bar.
He was feeling undone, incapable of holding everything in check from back then. After so much else, why did this one thing come up in his new country and crack through his winning smiles and long faces for his fellow Canadians? Why did it matter as it did?
The real reason had remained a hard little pit inside of him since then. Ever since heâd killed the local warlord Foday by dancing over to him and elbowing him through the teeth with a CLICK-SMACK! while he drank and rutted on Marigold, and then gutted his prone body with the broken end of the bottle. The men around Bokarie in Uncleâs beer bar had made it both easy and necessary for him to conceal the truth of why heâd done it. But now on this gazebo he had nothing but time enough and space to look in on it and then get solidly shut of that past.
Because going after Foday wasnât brave and daring and quick-thinking and all so wonderfully set to music, as the Generalâs man Charles had announced to the bar after Bokarie had finished him off with a final few swipes and shoves with the jagged bottle neck. This account had been conducive to his subsequent rise, since it demonstrated Charlesâs immediate interest in him as a new recruit to the Generalâs Campaign and also smudged away what trace loyalties the dead warlordâs former guards had to their former leader, who hadnât come to his aid in time out of the slouch and sloth endemic to any clump of drugged-out teenagers. Before they were able to shrug themselves into compensatory action, because maybe they should do something since the boss man, he dead , Charles had already reformed them into devotees and enthusiasts of Bokarie and his rhythmic mania, and so they became his second catch of action-ready admirers, after the crowds he spoke and danced and won over from on top of the orphanage walls.
But still, Bokarieâs going against Foday wasnât so bold and courageous and valiant, or any of the other curlicues and blandishments that Charles had further devised when he later presented him to the General at the National Restitution Campaign headquarters in the capital city. Nor was it out of allegiance to his outraged blood men, as they boasted to others afterwards, though he knew they had been standing outside the bar while Foday chased and knocked Marigold around the dance floor and then started his pelvic pounding at her, and that they could probably see what was being done to their poor wailing patch. And it wasnât even in hopes of saving his own woman from a similar bent-at-the-waist boring. Because he hadnât even thought of that as a possibility, didnât even notice Foday sip away at his beer and expansively address his companion and his guards while making windmill motions with his arms and thrusting away on Marigold. He had only noticed when his woman, who had been watching all this from behind his shoulder as they kept dancing, finally turned in to him hard and he thought this meant she wanted a swivel so he obliged and then saw itâher. The woman was no longer struggling but had gone resigned to her fate, bagged up in the bunches of her upturned dress, cowl-like around the neck and head, at most hoping this one would at least be a quick finisher.
In time, of course, as Bokarie readied a band of butchers to take the Upriver for the General and the People, the fable of how he did away with the wicked warlord Foday became an important recruitment tool, involving all the elements others offered on his behalf. And to be sure, he eventually cited them himself as explanation enough for dancing over and shoving the beer bottle through the other manâs teeth with that CLICK-SMACK! and then mashing up his throat with its cracked crown neck. Though if pressed on the matter, Bokarie would showily confess that none of the high and fine reasons the others cited for his killing Foday mattered in the end. That in truth he had been looking for a way out of
He was feeling undone, incapable of holding everything in check from back then. After so much else, why did this one thing come up in his new country and crack through his winning smiles and long faces for his fellow Canadians? Why did it matter as it did?
The real reason had remained a hard little pit inside of him since then. Ever since heâd killed the local warlord Foday by dancing over to him and elbowing him through the teeth with a CLICK-SMACK! while he drank and rutted on Marigold, and then gutted his prone body with the broken end of the bottle. The men around Bokarie in Uncleâs beer bar had made it both easy and necessary for him to conceal the truth of why heâd done it. But now on this gazebo he had nothing but time enough and space to look in on it and then get solidly shut of that past.
Because going after Foday wasnât brave and daring and quick-thinking and all so wonderfully set to music, as the Generalâs man Charles had announced to the bar after Bokarie had finished him off with a final few swipes and shoves with the jagged bottle neck. This account had been conducive to his subsequent rise, since it demonstrated Charlesâs immediate interest in him as a new recruit to the Generalâs Campaign and also smudged away what trace loyalties the dead warlordâs former guards had to their former leader, who hadnât come to his aid in time out of the slouch and sloth endemic to any clump of drugged-out teenagers. Before they were able to shrug themselves into compensatory action, because maybe they should do something since the boss man, he dead , Charles had already reformed them into devotees and enthusiasts of Bokarie and his rhythmic mania, and so they became his second catch of action-ready admirers, after the crowds he spoke and danced and won over from on top of the orphanage walls.
But still, Bokarieâs going against Foday wasnât so bold and courageous and valiant, or any of the other curlicues and blandishments that Charles had further devised when he later presented him to the General at the National Restitution Campaign headquarters in the capital city. Nor was it out of allegiance to his outraged blood men, as they boasted to others afterwards, though he knew they had been standing outside the bar while Foday chased and knocked Marigold around the dance floor and then started his pelvic pounding at her, and that they could probably see what was being done to their poor wailing patch. And it wasnât even in hopes of saving his own woman from a similar bent-at-the-waist boring. Because he hadnât even thought of that as a possibility, didnât even notice Foday sip away at his beer and expansively address his companion and his guards while making windmill motions with his arms and thrusting away on Marigold. He had only noticed when his woman, who had been watching all this from behind his shoulder as they kept dancing, finally turned in to him hard and he thought this meant she wanted a swivel so he obliged and then saw itâher. The woman was no longer struggling but had gone resigned to her fate, bagged up in the bunches of her upturned dress, cowl-like around the neck and head, at most hoping this one would at least be a quick finisher.
In time, of course, as Bokarie readied a band of butchers to take the Upriver for the General and the People, the fable of how he did away with the wicked warlord Foday became an important recruitment tool, involving all the elements others offered on his behalf. And to be sure, he eventually cited them himself as explanation enough for dancing over and shoving the beer bottle through the other manâs teeth with that CLICK-SMACK! and then mashing up his throat with its cracked crown neck. Though if pressed on the matter, Bokarie would showily confess that none of the high and fine reasons the others cited for his killing Foday mattered in the end. That in truth he had been looking for a way out of
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