Part 2, Chapter4, of RFV.

FOUR

 

    When Roger recovered consciousness a few minutes later, he found he had been carried a short distance from his Ship to the outskirts of a small village.

    Groggily, he sat up and looked round. There was a much larger crowd in front of him now and he was sitting on a grassy clearing.

    A few feet from him, Big Lucas was sitting on Uhuruland’s equivalent of a royal throne �" a large wooden packing case. “Bring the wite boy a chair,” he ordered.

    Another packing case was produced and Roger hauled himself up on to it.

    “Hey Big Lucas!” someone yelled from the crowd. “When we executin dis honky!?”

    “We be executin him soon, Someone,” Big Lucas replied, “but first Ah wants him t’ see the beauty an grandeur o Uhuruland.”

    The crowd cheered.

    “Ah wants him t’ see wot the black man can do when he no longer under witey’s boot,” Big Lucas went on.

    This brought more cheers from the now substantial crowd.

    “Should we break into ethnic song now, Big Lucas?” Someone yelled.

    Big Lucas shook his head. “Tells you what though, Someone �" some o the sistas come up here an form a sort o half-circle roun me and do the low hummin bit.”

    Several fat matronly ladies came out from the crowd and wobbled their way up to Big Lucas. They were all wearing long blue evening dresses which had inscribed on them, ‘Uhuruland Baptist Choir �" Low Hummin Section’. They formed a half-circle round Big Lucas and Roger and started wobbling and humming.

    “We blacks good at this sorta thing,” Big Lucas told Roger. “Anyway,” he went on, “the story o Uhuruland…for thousands o years the black was the downtrodden race.”

    The humming rose dramatically behind him.

    “You wites treatin us like the sub-species �" ‘Fetch this, black boy. Fetch that, black boy. Nip roun the shop an get the Johnnie Walka, black boy’.”

    The humming grew louder. The wobbling grew worse. The words ‘Uhuruland Baptist Choir �" Low Hummin Section’, unfortunately written across the singers’ bosoms dissolved into a mixture of Scrabble game letters.

    “Fo years the black man sittin roun muttrin tings like, ‘F**k this for a game o soldiers. Why we getting the rough end o the stick? Why we no up there wit the top men?’”

    The humming rose to a plaintive wail. Roger had to strain to hear.

    “I’m sorry,” he said, leaning closer to Big Lucas. “What did you say after ‘the rough end o the stick?’”

    “Wot you sayin, wite boy?” Big Lucas asked. “Ah can’t hear yous for the sistas.”

    The sisters were getting out of control. The humming had now progressed to loud singing and chanting, complete with ‘Oh Yeahs!’ and punctuated with ‘Praise the Lawds!’. There was now a choir of some twenty of them, all hummin and wobblin an praisin the Lawd.

    “Ooohhh maaa Lawwwddd!” sang the choir. “Praise maaa Lawwwddd!”

    Two small urchins in patched dungarees ran up to the clearing in front of the crowd and started tap dancing in time to the choir’s clapping and singing. Several teenagers appeared and began a diving onto their hands and back to their feet routine. Some others rushed up and began break-dancing.

    “Ooohhh maaa Lawwwddd!” sang the choir, wobbling and swaying.

    The crowd joined in and there was a sea of clapping, wobbling, singing and dancing.

    “Praise maaa Lawwwddd!” sang the choir and the crowd. “Ooohhh maaa--”

    “Hoald it!! Hoald it!!” yelled Big Lucas, jumping up.

    The clapping, wobbling, singing and dancing dribbled to a halt. A few extra shakes and their was silence. The choir looked sheepishly at each other.

    “Just hoald it!” Big Lucas yelled again. “Ah’m in charge o this democracy an Ah ain’ts bin mentioned fo half a page!”

    The choir and the dancers slunk back into the crowd. Big Lucas shook his head and glared at them. He sat back down on his throne and turned to Roger.

    “As Ah was sayin before the sistas interruptin me,” he resumed. “The black man gettin on fine since we leavin Eart. We’s runnin the show now. No wites allowed. This the black man’s wurl. An a fine wurl he’s makin it too.”

    Roger nodded politely.

    “An now before we executin you, wite boy, you lookin roun. See wot the black man can do by hiself.” He turned to the crowd. “Where’s Hub Cap?” he asked.

    “Here, Big Lucas!” a youth called.

    “Come up here,” ordered the Main Man.

    A teenager in his early twenties strolled up.

    “Hub Cap this is witey,” Big Lucas said, making long-winded never-ending introductions. “You show him roun then bring him back here for the executin.”

    “I say, do you really have to execute me?” Roger asked. “I mean, I could just go.”

    Big Lucas grinned at him. “Oh you’ll be goin, wite boy…goin t’ meet you Maker.” He turned to Hub Cap. “Have the wite boy back here in two hours,” he ordered him. “Otherwise you makin this execution a duet.”

    Hub Cap nodded. “Yes sir, Boss,” he said.

    Big Lucas strolled over to the crowd and opened his arms to them. “Bruthas an sistas,” he said, a twinkle in his voice, “let’s get this execution party unda way!”

    The crowd cheered wildly and Roger, predictably, fainted.