towards the kitchen. By the time she got there, they were already in the backyard, playfighting with sticks. So much for Nepthali’s interest in the lavatory. She set the tote bags down on the kitchen floor and walked to the opened back-door.

You two need to wash your hands. I’m about to make dinner. She called out.

Neither of her sons appeared to hear her—choosing instead to continue their fight for supremacy. She waved them off and walked to the refrigerator. She didn’t have the energy to argue with them and getting them to listen was always harder whenever their father wasn’t home.

Saidah opened the fridge and looked inside. There was a cold pot of vegetarian Chakalaka waiting for her. All she would need to do was put the pot on the stove to simmer for about half-an-hour, while she added some Peri-Peri chicken to complete the meal. She placed all of the food on the kitchen counter when the telephone could be heard ringing in the next room.

She sighed. There was never a moment of peace in this house. She closed the refrigerator and headed for the living room.

Hello?

How was the beach?

It was Ndaba. He was adamant about their need to speak and write in English. Saidah respected his wishes as the head of their household, but whenever he was gone, she spoke to the children in Xhosa. Language was an important part of her heritage and wasn’t something she would be willing to part with quite so easily.

Exhausting. Although, the kids enjoyed themselves. I think we have a couple of new Fela fans in this house.

He laughed. Deep from his belly.

They have good taste, I see. He said. And what about you?

I don’t like the water... or the sand for that matter.

I know you don’t sithandwa sam, but I’m glad you faked it long enough for them to enjoy themselves.

She quietly scoffed. The fact that he had used Xhosan words to say ‘my darling’ immediately made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

You’re a wonderful mom.

Saidah rubbed her forehead. Ndaba’s way with words had got her again. He always knew exactly what to say to keep her from shouting at him.

When are you coming home? You’ve been working late for weeks. The boys miss you. I miss you too.

Soon. We’re getting close, Saidah. It’s almost over.

Thank God. She sighed. I am tired, Ndaba. These boys are too much. I need a break.

I know you do, but it will be worth it. I promise you. I love you.

I love you too.

The dial tone took over the line as Saidah hung up the phone. She sat down on a nearby couch and rubbed the side of her head. The pressure from having a politically-inclined husband who was never at home, along with raising two small, energetic boys on her own, had her at her wits end. The last thing Saidah needed was another trip to the beach. What she needed was a vacation. From everything.

Ow!

She snapped out of her haze as the sound of one of her boys crying could be heard. She jumped off of the couch and ran back to the kitchen. She was horrified by what she saw. Nepthali was on the ground, curled up in a ball while Mavuto was beating him with a stick—over and over again.

I beat you. I beat you. I beat you.

Mavvy, stop it. Stop it.

Saidah entered the backyard and ran to stop her oldest. When he didn’t comply with her direction, she slapped the devil out of him, which caused him to drop the stick. Mavuto touched his face and began crying.

Get inside. Now. Both of you. I told you to wash your hands.

Mavuto ran towards the house, ashamed and embarrassed. Nepthali stopped sniffling and rose to his feet.

Go, go. She went on.

She pushed her youngest in the back to pick up the pace. She had become so agitated that she was actually yelling at them in English. She re-entered the house and closed the back door. She still had to prepare dinner. At the rate they were going, her children would be the death of her before they reached puberty.

TWO

Africa

N

daba hung up his office phone. He swiveled his chair around from looking out the window. The nighttime festivities were already in full swing. Friday nights in Cape Town were a sight to behold. Downtown was flooded with people out to make memories and here he was stuck in the office working late. The campaign trail was a drag to be certain, but a necessary evil. A mayoral victory in three months would make all the blood, sweat and tears worth it.

The sound of shot-glasses clinking together could be heard as he looked up. His campaign strategist and future chief of staff, Julia de Villiers, was standing in the doorway. She was in her early thirties, blonde with green eyes. The daughter of Afrikaners no less. She was going to help him reform the republic, for the good of all South Africans and not just the wealthy.

Was that your wife?

Does it matter? He replied.

Not to me.

She approached the desk while holding one of the glasses out for him. He rose out of his chair and met her halfway, accepting the glass.

What is it this time?

Ndaba took in the aroma of the glass.

Scotch. 1989. Special edition.

She took a sip while never breaking eye contact. She pursed her lips and rolled her tongue across her teeth.

That is exquisite. You must try it. Julia went on.

Do you really think I can win?

She smiled. As confident as he was on the campaign trail and in city government, there was a huge gap in responsibility from being the chief councillor of human settlements versus becoming the mayor of Cape Town. He had every right to question whether or not he was up to the task. After all, he was barely in his mid-thirties. He was still a baby as far as politics was concerned.

I don’t think Ndaba... I know. You’ve got the establishment running scared. Whether you believe it or not, it’s a fact. They see how you galvanize the people and that you can’t be bought.

And what about your husband?

What about him?

What does he think about you hitching your political wagon to a Kaffir?

Her smile dissipated. He was challenging her.

First of all, we don’t use awful words like that in my home. And second, my husband’s a pragmatist. Same as you. We both know that Mandela was just the first domino. And if everything goes according to plan, you will be one of the politicians leading the next generation. That, I am certain of.

Ndaba smirked. Her unyielding belief in him was so genuine, that he couldn’t help but feel confident. There was no singular person whose company he preferred more than hers. Not even Saidah. Julia was educated, cunning and sophisticated. If they were in a different time and place, she might’ve been the woman he had asked to be his wife. Although she was his subordinate, she under-stood his ambitions. She saw the big picture. Not only for them individually, but for South Africa.

He chugged the scotch and set the empty glass down on his desk. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her into his body. She hid her voluptuousness well under her blouse, but it was undeniable once they were chest to chest.

Ndaba, the curtains. She said.

I don’t care.

He pressed his lips against hers. She resisted for roughly two seconds before giving in and reciprocating his affection. Their tongues were wrestling inside of her mouth. He wrapped his other arm around her body and groped her buttocks. Julia pulled her face back from his.

Ndaba, at least let me close the door.

You sent Tati home, did you not?

Of course I did. But I’d feel a lot more comfortable with the door closed. And the curtains.

Ndaba smiled. He released her from his grasp.

Fine. Just as long as you’re comfortable.

He sat against the edge of his desk. Julia finished off her glass and set it beside his. She walked to the door and pulled it shut. She turned back to see him still waiting for her.

Well? She said.

Well what?

Aren’t you going to close the curtains?

I figured you’d want to do it.

Julia blushed and shook her head. She walked back towards the window, avoiding him as she came around the desk. Ndaba lifted off the desk and met her from behind, pressing his groin against her buttocks.

Ndaba, the curtains.

No one’s stopping you.

She finished closing the curtains and grabbed his hands to stop him from groping her. This was a first. He relented as she turned around to face him.

Now... it’s my turn. Keep your hands where I can see them.

He put his hands up as if he were under arrest. She grabbed his belt buckle and pulled him in tighter. She licked his lips and began unbuckling his trousers. God damn was she something else. Once his belt was unbuckled, she slid her left hand inside of his under-wear and cupped his cock and ball shaft. Her hands were just the right amount of cool.

Oh, that’s nice.

Do you like that? She asked.

I do.

Who’s going to be the next mayor of Cape Town?

I am. He said.

Whisper it in my ear.

I am.

Julia pulled her face back and looked in his eyes.

Now—would you like me to suck your cock?

Ndaba nodded his head.

Whisper it in my ear.

Yes, please.

As you wish.

She kicked off her heels before gradually getting down on both knees. She kept a firm grip on his growing member, using her thumb to pull up and down on his foreskin. This was going to be glorious. A welcome release after another long week.

THREE

Africa

T

he sounds, not to mention odors, of animalistic sex could be heard coming from behind Ndaba Loyiso’s office door. There was a limited amount of light coming from under-neath it as well.

Ah, ah. Ah. Yes. Don’t stop, Ndaba. You’re almost there.

That was a familiar voice. It belonged to Julia de Villiers. And to think both parties were happily married people. Just not to one another. For shame. And to think that this was the righteous man who was supposed to galvanize the people of the Western Cape, politically. Laughable. Ndaba was a fraud, just like the others who had come before him. If the man wasn’t honorable in his own marriage, why would the mayoral office be any different? His turpitude would only be tested more severely with the increase in stress and obligation.

A figure stood in the darkened hall, leaning against the wall, waiting for their carnal dalliance to end. He held a suppressor in