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