Date: Sun, 21 Jun 1998 10:22:46 PDT
From: Graham Day <g_day@hotmail.com>
Subject: Once African Boys

Once African Boys
- An African Adventure

by
Graham Day
 
Story Code/s: B/b b/b b/g

Comments/suggestions to: g_day@hotmail.com 

NOTES & WARNINGS: 

* This story may contain descriptions of sexual acts between boys and/or
men and boys. If this is not to your tastes, please leave now. If you are
under 18, or if it is illegal in your state or country to read or possess
material like this then it is in your own interest's to leave now.

* The story is copyrighted by the author. A single copy has been placed in
the Nifty archives for your enjoyment. Please do not distribute it to any
news groups and/or other web-sites without permission of the author. You
may, however, send it to your friend s as long as payment is neither
requested or received.

* This story is fiction. Any resemblance to any individual, real or
fictional, living or dead is purely coincidental

* If you have any feedback you can e-mail your constructive comments to me
at g_day@hotmail.com

*******************


Once African Boys
* An African Adventure


Parts 1-10


by Graham Day



1

Aeneas Campbell OBE, still trim in his MCC blazer and old school tie, was
angry at the inefficiency and annoyed at being questioned. Loosing a
reservation for a private dinning-room would have been unthinkable in old
Danvers' day. The new Club Secretary was in earnest conversation with the
youthful uniformed steward, who earlier broke club protocol, and asked for
an autograph.  "To Jimmy, who, I fancy, also plays a good game, from Aeneas
Campbell, author and sometime cricketer."  The boy beamed his gratitude.
Campbell, regretted this familiarity and hoped it will not encourage a late
night tap on his room's door. There was a time he had encouraged a visit by
an enthusiastic, new lad: "I've brought your shoes and wondered if you'd
like something warm, sir?" That was before the Plague had turned sex into a
spectator sport for him.

"Mr Campbell, sir, when did you say you made the reservation?"

"I didn't say. It will be twenty years ago, next week."  Astonishment
registered on young Jimmy's face. In a year or two he would be as uniformly
dead-pan as the rest of the staff at the Explorer's Club. Sniffing archly,
the new man looked up from his computer terminal, so incongruous in the
rich mahogany-panelled Darwin Room. Campbell's apparent confidence; his
energy; his foreign-office father; his reputation as a world class
cricketer; now rapidly becoming a wealthy author and leading moral reformer
- all caused a growing number of people, like this secretary, to wish to
see him taken down a peg or two.

"Begging your pardon Mr Campbell, sir, you must have been just a boy then.
You couldn't have been a member and I doubt if we would have accepted your
reservation." The famous fast-bowler had always been slight. His hair had
darkened a little over the years to sandy-blond and try what he might,
continues to fall youthfully into his eyes - at thirty-five he still looked
twenty.

"I was fifteen at the time. My name has been on the role here since birth.
My father and his fathers before him, were all members and I'll wager they
didn't have Secretaries who lost reservations for important events on a
night when every mouse-hole in London is fully booked." He sounded tired,
old and petulant. He consoled himself with the thought that it was, of
course, the emotion of the occasion, but the situation was made more
intolerable because he knew it was really entirely his own fault.  For
weeks he could not bring himself to ringing the Club to check the
arrangements for this, the evening he had dreaded for the past twenty
years.

"The card system!" Something like enlightenment registered on the new man's
face. He minced over to an ancient filing cabinet and flicked through a
tray of two by four inch ivory cards. "Here it is!" The boy winked at him
conspiratorially. "Old Danvers was right, you know, we still need his
system as a backup.  A private dinning room for five - but meals for only
three? It is all here, sir, and all very detailed. If I may be permitted to
say so, it is all rather unusual..."

"It is an unusual event, Mr Secretary." The secretary consulted the
terminal, then conferred with the northern lad - the word "overtime" passed
between them.

"The entire Club is fully committed tonight, sir, but as this is our
oversight, and if you will accept the Club's set menu for this evening, we
can accommodate your party by setting you up in the Livingstone Library.
James here will attend to all the arrangements.  Please accept our
apologies for this mistake, but twenty years...."

With ingenuous enthusiasm, the five had sworn to meet twenty years hence,
to see how life had treated the others. At the time, it seemed
inconceivable that Themba could ever again attend such a reunion in South
Africa, so they agreed on a private dinning room at his father's London
club, that has stood at the same Pall Mall address since 1841.

At seven, dressed for dinner, Aeneas Campbell OBE entered the oval
book-lined Livingstone Library, perhaps the most beautiful room in the
Explorers' Club.

"Lucky you come up early like, to check the arrangements, sir." Jimmy, now
in tails, babbled along merrily.  He was sixteen, and had been in the
service of the Club for fourteen months.

Campbell contemplated: How long before these admiring youngsters forget my
seven-wickets-for-21 against the West-Indies or that double century in
Sydney?

The table was laid for five in the, best Dalton and Georgian silver that
Campbell had specified on the ivory appointment card in a trembling,
immature hand, in January 1977, after his hurried return to England. While
Jimmy polished the Irish lead-crystal, an older steward set out the
copperplate place-names: Galahad Cronje Esq.; Dr. Benjamin Kramer; Themba
Zuma Esq.; Nathan Kramer Esq. and Aeneas Campbell OBE.

Three Dean's Boys - two friends and an interloping younger brother from the
third form; Galahad Cronje a former Dean's boy - had made it four boys from
the privileged underbelly of society; and Themba Zuma, coming from the
other extremity of South African life, had swelled their number to five.

"Are you dead certain, sir, that more than just three of your five friends
mightn't turn up and surprise you?" He was too young to remember the press
reports.

"Dead certain, Jimmy."


2

The story that haunted Campbell had happened in southern Africa in 1976,
the year the fabric of Apartheid started, irrevocably, splitting its seams.

His ambitious father had been in the diplomatic corps and his mother was
socially aggressive. A baby had been the only flaw in their perfect,
collective, social and career formulation - consequently, he was sent,
shortly after birth, to his paternal grandmother in the highlands of
Scotland, while they moved around Asia and Americas. Here he had made
acquaintance precisely the "love" a boy needed - the Kirk; a fearful God;
the strap; and cold showers of a winter's morning.  When Nana died, it was
boarding school for him.

Then the post of first vice-consul in Pretoria, South Africa, came up.
Mother had learned that the thirteen-year-old, Honourable Reginald
Fortesque, future Duke of Langham, was to be educated in Cape Town as a
Dean's Boy. Abruptly, her son became a social asset - he was enrolled
forthwith.

The British Empire exported the structure and tradition, of the English
public school to the grateful Colonies in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth
Centuries.  St. Mary's College for Boys was founded, on instruction from
Canterbury, by Dean Longfellow on the slopes of the purple Constantiaberg,
above the oak-lined southern suburbs of Cape Town.  Aeneas Campbell joined
the ranks of the Dean's boys in the year he turned thirteen, in what they
called the first form. He began to adjust to the climate; the odd school
year that started in January; and the people, who appeared so English on
the surface.

It had been one of those merciless Cape-February days when the southeaster
blows scorching air in off the Karoo desert. Campbell, wearing the
regulation first-year shorts, was hot, disoriented, feverish and wanted to
sleep, but had lost his way in the maze of dark corridors in the sandstone,
Sir Herbert Baker, school building. Galahad Cronje, coming in from the
sports fields, saw the pale, slight, 15-year-old, making his way back to
the dormitory after prep. The appointment of this son of an Afrikaner
industrialist, as Head-boy and Head-of-House at St. Mary's College had been
unusual, but proved popular among the boys. Cronje was tall, blond, and
charming.

Cronje shouted: "Hey, you there, where do you think you are going?  Don't
you know, meneer, that the dorms are out-of-bounds until there is someone
there to supervise you?"  Cronje addressed everyone formally in Afrikaans,
even potential thieves. "Or were you planning to go scaleling other
people's things?"  There was no need for Campbell to mutter that he was
new, his English public-school accent gave him away.

"New? New is no excuse for breaking school rules." Cronje boomed at the
white-faced little wanker that talked funny. "Tell me, boy, are you a
soutpiel?"

"I don't know, sir." He had no idea what was an appropriate reply: he had
never heard of a soutpiel before.

"You don't know! What kind of fool doesn't know that? Look, meneer, you'd
better come to my office and we can find out."  Obediently, he followed the
six-foot-three figure in the green and black striped School-colours blazer
- its cloth scrolls recording rugby, swimming and athletics distinctions.
Cronje elbowed him through the doorway of the small office and adjoining
bedroom, that was the special privilege of each Head-of-House, slackened
his tie and lolled on the chair, his feet on the desk.

"Now, what is your name, soutpiel?"

"Campbell, sir." Remembering the mission was to determine whether he was a
soutpiel, he added: "Please tell me sir, is a 'sowertpeel' a sort of
person?"

"Well, soutpiel, I can tell you it is a terrible thing!  The only cure
known to mankind is boerepiel and plenty of it. But," he leered at him "you
might just be in luck. I might help you doctor it before it spreads."  The
boy frowned: was this, perhaps, why he felt so fuzzy and tired all the
time? Cronje confirmed it almost certainly was.

"Well then sir, I'd be awfully glad if you could help administer the
'borerpeel' stuff as quickly as possible."

"I was hoping you were going to say so." Cronje, rounding the desk, locked
the door, and traced the dimple on the boy's chin with his shrewd finger.
His hand transferred to the raised knee and ran upwards in contact with his
cool skin to immediately below the leg of the grey shorts.  Campbell was
mortified: there was a distinct bulge where there ought not to be. The
Head-boy's hand coasted toward the bulge and delighted to feel a tiny
jerk. He unbuckled the belt, opened a button, then zipped the rest of the
way down and parted the opening to find a small tented pair of tartan
jockey shorts.

"It feels like a real grand young boner you got in there. We call it a
pielstyf." He was considerate enough to use the moment to educate the
English boy. Campbell squeezed his eyes closed and grimaced as the
adventurous fingers made progress. He remained resolutely silent.

"Now the only way we can do this is if you co-operate.  If you aren't
happy, we can stop, then Matron can do this to you later." He well knew
that a boy of this age would sooner die than have a woman like matron,
finger his prick. The self-appointed medic, removed the boy's shirt and
released his pants.

"Now this is as distressing for me as it is for you, meneer, I know you
might not like this, but its the only way to examine if soutpiel is setting
in or not." This sounded plausible enough.

He prised his objective out of the y-fronted opening. Nice! The boy's
five-inch cock was creamy and translucent, like most of the blond penises
Cronje had known. A bush of pale pubic hair were starting to appear. His
balls snuggled up against the hard shaft. The Head-boy took the penis
between his practised fingers. His tongue itched: it was delightfully
solid. Gently, he retracted the foreskin to reveal the smooth cherry glans
and the little slit. As he put his lips to it, Campbell's eyes snapped open
in astonishment. He beheld the blond head bobbing gently on his lap and his
back extended at this bold sensual experience.

"Yes," came the solemn diagnosis when Cronje paused, "it tastes salty, but
there is only one way to be absolutely positive." Aeneas sealed his eyes,
firmly shutting out the humiliation. Galahad Cronje removed the tartan
jockeys altogether and pushed, him into a recumbent position on the desk
and set about some serious masturbation.

The youngster shuddered, he bit into his lower lip to prevent a cry of
pleasure then he pitched his body upwards. A single drop of clear, diluted
semen jetted out and spattered on his pale belly, an inch or two away from
his quivering cock. Then a second drop oozed from the slit and coated his
glans in a watery gaze-coating.

"You can open your eyes now, the surgery is all over. Now we must check
your sperm for salt content." Cronje raised a finger-full to the boy's
pursed lips. Campbell recoiled away in loathing. "No? I suppose you want me
savouring your stinky soutpiel-juice? Come on, don't be such a bloody
sissy, you have the taste it!" He had swindled the boy thus far, he would
see this prissy kid sample his own spunk, but the faun would not be easily
persuaded. He twisted his head away, squirmed and fought like a tiger to
avoid the spermy finger. It was an unequal conflict - the brawny Galahad
triumphed and the finger slipped between the reluctant lips. Salty! The
Head-boy went down on him and cleaned up the nectar-like residue. Smacking
his lips with sham remorse, or was it savour, he confirmed the worst -
saline!

"Yes, definitely a serious case of sodium-chloride transformation. Well
meneer, there is only one cure, lots of cum from a Boerepiel." So saying,
he undid his own grey flannels. Galahad Cronje was a remarkable well-built
eighteen-year-old. The genes of generations of farmers and rugby-players
had provided him with a man's body early in his development. He lay open
for the boy's approval powerful hairy legs; broad, scrum-hardened shoulders
and a flat rippling stomach, slashed by a fine dark-blond line of hair the
stretched to a ruddy-blond pubic patch. Within that patch were the
renowned, Cronje-cock and large oval balls.  The statistician, present in
all boys of a certain age, estimated at least nine uncircumcised inches. A
pink head protruded out of an insufficient foreskin.

Cronje was sufficiently adept to know not to go too far, too soon with
greenhorns, particularly, if they displayed potential.  He took a skilled
hand to, what Aeneas could now identify as a Boerepiel, and briskly brought
himself to a quick, bellowing, climax. Campbell reluctantly admired the
exhibition that ended in a fragrant liquid splattering on his own delicate
cock and balls. The Head-boy massaged the semen deposit into the boy's bare
sex organs, giving him a delicious thrill and a second erection, which he
had to take care of, himself, in the bogs on his way back to the dorm.

"There that should help. Tell you what, meneer, if you come back tomorrow,
I'll try to get some more Boerepiel for you and we'll try to expedite the
cure."


3

That was the first of his many visits to the Head-boy's office. Cronje
scripted and executed the seduction of boys as ingeniously as his refined
rugby game-plans. A brash, innocent, first round - usually preceded by much
heterosexual talk - then followed macho playfulness, with more detailed
anatomical information about his girls. Then, when the boy was ready for
it, mutual sucking and fucking. Next, private passion made way for some
very sophisticated acrobatics for more than two players. He delighted in
showing off his prowess to his "Butch" rugby-playing mates, and a trophy
like Aeneas Campbell was well worth showing off.

"Where do you think you are going, Mr Underpants?" Cronje called out at the
end of a phase-two spunk rubbing session. Hercules de la Rey, another
rugby-playing Afrikaner, with memorably large, irregular-shaped testicles
in a hairy sack, had also deposited the fruit of his Boerepiel on the boy's
loins. By now Aeneas was deeply suspicious about this soutpiel ailment the
Head-boy was doctoring so enthusiastically.

"Take 'em off again, meneer, I want to look at your asshole. Check if it's
not spreading to the 'hole' of you."

"Bet it looks just like your girl's poes, hey Cronje?" Hercules de la Rey
laughed raucously, wiping a last syrup-strand of his cum on the boy's white
leg.

While he was engaged in the delicate operation of closely eyeing the lad's
hairless pink pucker, Cronje asked the fateful question: "So, what is your
first name, Campbell?"

It was inevitable. Aeneas became Anus. I wasn't fair that a fellow should
have to go through school with a nickname like that.

He called his father and told him that one of the seniors had been
"interfering" with him.

"Don't be foolish lad," the diplomat counselled, "it's all part of growing
up. I was at Eton m'self y'know. I survived and enjoyed those silly little
friendships you have at that age. You'll be married and settled soon
enough. Don't be a ninny, bugger them back, if they try with you." Aeneas
had a mental picture of himself trying to daunt Cronje with his
five-incher. "Look, son, if it still perturbs you why don't you go to
church and sort it out with God. It builds character, son."

He took his father's advice and went to the local Presbyterian church, as
Nana had taught him. "The wages of sin are death."- Proclaimed the text on
the scarlet velvet banner hanging on high. This guaranteed cold comfort for
Nana's boy. The Reverend MacIntyre benign face darkened in disgust during
the private interview. He admonished the lad to look deep in his sinful
heart and seek out in what nefarious manner he provoked these attacks.

Finally, Anus Campbell found out the humiliating truth about the soutpiel
stuff from Nathan Kramer.

"It's a load of balls! Soutpiel is what the Afrikaners call us English
speakers, especially one like you, that comes from England. They hate the
English for their treatment of their forefathers in the concentration camps
during the Boer War. They say you have one foot in England and another in
Africa. With your legs stretched that wide, your cock, or your piel, as the
Boere fuckers call it, hangs in the sea water and gets all salty. Don't
worry, you are not about to be turned into a pillar of sodium-chloride,
like Lot's wife."


4


He stood in the kitchen of Nana's stone home. The windows were steamed up
from the heat of the water in the zinc bathtub and the cold of the Highland
evening outside. His father, on one of his rare visits to the boy and his
own mother, was stripped to the waist and was washing his hairy well-formed
chest at the stone sink. Then he was bending over to turn off the faucet
the boy found himself appreciating the beauty of his fathers surprisingly
fleshy buttocks. They had been fishing for trout in the local brook and had
returned soaked to the skin an frozen to the bone. The smell of fish and
steam and his father still filled his frightened nostrils.

Some how he knew his boyish naked beauty would be a distraction for his
father, so he hung back reluctant to pull off his trousers.

"Well son are you planning to get into the tub in your clothes?" He laughed
at the boys obvious shyness. Aeneas slowly and deliberately undressed aware
that his father was watching his very move with a quiet approval.  As if he
had never seen a naked 7-year-old before, stared at his son's small
genitals.  His tight little testes, pushed his penis, an inch in length,
gently outward.  Then he noticed his father snaked a hand down his corduroy
trousers to make his erection more comfortable.  Aeneas settled himself
into the bathtub.

"Do you ever play with your wee thing, son?" the man enquired.

"No, of course not," the boy lied. "Besides, Nana would kill me."  His
father laughed at this.

"Trick is not to let her catch you at it."  He whispered conspiratorially
in his sons ear. The warmth of his fathers breath in his small ear caused
the hairs on his skin to rise with goose flesh. His mind raced he could see
his father as a small boy masturbating in the same bed that he now slept
in.

"Oh dad, did you really do it too?" His face brightened. "As a boy when you
were here?"

Not waiting for a reply he stood and began rubbing the soap between his
hands vigorously building a rich lather and rubbing suds all over his body
both hands descended upon his genitals as his father watched his every
move.

"Will you wash my hair?" He asked as he sat to rinse the soap from his
body.

He surrendered himself to the ministering fingers of his father who cupped
both hands to pour warm soapy water over his head then he took up the bar
of soap from where it slip on the bottom of the tub between his thighs.

"Now lad keep your eyes tightly shut or it will burn your eyes." His father
said. There was something exciting about the darkness. Then, with his eyes
shut he hear the unmistakable sound of his father undoing his belt and
slipping the brown corduroy trousers to the floor. He knew his father was
naked behind him and this unaccountably made his penis swell and stiffen as
it floated in the soapy water.  His father trembled as he ran his fingers
through the boys silken hair. The boy kept his eyes tightly shut - he knew
that there was a strange an exciting site waiting him.

     "That feels nice," he sighed.  The boy sat straight upright as his
father shampooed his scalp with strong fingertips.  Looking down, he saw
the firm penis bobbing in the soapy water.

When we had finished, the man instructed boy to stand and he glimpsed a
perfect 2 inch erection. Then he took the rough white towel in both hands
and rubbed the blond hair vigorously. To maintain his balance, the boy
grabbed at his fathers hips.  His hand made contact with an unfamiliar
hardness, something he had never seen or felt there before.  Shocked, he
opened his eyes to see the mans erection inches from his face.

He heard the boy gasp but he did not draw his had away from the gently
pulsing weapon he held in his tiny hand. Then he felt his father put his
hand on the soft hair that he had just washed and dried and drew the back
of Aeneas' head and nudged him toward his large lusty cock.

The young boy saw the hairy hips lift toward his face, he saw the dark
blond pubic region and its heady scent of man then he felt the pressure on
his lips and pink glans tickling his tongue; he felt the man rub his back
and then tease his balls with exploring fingers.

Then the child Aeneas, engulfed the glans into his mouth and trembling he
began to suck.

Campbell awoke somewhere in the middle of the night in his sweat drenched
bed. How could he have seen all this detail? The dream was so terrifyingly
real that there was no knowing if it had been a dream or some long
suppressed and painful memory.



5

Nathan was everything that Cronje was not. The young third-formers had met
at the end of swimming period.  Naked, Nathan sat on the bench,
methodically drying each of his long toes.  He had a delicate frame, a
flawless olive-skin and straight, jet-black hair. But it was his oval
tranquil face, high cheekbones, and thick pouty lips that captivated
Campbell's heart.  Deep oriental-green eyes enticed Aeneas to gaze deeply
into them for the rest of eternity. Campbell wanted him with every sinew of
his body.  Nathan Kramer was lithe as a slow moving panther, but he had
this contradictory aspect, that went beyond innocence - he was practically
asexual.

In the three years of their friendship at school, the closest they ever
came to a sexual encounter, occurred during their second year together.
One bored day in the school libray, they sat opposite each other at a small
table, paging through old magazines. Nathan must have had one of those
sudden twinges in his genitalia that are the bane of an adolescent boy's
life. He had closed his leg on Campbell's intruding knee.  Both boys got
erections, but Aeneas came, spontaneously, in his pants. Sperm spread a
damp, warm, stain on the crotch of his grey flannels.  When the bell
summoned them, both boys did not move.  The minutes passed. They would be
late.

"That was clearly better for you than it was for me. Sorry we don't have
time for a smoke" Nathan said mischievously, as he drew out a green
handkerchief and offered it to Campbell. "Here, you'd best clean up before
your class."  He readjusted his own, very evident, erection and left
without ever uttering another word about the incident.

The joy of this friendship was he could discuss anything with Kramer: "I am
sure he wants to bugger me."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, screw me; bugger me; zap it up my bum."

"You mean he's actually said he wants to fuck you?"

"Well, he hasn't actually tried it yet, but, I know!" Adjusting something
caught in his own underpants, Kramer considered the matter carefully.

"Well, I he is Head-boy and he always gets what he wants. Maybe, you should
negotiate for time and practice with something, or someone. You know, try
to open it up a bit. God I'm praying he doesn't fancy Jewish kids."

"What's worse it's a fucking twelve inches and thick as your leg!" He
exaggerated, only slightly, to accentuate the peril.

"I'll pray for you" He closed his eves and covered his head with his hand
"Dear God, take pity on my best mate's bum. It's young and tender and that
fucker is going to get it first, unless you help us put a plan together."


6

The plan went like this: Campbell was to ensure they were never alone at
any of the, by now daily, sessions. When Cronje moved in on his ass, he
would turn appealingly to the other boy and whispered flirtatiously "Tell
him to stop it. Pretty, please!" In the mean time Kramer had located a
smallish orange carrot that they lubricated up with Vaseline and inserted
morning and night. Kramer kept his own cock concealed during all these
therapeutic sessions.  How grateful Campbell was, at times like these, that
the Kramers were reformed Jews and that the family had decided to send
their sons to Dean's rather than the local Jewish school.

"Dickey, dickey, dickey!" Cronje would tease, his florid monster prodding
at Campbell's pearly white bum.

"Let me in Anus!" Cronje said in the sing-song voice you would use trying
to entice an unwilling five-year-old who won't eat his dinner.

"No, Dutchman!" Kramer had revealed to him the ultimate counter insult that
he could use against the enemy; Dutchman. The Afrikaner considered he had
been profoundly betrayed by his ancestors, when they turned against the
institutionalisation of racism inside South Africa. To call an Afrikaner a
Dutchman was tantamount to dubbing an Irish Republican an Englishman.

"Let me in, jou klein snotneus."

"No... no... no! I'm too small and you're too big." He screamed back.

"You have been a bad, bad boy.  I am going to have to spank you. You
deserve it." It was the only time Cronje ever raised a hand to him.  The
fingerprints showed up rosy red on his pale white ass. He showed them to
Kramer later that night.

"Time to try plan 'C' then..." Nathan advised.

Plan 'C' involved Naas Malherbe, who at nineteen, was in his third final
year at Dean's. He was also a very, very big boy - rugby fullback and
anchor for the school tug-o'-war team. He had the dual saving graces of
being stronger than Cronje and had a very small four-inch cock. Aeneas had
persuaded Malherbe, during a secret suck-off assignation behind the gym,
that he suggest to Cronje that he help with breaking in his young asshole.

Amazingly, Cronje agreed to a week of breaking-in sessions. While he
salivated over Campbell's firm young penis, Naas got up on his haunches and
tried inserting his boy-sized cock into the boy's exposed anus.

"Oh ... Hay..  Stop! Stop! It hurts, it hurts." The pain was searing and
tears came to his eyes. He pulled forward and the big boy's young prick
plopped out.

"It's okay, it's okay." Cronje, concerned and attentive, frisked around as
if he was a twelve-year-old and kissed away the boy's tears.  "There,
there, meneer, you'll be okay!"

"Wow, that hurt like hell." Campbell had jumped off the bed and was jumping
up and down rubbing his buttocks.

"Let's try it again." Naas was fully aware he was letting down himself, his
best friend, and perhaps, the entire Afrikaner nation. He applied more
Vaseline to the raw-red boy's hole and re-greased his own throbbing member,
then went to worked more slowly.

Encouraged by the caresses from the Head-boy, Campbell, felt the head go in
once more. He yelped, but held steady as he felt another inch fed into him.

Aeneas thought of his tame young carrot. He focused his mind and thought of
Nathan Kramer. Nathan towelling down his toes. Central to his thoughts were
the Jewish boy's large circumcised cock, it's stitch marks and it perfect
exposed head. Nathan's cock was larger than his own with a small, but lush,
patch of black pubic hair. Then something extraordinary happened - he had
the notion it was Nathan doing this stuff to his bum - if Kramer had wanted
it, he could have it. He hardly noticed that Naas Malherbe, the practice
model, was fucking him wildly. He was unaware that he was moaning in
gratification as the short knob rubbed against his prostate.  The boy's
whimpers and tears had made way for enthusiastic throaty noises.

He hardly heard Cronje say: "Ou Naas, ek wag." Fuck this waiting for a
week, the kid clearly loved it. He fumed impatiently, waiting for the boys
bum to become available. He saw his boy, eyes closed, pressing back against
Malherbe to get it every further up his bum-hole.

"A real little madam, this one, I think he fancies a bigger cock."
Complained Naas who was feeling less than adequate to the demands of the
job.

"Anus, I'm going to fuck your little butt until you can't sit."  The boy,
lost in his own daydream with Nathan Kramer, made no reply.

"That could be rape. That's aggravated assault." Warned Naas, wanting to
hold on to his fucking partner for as long as possible. Still the groaning
boy made no reproach. He did not rebuff Nathan when he started shooting a
warm load up his ass, that trickled down his legs.  Nor did he resist his
beloved when he mounted him, for a second time, and fucked him again, with
a very much larger cock.


7

If, indeed, it was true, as his father had said, that it developed
character, then his "character" developed in leaps and bounds, during his
first year, as Galahad Cronje systematically buggered him senseless,
several times a week.

Campbell grudgingly admired Cronje's technique. Word had it that the
Head-boy would, for the small consideration of some hand relief, be
prepared to overrule the decisions of the other prefects in both the upper
and lower schools.  The nature of the penalty imposed depended on the
severity of the transgression, but a B.J. could sort out most things.
Daily, small sets of penitents would hang around his office door after
class or sport meets. Then the great Galahad Cronje would arrive and
announce: "Well, if it isn't all the Knobs and nancies?  Well, boys, it
toady, grovel and ingratiate today! So, which meneer wants to be first for
a brown nose?"

If he disliked the trips to Cronje's office in summer, he perfectly hated
them in the winter. Cronje was also Rugby Captain for the school first XV.
The smell of lineament for sports' injuries to his battered body and dubbin
for his boots pervaded that air in the room, that was an even greater
jumble than usual: all muddy boots under foot and silver cups held aloft
for boyish worship. Flushed with success from victory, on some mud-logged
field in Newlands or Rondebosch, he would arrive filthy and sweaty and
expect a victors' consolation from the, fastidiously clean, Aeneas
Campbell.

Malherbe or one the other team members would join them for a victory romp
and occasionally an unsuspecting supplicant, seeking for a rescinding of a
detention order, would be conned into joining the melee. The victors would
humiliate the boys: "Well who have we here? I believe it meneer Palmer, the
only fifteen-year-old who can suck himself off, while farting the national
anthem." - Cronje always had a winning style with the pure of heart. For
many it was all an old-fashioned vent for prankish heterosexual
frustration. This pretence, kept the senior boys' reputations intact and
their hit-rate high. Being the personal property of the Head-boy, protected
him from the unwanted attentions of the other boys.

There were few black Dean's boys, this was primarily attributable to the
extraordinary school fees charged, Joshua Rhadebe, however, was one of
them.  He and Campbell became natural friends. The friendly black boy, born
and brought up in North London, was the son of political exiles. He spoke
English like a Londoner: "Hiya" or "Blimmey, what a set-up" he would say,
to the delight of the South African boys who considered him a citizen of
Mars or Pluto.

Typically, Cronje would describe Rhadebe as "Quiet a nice little kaffir."
Cronje would say: "Any white man who wants to alter the status quo in South
Africa must be completely crazy." Then he would dash off a catalogue of the
substantial inferiority of other races and how it was the right and duty of
the white Afrikaner to govern. "It is a question of four million whites
having to think for twenty-five million people" The benevolent bully knew
he was one of the elect.

This made Cronje's approach to David Goliath, nickname "And", all the more
remarkable. He was invited to attend as a participant some of the sexual
gymnastics. Goliath was a slight, very fast moving fly-half, with two
cauliflower ears and a broken nose. He was also half-Scottish and
half-Xhosa coloured. He was the only non-white boy to make the top Rugby
team. Notwithstanding Cronje's outspoken racism, Goliath had a special
place.

"The coloureds are the Afrikaner's half-brothers. Besides, he has a great
fucking prick, meneer." More than half the first XV had turned out for a
group wank that unforgettable day. Goliath's hair looked like
ginger-coloured wire wool on his head and a fine matching display at the
base of his flat golden brown stomach. He had a beautiful athlete's body
which Cronje prohibited Campbell from touching.

"Skommel da'ie polony blou, Maria." And instructed the Honourable Reginald
Fortesque, future Duke of Langham, who had been expecting a reprieve,
provoking his team mates to fall about laughing. Campbell and Fortesque
looked at each other blankly - the whimsical dialect of the Cape Coloured
was not a formal part of the school syllabus.

Cronje made an offer to the future Duke of Langham: "No detentions for the
year if you let old And here, fuck your asshole while we watch." David
Goliath was not allowed to strip - he kept on his muddy togs and hungs his
muddy boots around his neck. Cronje grasped the honey-coloured cock and
gave all seven inches a suck for luck. Fortesque unclothed completely,
stood shivering from the June cold and foreboding. What haunted Campbell
thereafter, was not the look of pain on the aristocratic face; nor the
Rugby team chanting the school-war-cry - no, it was the thirteen-year-old
future Duke of Langham's cock - a five-incher that curved an alarming
45º to the left in the middle - as if when he wanked, he was in danger
of shooting his load on a passer-by. Aeneas Campbell, obsessed with being
that passer-by, fell down to his knees at the boy's side taking the oddly
curved cock in his mouth, the Rugby First XV in full cry:

I ziga-zumba-zumba-zaier, I ziga-zumba-zumba-zee, Hold him down you Dean's
Boy warrior!  Hold him down you Dean's Boy Chief-chief-chief!

He could feel Goliath thump his whopper into the blue-blooded refugee from
detention, when took the full load of the noble's vintage thirteen-year-old
sperm in his mouth. Wiping off a stray spunk track from his cleft chin,
Aeneas looked up into Cronje's ecstatic face. Suddenly, he was convinced
that the delight, had little to do with the Head-boy's geyser of jism that
jetted onto the floor where he still knelt - this act was intended to
degrade and humiliate both the future Duke of Langham and himself. It was
Galahad Cronje's personal act of revenge, for the suffering of the
Afrikaner people at English hands.

That day, Aeneas Campbell decided he hated Cronje.  The Reverend MacIntyre
was doubtless correct and he was partly at fault - he would certainly be
going to hell for his part in this affair - that being so, what punishment
did Cronje merit? Aeneas Campbell's attitude changed abruptly - his anxious
compliance changed to a posture of open antagonism.

He said to himself: "People don't know he is awful. They all think he is so
nice." He wanted to shock them; to tell them the things Cronje, their hero,
had done to him.

Aeneas Campbell the cricket fanatic was born that day.  He had played
cricket with some success at his prep. school, but on that winter's day it
became a burning obsession. He reported to the Coach and asked for a
program for preparation for the up-coming season.  Suddenly, he had very
little time to hang around the Head-boys' room and only went there when
Cronje could find him, and bodily carry him off, while the boy punched,
kicked and voiced his condemnation. He viewed the visits to Cronje's room,
with the enthusiasm of a sinner on a day trip to hell.

Cricket, played in its rural soundings - tree-lined fields, white screens -
epitomised for him a set of values that were unmistakably English; a sense
of fair-play; gamesmanship. He wanted to be pure once more; part of a team
in angelic white - he wanted to be the archangel.

Cricket was for Cronje a mystery, with indifferent objectives;
incomprehensible rules and inconclusive results, that stretched over days.
Worst of all it was boring. For him the cut and thrust of Rugby - its good
humoured violence and physical contact - was the great leveller; its
decisive result and its dangers, all represent something like life
itself. How could the English have invented both games?

Summer comes swiftly to the Cape. The fields explode in a sea of wild
spring flowers and with them came the cricket season. Campbell immersed
himself in the seductive crack of leather on willow, and made the under
thirteen, First-XI.  When he bowled four maidens in twenty overs, against
Bishops', in a junior-league championship match, a hero was born and no one
called him Anus again. No one, that is, except Cronje. Now, it was the
Head-boy the would wait patiently for Campbell, while he was achieving
great things on the outfield.

He hated Cronje most when he was being nice. In September, the head-boy
organised a surprise fifteenth-birthday-party for him. Then there was the,
so-called, school trip to Stellenbosch - that turned out to be for Cronje
and himself alone. They spent the day at the wine-farm of an uncle and
aunt: homely, hospitable people. They rode horses through the vineyards and
he thought: "Any minute now he will drag me into the vines and fuck me
silly." It never happened. Nor did it happen when they were alone in the
dark cool cellars under the elegant white gabled Cape-Dutch house.

One day, he was in the middle of the vital final cricket match before
year-end - he had to play a safe bread-and-butter shot - when he saw the
Head-boy grinning at me from the pavilion.  Cronje had his usual little
crowd of admirers around him, he smiled and waved to him, putting him off
his stroke.

"What the hell do you want?" Campbell demand when he was clean bowled on
the next ball.

"Oh I though I'd just stop by and sniff your cricket-box or I could buff up
your balls if you like." Registering concern on his handsome sun-tanned
face, he asked: "You are wearing a cock-box, aren't you? You know, Anus you
can't go taking risks with my favourite things." Not answering, Aeneas
Campbell strode off to the pavilion, changed, called the Embassy and asked
if he could come home for study leave. His father was too surprised by the
call to turn him down.

That was the last time Campbell saw Cronje alone. Within a week, they were
writing finals. At the closing assembly Cronje, as the outgoing Head-boy,
ended his speech - thanking the Governors, Headmaster, and staff - with a
pronounced, conspiratorial wink. A final popular gesture from a popular
Head-boy. Campbell, red-faced and angry, knew it was directed solely at
him.


8 Themba

I am the first to join Aeneas Campbell at the club in Pall Mall. I feel
alien: a black man in the Gentlemen's Club that once was at the heart of
the British Empire. A suspicious porter restrains me: "Whom shall I say,
sir?" A young dark-haired man, in tails, passing by, tells the icy porter
he is on his way to Mr. Campbell's party. He smiles at me - I think of my
brother Cronje, who would certainly have made a pass at this pretty boy -
and leads me past a white-marble Queen Victoria.

Aeneas Campbell awaits my arrival in the Library, of the Explorers' Club.
As is our custom when comrades meet, I hug him - awkward and uncomfortable.
He asks after my wife, a pretty German girl I'd met at The London School of
Economics, and my family. He has not married.  Campbell is not the marrying
kind.  I doubt he could ever find peace with either man or woman.  We chat
about his long and profitable career in county cricket; his test caps for
England - until injury stopped his career. He tells me of a new found
talent as a writer of solid, if unimaginative, thrillers that sell well
enough to pay for a very comfortable life in an isolated corner of the
Cornish coast. He is well informed of my own career and talks with interest
about the new South Africa that has emerged since President Mandela has
come to power.

"Well," I say "the Livingstone library!  How appropriate. You were reading
the great man's journals weren't you, Aeneas?"

"Yes, and you had very rude things to say about them." He gives me that
half smile of his, that stole my brother Cronje's heart, all those years
ago.

"Ah yes, the voice of the benevolent colonialist." I laugh and recollected
his horrified reaction to this description of the man - practically a saint
in Scotland. This is, after all, just like any other reunion. Still, I can
not escape the feeling that he would rather be anywhere in the world than
here, with our memories, tonight. I suspect Campbell is the sort of person
who is happier among strangers.

He tells me that former friends now envy him his success and wish him
harm. I suspect his greatest fear, is that the British tabloids, that he
made him a celebrity, could just as readily, glory in his downfall.
HOWZAT! CRICKETER CAUGHT OUT! - in the Sun, or perhaps - AeNEAS
A.K.A. ANUS! - in the Mirror. An indiscreet lad here at the club might help
dig up something on tonight and that fateful trip twenty years ago.

"Look here," he calls me over to an ancient map in a heavy frame. It shows
the routes of Livingstone's trips into Africa. We trace the route he had
taken into Botswana 1841 to 1849, via Griquland and Goshen, passing the
Khama's country and the lakes of Kumadau and Ngami.  Livingstone stopped
short of the Swamps and Chobe.

"Would you know how are things at The Lodge?" He asks.

"Oh the gift of success have descended on her in Dollar-rich abundance, all
right. I took Ute, my wife, back there to see it a few years ago. But, you
know Campbell, I loved it best when it was the pathetic dusty young wretch
of a place we saw together all those years ago. It was despised by the
locals and laughed at by the park authorities throughout Africa, but it has
turned into the success that Cronje planned all those years ago. You will
never believe who is the new manager...."

"Who?"

"Lamentation Moreke!" He blanches. Then, realising I mean him no harm with
this name, he slaps his head and laughs in relief. It is the first time I
have seen him laugh in twenty years.  "He took me aside one night and said
to me that it did his self-confidence no end of good to know he once had a
test-match cricketer by the balls." We snigger at secrets shared by fellow
conspirators. We talk on animatedly of the beauty and violece that is
Africa and of falling stunned-asleep under the canopy of southern stars.


9

The year following Cronje's departure a scandal rocked the school. A
menage-a-trios involving a senior, a third form boy and the art master,
surfaced as a result of an error of judgement by Palmer. The suburban
railway station nearest the school was a notorious cruising spot for the
sizeable Cape Town gay community.  Occasionally a Dean's boy, a bit low on
pocket money or just simply horny, could be founds taking rather longer
than necessary about peeing in the iron-roofed Victorian men's room.
Palmer, never the most astute of pupils, choose to bestow his favours on
Cornelius de Groote, a young and pretty detective-constable in the Vice
Squad of the South Africa Police. Cornelius de Groote's great pride in his
duty of entrapping homosexuals, stemmed from an incident, while he was
still in his fifteenth year, with an older cousin. The occasion was so
awesomely enjoyable, that de Groote questioned his own sexuality. But, good
Calvinist, that he was, he concluded that it was the work of Lucifer. He
would serve the good Lord best by exterminating this temptation from of the
anti-Christ.  It is also true to say that the job also provided an
excellent way of supplementing the meagre SAP salary, by offering to drop
charges, for a small contribution to a charity that began at home.

Palmer broke down under questioning, implicating the little play-group with
which he was currently involved. The meagre donation he could offer from
his pocket money to the de Groote family charity was insufficient to drop
charges - consequently, the few took the route of expulsion or dismissal,
and left many to breathe a sigh of relief.

Fearing a backlash from fee paying parents, the staff subjected the boys to
regimented scrutiny of Fascist proportions. A fart out of place was viewed
as an invitation to unnatural coupling and dealt with severely. Campbell
found safety in this enforced chastity.

His natural talent as a fast bowler and field's man had blossomed; he the
first second-former in school history to make it to the First-XI.  His
platonic friendship with Kramer flourished. This boy was a curious mixture
of the super-cool - he was the first to introduce the joys of marijuana to
the second form - and nerdish pursuits. Kramer was an enthusiastic
bird-watcher.  He seemed to love birds more than anything. Magnificent
framed photographs of birds looked down from the wall next to Kramer's bed
in the room the two now shared. Secretly, Campbell was encouraged that this
interest seemed limited to the feathered variety.

We can know nothing about ourselves unless we are in a state of conflict.
For Campbell, conflict was not long in coming. The letter, from Cronje,
doing his compulsory military service "on the boarder", arrived midway
during the first term of his second year.  National service was a black
cloud that hung over the life of every young white South African male. It
required a period of continuous commitment, after completing one's
schooling, and then regular camps until one was over forty. The system
provided the Nationalist government a unique opportunity for introducing
propaganda into the homes of almost every white family in the country. Soon
every one knew of the Soviet and Cuban Threat and the Total Onslaught. The
boarder which South Africa's finest defended, was a moving target. At
times, it meant the geographical boarder; at others, it could be five miles
outside Luanda in Angola; anywhere in Namibia; and finally it was within
the black townships. The "boarder" was wherever the Generals determined it
was - wherever their private theatre of war was.

The letter was accompanied by a colour photograph of Cronje in military
uniform. The letter was pock-marked with the sort of military-speak the
youths were encouraged to use to help build camaraderie across the
English-Afrikaans language barrier.

I am writing to you from Oshikango on the boarder. We have spent a month at
Grootfontein and now we are on the move.  I wonder if the military censor
will take that bit out? Anyway, while all the okes are writing to their
girls, I had to find someone to write to, so I thought of you.  I hope you
are flattered. I am here serving Volk en Vaderland.  We are going to kick
the commie-bastards' butts, so you can sleep safe in you little bed at
night. Now are you proud of me, or what?  The operational area is.... (The
remainder of the page had been cut out and the letter continued half way
down the following page.)

Vast slogans were painted on the walls of the destroyed towns and villages-
VIVA MPLA VIVA CASTRO We were glad to get out of there.

I'll bet you are missing me something chronic, meneer. Deans' must be
pretty dull without me to spice it up a little. Well, that's it. I suppose
if the censor gets this letter, I'll have the soul-tiffy, dominee van
Schalkwyk, coming to have a little talk about why don't I have a nice
boeremeisie to write to and how English boys are all naturally subversive.
Well, we could write a book on that subject couldn't we.  Take care of
yourself.  Vysbyt!

Till min dae,

Galahad Cronje


"I'll be fucked if I'm going to reply." Campbell protested. "He can rot up
there in the army."

Nathan played a tattoo on his knee "Whatever." he said

The second letter arrived during Campbell's third form year.

In the far north-eastern corner of the Republic of Botswana, the former
British Protectorate of Bechuanaland, lies one of the world's greatest
natural treasures. A segment of pristine Africa, virtually intact, that a
variety of natural forms of life have known for thousands of years. The
tides of time has caused migratory herds to criss-cross this wilderness for
untold thousands of years. My pioneering forefathers purchased a vast 200
square miles of mixed vegetation in this vast and special tract of land,
here, on the lower reached of the Okovango swamps. This has landed in my
hands after the passing of Oupa Cronje in Lydenburg.

The habitats of wooded plains, forested river banks and hills sustain an
extraordinary complexity of thousands of types of vegetation, more than 100
species of animal life, 300 types of birds, 100 reptiles, and tens of types
of fish and amphibians, and countless insects. The richness could keep
happy virtually any type of specialist - entomologist, ornithologist,
zoologist or botanist. I am planning to live there now and to build the old
place up into a worthwhile business. I wanted you to know this and to know
that you will always be welcome to come and stay here and perhaps
experience first-hand something of the real Africa. I very much wish to
renewing our former close friendship.

The reference to renewing our former close friendship chilled Campbell to
the bone. There had been ongoing school gossip about Cronje's impending
engagement, but his safety needed better security than this rumour. The
letter produced no reply from Dean's.

"I have read that letter twice and it just doesn't sound like your Cronje."

"He's not my Cronje, he never has been and he never will be."

"Whatever!"

"Why wont he just leave me alone?"

"Man, perhaps he is trying to make up." Kramer turned from his Robert's
Birds of Southern Africa to another book. "I found a copy of Livingstone's
diaries in the library."  He opened the old leather-bound book to a
marker. He read to Campbell:

Now I am on the point of starting another trip into Africa I feel quite
exhilarated: when one travels with the specific object of ameliorating the
condition of the natives every act becomes ennobled.

Adventure! The idea was born that day: an African adventure.

The third letter arrived in September 1976. It invited him to spend
December at the game-farm near the Okovango swamp. Campbell was scathing;
Kramer's was ecstatic.

"Do you have any idea how rich that area is in birdlife and game?"

"Good, then you go, but I'd advise you get yourself fitted-out with steel
underpants."

"I would if I'd been asked. Anyway, I'm stuck with my young boet until
Christmas, my family are going to America to see about Green cards."  The
tides of political unrest might have bypassed the Dean's playing fields,
but it had not gone unnoticed by parents with responsibilities. The pursuit
of Green cards had become something of a national pastime, as a wave of
white exciles followed the young blacks that had fled the country, for very
different reasons.

Once more, he sent no reply. Then two things occurred more or less
simultaneously. Kramer kept nagging about this unique opportunity to see
this unspoilt part of Africa and how he would donate his left testicle to
science to be given the opportunity. Campbell found himself wondering just
how grateful would he be? Then Cronje's mother, the foremost social hostess
in Waterkloof, wrote to Campbell's parents repeating the invitation. A
schoolboy would be a real handicap to the Campbell's at this socially
active time of the year. Cronje's tenacity was rewarded. The parents on
both sides reach the conclusion it would be good for him. The invitation
was accepted. Campbell was destroyed.

Campbell was now forced to select a strategy to secure the sanctity of his
ass. There could be no fooling around with Kramer and a younger boy as
witnesses. He wrote, with ominous innuendo, that his father had questioned
the wisdom and the propriety the two of them alone - there being such an
age gap. Cronje was, after all, twenty while he was only fifteen. Father
had recommended that he take a few friends along. Could Kramer and his
younger brother accompany him? He hoped it would be turned down and the
trip cancelled. The, by now very friendly, mothers intervened - Mrs Kramer,
too, thought it an excellent idea - all was arranged. Aeneas contemplated
the prospect of a holiday with the man he most hated in the entire world.


10 Themba

We met the twin-propped Cessna at the Fransistown landing-strip. Three
tired white schoolboys tumble out, the suitcases and zip-up hold-alls
seemed to me to contain all the riches in the world.  My brother, Cronje,
eases their passage through passport control and brought the rambling group
to the Land-Rover where I waited, out of the fly-buzzing sun, under a large
marula tree. The young red-haired boy, about twelve I guessed, was whining
in the way children do when they are tired. The other two are about
fifteen-years-old but they seem so much younger than me: at thirteen - but
then, they did not need to grow up quiet so quickly.

"Gentlemen, this is Themba Zuma and this is Aeneas Campbell, Nathan Kramer
and his brother Benjamin. Man, what you have in all these bags? I'm not
sure we have place for it all 'cause Themba and I had to get provisions
this trip, but what we don't need we'll give away. Hey?" This, with a wink
at myself. "Now what have you forgotten?"

"Three corks." Said the surly blond one.

"Yes, ou soutpiel, you haven't lost your good looks or your wicked tongue,
I see." We all laughed, except the pretty one. We bundled the bags on top
of the crates and parcels, struggled to close the tarpaulin of the
long-wheel-base Land-Rover and set off in a swirl of dust. My brother,
Cronje always drives fast, which is never a problem on the open roads, but
in this dusty stray-goat town, it was a nerve-wracking experience. I had no
need to say anything - the blond one started moaning, from his place behind
Cronje's shoulder, like an old wife, to whom a man has been married for too
long.

I had known my brother Cronje for about five months. I met him in the
streets of Gabarone, where he was doing some business with the government
authorities concerning the right to his property - I was begging.

My people were from the rolling green hills near Umzimkulu in Natal. We led
a simple, rural, life where the extended family system took care of any
need you might have. If an umfaan was without food, someone would provide
it.  To beg was, therefore, the worst humiliation that could ever have
befallen me. We had moved to Soweto for the money, when my father found a
job there.

The simple, rural, life had not prepared me for the worst rain-rutted
streets of White City, with it's skelms and shabeens but, as a boy, you
adjust very easily. Soweto: South Western Townships. One of the two rooms
in No. 1478 Block A of the great dormitory of row-upon-row of two roomed
units, was home shared with a Ma Radebe and her six children. A greater
shock was my encounter with the school system. A group of sixty or more of
us would crowd into a deskless classroom to be instructed in Afrikaans by
Mr van Staden, a teacher retired from his years in a white-only school. The
contrast to our small rural school, where the nuns knew you by name, could
not have been stronger. One week I was stumbling over Shakespeare and
Algebra; the next, this comic figure, in a crumpled safari suit, was
explaining to us, in a language I had never come across before, that
education just bred unhappiness and we should not set our hopes too high.

There seemed little point in continuing with this farce, so I wondered the
streets where I learned some Sesotho to supplement English and Zulu, which
was my mother tongue. I made friends with the fast boys and one-Rand girls;
card-sharps, taxi-drivers in their minibuses and the '40's American
mobster-movie clones.  I learned that everything from the white-world, had
a good-humoured coded meaning in Soweto. BMW stood for: Break My Windows,
and take me home while Castle, the name of a popular beer, stood for: Call
Africa Strong Till Liberation and Equality.  The struggle for survival was
often forgotten at an impromptu party to celebrate someone's sudden good
fortune: a win for Kaiser Chiefs against Mamelodi Sundown's on the dusty
football fields or a party for pay-out-day for the local Stokvel saving's
society.

Then, in the winter of '76 Soweto exploded. A thirteen-year-old Zulu boy,
out of his own environment, I had no idea what it was all about. The world
was no longer the safe caring place I was accustomed to. Suddenly, every
schoolchild became a target for the police-led troops that patrolled the
streets of Soweto. If you ran, you were fare game; if you stood still, you
were being provocative - either way the teargas would get you. The schools
went up in flames; there were attacks on teachers and officials. I watched
young Nkosanna, from next-door, paralysed by a bullet from an
Afrikaner-policeman's gun.

That day, my mother came to me, tears in her eyes, she told me that I had
to leave Soweto. It was no longer safe for a young boy. I was to return to
Natal. I was entirely un-politicised - I was no hothead. I met some boys in
the street corner near the burning wreck of a Police armoured
personnel-carrier, they said they were leaving for Natal and I could go
with them. My mother packed a plastic Checkers carrier-bag - a change of
underwear, some food and my Romeo and Juliet, which I treasured. She hid
two ten-Rand notes under that sole of my shoes.  We walked most of the way
to the Highway, there we got a lift with a man in a Coke-a-Cola van. He
said we had no papers and travelling to Natal would prove a problem, as the
Boere were trying to stop the unrest spreading to other parts of the
country. It would be quicker and safer for us to travel with him to
Botswana.

The white border control staff seemed happy to let us out the country:
"Stay away little kaffir troublemakers."  We arrived in Gabarone with no
way to support ourselves. There were hundreds of children like us - the
school halls and the churches were full to overflowing. I become separated
from the group at the outskirts of the town, where the tarmac road began.
The liberation movements and the Red Cross were trying their best to set up
ways of dealing with the stream of refugee children in Botswana, Swaziland
and Lesotho. It was a thankless battle.

During my third week on the streets - my twenty Rands long since spent -and
I came across the Tropicana Cafe. The Tropicana was the hang out for the
street girls, many far younger than myself that would wait there nursing a
coke-a-cola until some Boer crazed by lust for forbidden black cunt would
make the trip across the dry riverbed and drive into the blackmans country
in search of it. For a few Rand the girls would go with the white man for a
few hours and then he would return to his all white wife, his all white
children in his whites-only house in a whites only town.

One of the girls had told me that occasionally a German or French tourist
would ask he about black boys that might want to go with him for money and
the idea of easy money attracted me and so I started hanging around the
Cafe.

That is where I met this big, white-faced man with his charming bully-boy
manner. I hated him at sight - he was my enemy, but I played the servile
black boy: "Please, my baas, do you got money for me. Please, I am hungry."
He said he has no money for me, as I would only buy glue to sniff. This was
partly true, on the street you soon learned that Bostic had a wonderful
numbing effect against the cold July nights.

He looked at me long and hard, for the rest of the afternoon as he slowly
sipped Castle Lager. Eventually his beer got the better of his bladder and
he had to go to the lavatory. I walked into the restroom just in time to
see him position himself in front of one of two urinals.

I took up a position next to him.  I knew he was trying to get a look at my
young black boy's penis but I turned himself so that he couldn't see
anything.

Then I spoke, "You have been staring at me. Why you do that babba?"  I
heard his pee hit the urinal; he did not reply but he glanced my way.

"Is this what you wanted to see babba?" and I turned my body towards him.
And as he slowly turned his body back in my direction and I smiled as I saw
him focus on my 5 inch cock that was standing at proudly erect. My pants
were undone so that my sex was open and visible and nearly hairless. "Give
me ten Rands and you can see me make it cum" I offered as I started to
slide my fingers over his shaft.

"Five" he countered my offer.

"Where is the money?" I asked suspiciously not trusting this white man. He
fished a wallet out of his wallet and handed me a five Rand note. Then I
tried to make my break. I stuff the money rapidly into my shorts and tried
to make a dash for the door while stuffing my hard cock back in my pants
knowing he would not go to the police or risk a scene about have been
cheated.

He moved like lighting.

He caught me by my upper arm and yelled: "No you don't little kaffir!" The
angry Afrikaner ripped down my sorts and thrust my hand toward groin and
roared: "now play with it and make it cum you little bastard."

I trembled in fear. I was certain my life now hung on a thread. And I
grabbed his cock in my hand and started to pump it ferociously. His large
fleshy hand held me firmly as my hand fly over my dark circumcised rod. I
watched out of the corner of my eye as his free hand statrted massaging his
own large penis.  My black child-balls swung back and forth.  A few short
minutes after I started I groaned in a combination of sexual excitement and
fear: "Here it comes, my baas."

The white man put his hand in front of my cock as I shot two thick ropes of
sperm into the palm of his waiting hand.

He lifted the cum-stained hand to his face and smelt the musky aroma of
fresh black boy's cum.  I watched fascinated as he licked it from his hand
and then rubbed the remainder onto the length of his own hard cock.  I felt
my fear abating and something approaching arousal as he slowly and
methodically masturbated his thick white-man's cock to climax.

"Etch!" I flinched as his penis discharged a hot load of cum onto my black
genitals then he wiped the last hanging load of creamy cum off on my black
leg.

At last our lust and fear abating he released my arm.  I was too afraid to
clean it off in case this might offend him so I pulled my tattaeed shorts
up over my wet priavte parts and stained the fabric in the process.  As we
covered ourselves up, it was as if he remembered something and said: "If
you are really hungry I'll buy you a meal, but that is all you will get
from me, kaffirtjie."

He took me back into the Tropicana Cafe where this Greek brought us
hamburgers and he drank a Castle lager, while he watched me eat, first
mine, then his burger.

"So you were hungry pikanin," He then spoke to me in Setswana which I could
barely understand, I told him I was Zulu. "And what are you doing here?"  I
told him I fled the troubles. He deduced I was probably a trouble-maker and
therefore deserved to be shot at by the police. Somehow the anger at having
to leave my family and my country and end up here among these strange
Setswanas erupted.  I cursed him in Zulu and he laughed.

"'You can't take a chance with a kaffir, my boy.' That is what my father
always said me. It seems he was right."

"Do you believe everything your father tells you? Do you do everything your
government tells you?" I could not believe these words were coming from my
mouth. Until the three weeks before I had believed everything my family
told me, including the fact that people like this one, knew best.

Cronje quotes their national anthem to me: "At thy will to live or perish,
O South Africa , our land."

"How will you Afrikaners react when we banish you all to the Karoo? When
we tell you must get a pass to travel anywhere in the country? When you are
excluded from the universities and theatres? If you want to work you must
leave your family behind and then we can send you back to where you came
from whenever it suits us." He slapped my face.

His eyes were angry. He told me I was an ungrateful bastard and I deserved
to be beaten. A fright broke out - golden-haired Boereseun and slight black
boy, locked in a mortal combat - the panellite tables and chairs scattered;
plates and glasses breaking and the Greek wringing his anguished hands and
warning us he'd called the police. The battle was unequal. He simply
wrapped me up in his arms and held me still until I stopped struggling and
started to cry. I must have cried acrid tears for hours. When, finally, I
looked up into his face I saw he too, was crying.  I did not comprehend
this extraordinary white man.

We teamed up in Gabarone that day. There was something we needed from each
other. That was why I did not end up in the usual refugee circles, where
the exiled political organisations would, eventually, have taken care of
me.

Continued in 10-20