The Activists

My cabin stands near the gate and on most occasions, visitors drop by before proceeding to the main house. Sometimes, I don’t feel like entertaining every passer by, I want to catch up on studies and have some quiet time. A missing padlock was a ringing announcement of my presence, so I replaced it with a ward lock. From then on, only close friends, each with a prearranged knocking signal, were welcome.

The knock startled me but I did not need to consult my register to know that it was Steve. He was a frequent knocker. Two lazy taps, three twists on the handle then four raps in quick succession delivered today, with a sense of urgency. It was unlike him to pound the door so hard! Probably, he was still exited about last night’s activities… last night had been busy, and quite messy.

It was him all right, but there was no way he would have been responsible for the knock. Not with his hands secured firmly behind his back. The pleasure lay with one of the two men who even in the early morning sun wore long jackets and hats. No introductions necessary. The long arm of the law had paid me a visit. “Where were you last night?”... It wasn’t polite, but then, they never are; not even when asking for directions… “Right here sir, reading...” I pushed the door a little wider for him to inspect the honest toil on my desk, three books lay open for cross referencing… they had been lying open for days, more for special effects than anything. I hoped he didn’t miss much. Even as he looked in, my eyes were on Steve’s; I wondered how much more he had given away. He was trying to tell me something but our pre arranged signals did not extend to twitching mouths and arched eyebrows… and he wasn’t good at making faces.

He didn’t miss much. The smoking gun…the clothes I wore last night hung behind the door, the first place he thought to look. He did not need to hold them against the sun to see the grease stains he was looking for, but he did it anyway; more for the inspection of his colleague who nodded, pulled out a pair of cuffs and in not too gentle a manner, slapped them on my wrists. With occasional kicks and slaps to urge us on, we made two more stops on our way to the police station.

“Boys, you should consider yourselves very lucky.” The Commanding Officer was surprisingly mild mannered, but there was nothing mild about the strokes of the cane he administered to us. “Wasn’t it for the respect I have for your parents, I would have had you locked up right away.” Parents! I felt relieved, I could take their wrath. “Go clean up that mess right now!”

In broad daylight, and in front of sympathetic villagers, we scrubbed the anti government graffiti were been busy scribbling the previous night on the walls of shops at the trading centre, our thoughts on who murdered the Foreign Affairs Minister