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of his time at the beach or amongst the slaves. What a bargaining power his possession of the diary earned him and how well he was using it, Longstands thought. He reached into his drawer and pulled out a box that he rarely touched; in it lay the last stick of a Cuban cigar. It was going to be the first time he would light one for any reason other than victory—this one was being lit for defeat.
    For the first time in his life, he had been cornered and brought to his knees by his own son and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Longstands was at his wits’ end and his wife was not helping. It was as if the whole world had turned its back on him; he felt so alone, so tired and so frustrated.
    As he dragged the smoke out of the cigar into his lungs and watched it make its exit through his mouth and nostrils, forming a grey cloud in front of him, he felt like he was in a boat that was slowly taking in water with only a matter of time before it sank, taking him with it to the bottom of the sea. Slowly he lifted his over six-foot and close to two hundred pounds frame off the relieved bamboo chair and headed out. Another walk around the Fort could do him some good, he reckoned. There had to be something he could do and he had to think and act fast if he was to stand any chance of winning the intensifying fight.

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Chapter Thirteen
    I t was way into the wee hours of the morning, just about the time for the cock to crow for the first time, when one of the slaves noticed that Jonah was not in the hut. He swung around, his eyes sweeping through the hut in one quick move and then he fastened his eyes on the location where Jonah usually spread his mat every night and blinked several times. Jonah wasn’t lying on his dilapidated mat as he usually did, with both palms clasped together and carefully placed under his head; knees drawn up so close to his chin that he looked like a foetus.
    “Ehem, where's the boy?” the slave asked casually and the three of the eight other men who were half awake grumbled uninterestedly. When had it become one of their numerous concerns to keep an eye on the young man?
    “Probably in the dark somewhere with his lady, watching the moon, counting the stars, and dreaming away,” Locua mocked. Some of the slaves laughed; everybody knew that Locua was envious of Jonah’s relationship with Ashana.
    “Oh yes, the girl is a pretty young woman and I think that you people, especially you Locua, are simply jealous,” another slave said, in defence of Jonah.
    “Hahaha!” A roar of laughter rose, encouraging a joke battle between Locua and the man that had appointed himself Jonah’s advocate.
    “What?” Locua scoffed.
    “What…what do you mean, ‘what?’ Is that all you have to say?” another man challenged Locua.
    “You all know that if I ever wanted that girl, she would have been mine a long time ago. As a matter of fact, she would have been here right now.”
    “Hahaha!” Another round of laughter ripped through the raffia roof of the tiny hut.
    “Is it any secret that you were overheard begging her on your knees; asking her to like you just a little bit?” Jonah’s advocate fired at Locua.
    “And she flatly refused, calling you a crazy old fool,” another man added, joining the joke battle. This instantly drew booing and disparaging gestures from the others, who had now assumed sitting positions in anticipation of the direction the slowly escalating joke battle could go.
    “What?” Locua said, his face clearly distorted with an overwhelming dose of embarrassment. “Whoever told you that?”
    “I did,” mocked one of the men, drawing another round of laughter.
    “Be quiet, fool,” Locua said to the man, causing the others to laugh even harder at the clearly visible embarrassment on his face.
    “Maybe the person who is spreading the rumour is the one person who is not participating in this conversation—the one who is