Snakepit by Moses Isegawa Page A

you briefcases with the said amount in cash for the generals. For you personally I have opened a numbered account and deposited the equivalent of five percent commission. It is not enough to buy a decent house in any livable place today, but I hope you will accept it. It is just a beginning, a sign that I treasure your friendship. You and I know well that you are the government, not those generals who can hardly tell left from right, and it is you I need more than anything else. Members of the elite need each other, because we all speak the same language. We are brothers.”
    Bat felt insulted and humiliated by the veiled threats, the tying of his hands so that he could not defend himself, and could only crawl like a legless, armless creature, which in his host’s eyes he was. He did not buy that “we are brothers” stuff at all because one does not threaten to take a brother’s life, least of all in these reckless, terrorist- and assassination-filled years, where the value of an individual human life was almost nothing. In Uganda the kind of money he was talking about could buy assassins to kill a hundred presidents. Out of a sense of self-preservation he had no choice but to take the bribe. His fantasies of making his fortune in a more sophisticated fashion were now gone. Still, there was the matter of the other prince. Bat started sweating as the anxiety in him grew, as the sense of his own importance dwindled, as he realized that he was being hired and treated like a labourer.
    â€œIs anything the matter? Should I turn the air-conditioning up?” his host asked politely. He knew what was happening and he enjoyed it very much. The moment when an opponent or a business associate capitulated was one of the things he enjoyed most in life; there was nothing better than witnessing the other man’s fantasies of morality, self-importance, power, self-esteem haemorrhage at one’s feet. However many times he saw it, he never got tired of it. It was like a pugilist throwing a killer punch and watching his opponent’s eyes pop out of their sockets, his knees buckle, the gum shield fly out of the ring, his head banging the canvas. He wished there was a way of videotaping it or preserving it in another form, but, like the moment of orgasm, it is best preserved in memory.
    â€œI am fine,” Bat murmured, gulping a glass of ice water and not feeling much better.
    â€œYou told me earlier that you love cars. Why don’t you and I take a spin? I have a few old tins in the garage,” the prince said, smiling at his own sense of humour.
    â€œI would be delighted,” Bat said, hoping that, ensconced in a car, he would be able to relax, to regain his equilibrium.
    In the hangar which housed the garage were a Cadillac, a Rolls and a customized Porsche 999, which, at first sight, looked too small to hold his host’s bulk, but had, in fact, been provided with a wider chassis to accommodate his barge-like girth. Seeing that Bat was taken by the Porsche, he touched it and said, “I love it very much. I didn’t change it much. I just provided it with a solid-gold gear lever and exhaust pipe.”
    Bat whistled pensively. Such luxury, such obscenity. The 999 felt totally different from his XJ10, even though the only differences were that the seats were lower on the ground and everything was so compact. He liked the way it roared as he drove into the yard. He felt life flowing slowly back into him. Speed always did it. He liked the sensation of running, outracing ghouls, floating on a wave of air. For the moment he could forget the nasty decision he had to make, or which had already been made for him by the owner of this car, and the consequences. It was just a shame that there were no cars to overtake on this stretch of road, and however far away he went, he would have to return and face the man who had threatened his life if he turned down his offer.
    Bat got out of the car fizzing