The revolt was very unexpected when it occurred.

At 6:15 the next morning.

A moment before it began, Ogbanje Soyinka was calmly jogging around the outside perimeter of the camps--as he did every morning.  He paused by the house of a teenaged Thabazimbi girl in order to request that she baby sit his young son, Ukegbu, again.  The guards of prison camp Boypad S were at their posts, still sleepy, but ready for a day's work.

Then suddenly there was this yelling--the shouts of crisp, young voices.  There was also the sound of naked feet pounding nearby, advancing closer.  The camp guards and Ogbanje--who happened to be jogging by the sentry compound at the time--turned to see what the source of this uproar was. 

There was a group of young people--the oldest of which hadn't even begun to sprout his man's growth--who were rushing towards the guards of Boypad S.  Their blue, green and gray eyes were blazing with rage. 

"Settle down, young ones,"  Ogbanje said slowly as he leaped over the gate and into the incarceration encampment.  Providentially, Ibuza Ndume and a few of his early-rising loyalists arrived on the scene and did the same thing.  "We do not wish to harm you!"

"Get them!"  The apparent leader of the youths shouted as he led the charge forward.  "Get those kaffirs!"

The principled serviceman and the bald zealot watched in stunned silence as the crowd of pink youths approached  . . . then a flourish of young judo-honed hands, feet and bodies lashed out at the Thabazimbi prison guards.               

Ibuza reached for the revolver in his holster.

"They are young, Ibuza!"  Ogbanje screamed at his partner, horrified.  "Like children they are not aware of how serious the consequences of their current actions are."

"They shall learn,"  Ibuza said coldly, preparing to aim his revolver.

Whether or not the co-regent would have actually fired upon the young people is unknown.  Before the bald zealot could pull the trigger, Ogbanje leaped into the crowd of advancing young people, brutally clubbing Dutch  boys with his fists--trying to quickly knock them all down and out before Ibuza could put them down permanently with bullets.  

"Stop this madness!"  one of the soldiers shouted as he gave a simpleton a slap that seemed to rattle the lad's brains; the boy just hung limp in the huge man's hands until the soldier gave him two more backhanded slaps, then the lad just crumpled down into a limp heap.

"You are hurt now, but you will recover!"  The soldier yelled down at the unconscious young Afrikaner.  Ogbanje thought that he could detect the sad regret in the man's voice.  "All of you young ones shall recover and, perhaps, you will one day forgive us for what we've done to you here this morning!"

Just as before, none of the soldiers were prepared for a battle against “children”.   

Ogbanje watched as eighteen-year-old Mace Hertzog, one of the two Dutchboys who'd led the revolt, attempted to flee from the area.

While Ogbanje was still trying to make sense out of the chaos surrounding him, freckle-faced Mace continued running towards the opened gate.  In response, Ibuza Ndume took off after him.  The bald zealot wasn't much of a runner since the bus accident he was involved in six months earlier (the bus accident which had claimed the lives of Ogbanje's young bride as well as the wife of Chief Mgbafo) and his sprint was rather labored. 

Still, Ibuza appeared to be gaining on the stolid, freckled boy.  But Ogbanje couldn't see whether or not the bald zealot had finally apprehended Mace because both the Zimbi man and Dutch boy disappeared beyond the gate and out of his field of vision. 

So the principled serviceman focused his attention on the other happenings within the camp-turned-battlefield. 

Even his Christianized Yoruba warriors were having trouble keeping the young rebels down without seriously injuring them.  Ogbanje watched as a gentle soldier named Emenike grabbed a youth as the lad ran passed him.  The boy had already clobbered him with several rocks, and seemed intent on locating something bigger to smite the warrior with.  Emenike set the lad down and slapped him hard--just enough to render the lad unconscious.

Elsewhere around the camp, things seemed to be going pretty much the same way.  One by one the young people were struck down and hauled back to a designated area for prisoners.

Turning westward, Ogbanje caught sight of Ibuza, trudging tiredly back through the gate, carrying the limp, freckled body of Mace Hertzog under his arm. 

"Sir, I think Ibuza is growing impatient,"  A young warrior whispered to the principled serviceman.  "Did you hear him?  He was sending a number of his men away to retrieve the antiriot weaponry."

The antiriot weapons (the Arwen 37) that this young man was referring to had been designed for efficient crowd control by the British . . . and sold to Thabazimbi through the Nigerians.  It was said that those arms were very effective in crushing civil unrest situations, but the Thabazimbis had not yet tested them as close-support weapons.  Until the arrival of the Afrikaner schoolboys, they hadn't needed to.

"Well, the Arwen 37s are mean-looking pieces of equipment,"  Ogbanje said.  "Perhaps he is not planning to put them into play, but is merely using them for intimidation purposes."

"Perhaps."  The young Warrior said dubiously.  He and Ogbanje focused their attention across the camp towards Ibuza.  The bald zealot now had young Mace Hertzog slung carelessly over his shoulder.  The eighteen-year-old wasn't moving. 

A vicious Dutch boy--the other rebel leader who was named Will Kaiser--leaped into a fray of soldiers, kicking and swinging with some other offensive form of the martial arts.  An eyepatch-wearing, one-eyed warrior reached for his shoulder pistol--a Detonics Pocket 9 revolver--and aimed it.  This Zimbi apparently decided that only a genuine bullet was going to stop a roguish boy such as this one.  But Ibuza barked at him, "No!  Ogbanje is correct . . . we must take them alive." 

Eighteen-year-old Will Kaiser kicks this warrior--who resembles a black pirate to him--in the shin but, because the lad is shoeless, this blow is ineffective.  All the warrior had to do was just get his large, black hands around the fighting little schoolboy's neck.  Three tranquilizer rifles are pointed in the roguish boy's direction from different corners of the camp, but none of the soldiers who were aiming them could get a clear shot at the schoolboy without accidentally tranquilizing one of their own in the confusion.           

Eventually, however, the fed-up one-eyed Zimbi managed to crack Will Kaiser over the head with the butt of his revolver.  And when the roguish boy came to, he found himself sprawled across a pile of his unconscious comrades.  He tried to move his arms and found that his hands were bound, tied firmly behind his back with thong.  His feet were also bound.      

A whole new cadre of Thabazimbi soldiers appeared and aimed their untested Arwen 37 Antiriot weapons at the remaining young rebels.  Ogbanje Soyinka yelled "Put those away, you fools!"  But this new cadre of soldiers--mainly made up of Ibuza's Bantu faction--were clearly itching to fire.  Many of the rebel schoolboy boys realized this, so throwing their hands up in surrender seemed the smartest thing to do.  And that is just what a number of the lads were doing while tranquilizer darts pierced their skins and almost immediately rendered them senseless.       

Ogbanje shook his head as he heard the hollow *phut!* sounds ring out . . . and watched rather helplessly as the young rebel Dutchboys collapsed to their knees and fell on their faces like sacks of grain.  Then Thabazimbi soldiers seized the fallen Dutchboys by their feet and dragged their limp bodies off to one end of the camp where they were tossed onto a pile of the other unconscious losers of the morning's revolt.

***

Chief Ekwensi Mgbafo, still a bit feverish because of his current bout with malaria, lay in bed contemplating the recent troubling events at Boypad S.  The portly ruler was also mindful of his late wife, and how he desperately needed her wise counsel at this critical time.

After dozing a bit, he heard advancing footsteps in the hallway outside of his bedroom.  Eventually Ibuza Ndume--leader of his the Moslem Bantu faction of the Thabazimbi army--stood at his door.  The portly ruler had earlier informed both this Moslem leader and Ogbanje Soyinka that they were free to disturb him with important matters at any hour, day or night.  Only no-nonsense Ibuza had taken the statement seriously.  The bald zealot was still clad in full uniform, and his demeanor was all business.

"Hello, Ibuza."  said the chief with a tired smile. 

"Good evening, sir.  Are you preparing to sleep right now?"

"No,"  Chief Mgbafo lied.  He knew that the bald zealot had something important he wanted to discuss with him.  And he was reasonably sure about what it was.  "I was just lying here in quiet contemplation.  Come in."

Ibuza traversed into the bedroom and sank into the chair nearest the portly ruler's bed.  "I have been thinking about how to handle what has happened in Boypad S.  How to handle it in a way so that unpleasant business, such as that pitiful rebellion, will not repeat itself."

The bald zealot went on to suggest that one of the two leaders of the revolt should be publicly executed as a lesson to the others.  Chief Mgbafo--who was a wise and congenial ruler despite his voracious appetite--immediately struck down the vile proposal.  Mgbafo admired Ibuza--greatly respected his bravery and leadership abilities on the battlefield . . . loved him almost like a son.  But the Chief often found the zealous Moslem leader to be a bit too extreme in his views. 

"Well, what should we do then, sir?"  Ibuza asked.  "We have to set an example quickly--so that another rebellion will not occur.  If we don't, the next insurgency may result in an inadvertent loss of life for several of those young Dutchboys."

The portly ruler nodded gravely and appeared to be in deep thought for a moment.

"We could try starving them."  Chief Mgbafo suggested finally.  "After a couple of days with growling bellies, perhaps they will be weakened enough to listen to reason--perhaps they will even be forced to admit that their rebellions are only harmful to themselves."           

"So many of those monstrous Afrikaner youth have been fed hatred like mother's milk." said the bald zealot.  "They will not listen to reason.  They will not even know HOW to."

"Yes, but the operative word is CHILDREN, Ibuza.  They are not adults . . . and we can't beat their upbringing out of them.  We must show them that there is another way to be.  A better way."

"First we have to teach the lot of them just who is in control in this city."  said Ibuza.  "We should atleast take the hard line with a couple of the renegades--perhaps only the two who led the revolt?"

Chief Mgbafo was dubious--he thought about his own two children, Agbala and Inyanga,  Unlike the mostly eighteen and nineteen-year-old Afrikaners, the chief’s daughters were truly children, and were presently sleeping comfortably within their soft beds in another part of the palace.  Eventually, however, he decided that the bald zealot's plan of dealing with the Afrikaans-speaking youths had some merit.  "Do not hurt them too badly, Ibuza." warned the portly ruler.  "We don't want to start off behaving exactly like the kind of colonizing Anglos we despise."

Ibuza nodded with a barely concealed smile, then spun on his heel and left the room.

Chief Mgbafo did not like the look he'd glimpsed in the bald zealot's face, so--sighing deeply--he quickly threw back his blankets, slid into his dressing gown, then stumbled weakly after Ibuza down the palace hall.

***

"But, sir, Ibuza's plan is horrific!"  An astonished Ogbanje Soyinka exclaimed as he, Chief Mgbafo and Ibuza Ndume confabulated within the palace dining hall.

"I have to say that I agree with Ibuza about this, Ogbanje.  And I am sorry to say that his plan must be implemented."  The portly ruler--who was still quite weak from his illness--had stretched himself out on a chaise lounge within the dining hall.  Ogbanje and Ibuza stood beside the chaise.  Their feverish chief lay with his head on numerous stuffed pillows.  "These Dutch young people will most-certainly attempt to revolt again unless we remove that particular notion from there heads right here and now.  You see, after having survived their first little rebellion, they will all be thinking to themselves, 'We can chance breaking free again . . . the soldiers might knock us out with tranquilizer darts, but nothing worse'.  We cannot allow that, Ogbanje.  For their sake as much as ours, we have got to make an example out of a couple of these young rebels."

Moments later, Ogbanje watched as a cadre of Thabazimbi soldiers appeared at the palace doors, pushing and shoving a large group of schoolboy boys who all had their wrists bound in front of them. 

The boys' facial features made it clear that they were still fighting the effects of the tranquilizers--confused, bleary-eyed, extremely pale.  One Thabazimbi warrior commented on how their legs trembled.  And because their faces were puffy from sleep, all of them seemed that much more innocent.

And that is going to make what we are about to do that much more difficult.  Ogbanje thought to himself as he watched the precession of young prisoners with a heavy heart.

The groggy Dutchboys were led by Thabazimbi warriors into the huge palace dining hall where Chief Mgbafo still lay stretched across his chaise lounge.  The royal hall seemed absolutely silent.  Even the young captives' bare feet on the marble floor didn't make much noise as the last of them were marched into the huge room. 

"Ibuza,"  The portly ruler said, using a handkerchief to mop his feverish brow.  "Have your men seize the two leaders of the revolt and have them placed before me."

At the bald zealot's command, a group of warriors ran into the crowd, forcibly prying out the two rebel leaders and dragging them over to the chaise where Chief Mgbafo was lying.

The portly ruler's face was no longer thoughtful.  In fact, it was currently holding an expression that would have been a match for Ibuza in it's coldness.  The rough hands of the warriors kept a strong grasp on Will Kaiser and Mace Hertzog; a sharp blow to their young shoulders forced both boys to kneel. 

"We are not monsters here."  the Chief told them in a toneless voice.  "But I see now that you two are especially slow learners of how things are done in Thabazimbi.  So I will leave you to the tender mercies of my two co-regents, Ogbanje and Ibuza."

The boys were wrestled to their feet.  Ogbanje stood uneasily before the boy known as Mason "Mace" Hertzog . . . and Ibuza stood imperiously in front of roguish Eighteen-year-old Will Kaiser. 

"Strike the red-haired one down, Ogbanje,"  The chief ordered the serviceman.  And he had spoken in the African Ibo language--so that the captive schoolboy boys on the sidelines could not understand what he was saying.  "Strike him down now . . . in front of all his young schoolboy allies."

"But, sir--"

"Do not argue with me, Ogbanje!"  The chief said sharply in the Ibo language.  "They must not see that you are hesitant.  Strike the boy down . . . now!"

Ogbanje drew back his fist and slammed it into the stolid, freckled boy's jaw.  Mace only teetered a bit.  Because the principled serviceman had attempted to be as gentle as possible, the stocky redhead was knocked a bit goofy by the blow, but not out.  So Ogbanje cursed beneath his breath and hit the boy again, much harder this time.  The second blow snapped the brave lad's head back, and Mace Hertzog's stolid, unconscious body flopped face-forward to the marble floor.     

The other Afrikaner schoolboys present gasped almost simultaneously.  Weak in the knees now, they leaned against one another.  Some had to be supported by the Zimbi warriors.     

"Well done, Ogbanje.  I  know how difficult that was for you."  said the portly ruler in the Ibo language.  He then motioned towards Ibuza and Will Kaiser.  The roguish schoolboy wasn't cringing in terror, but proudly stood there with his pale face full of defiance and hate.  "Now, strike down this wild child, Ibuza.  Don't kill the boy . . . just render him senseless like his freckled friend here."

Without a second's hesitation, the bald zealot grabbed the boy by the sides of his young face.  Ibuza then kneed upward and simultaneously rammed Eighteen-year-old Will Kaiser's face DOWNWARD.  It was a vicious knee-to-nose blow that put the lad’s lights out. 

Then the bald zealot grabbed Will's sun-bleached hair and yanked his head up.  The boy's slender arms dropped and swung limply at his sides.  Only the whites of the unconscious lad's eyes were visible now, and blood seemed to pour in impossible amounts from Will's nasal cavity.  Satisfied, Ibuza released his grip, allowing the roguish youth's body to plop to the floor.         

One of the observing Dutch schoolboy actually fainted at the sight of his bloodied, injured comrade.  A Zimbi warrior revived him with smelling salts and ordered two other Afrikaans-speaking boys to support this poor little fellow as his head hung limply and some color returned to his incredibly pale face.  He was not allowed to lose consciousness again--none of the Afrikaner schoolboys were.  They were all forced to bear witness to these violent acts of Thabazimbi dominance. 

And these acts were not performed out of mere self righteousness.  It was just that the Dutchboys had to see how badly things could go for them in this tiny nation if they didn't cooperate.  Chief Mgbafo had wisely, but regretfully, consented to have the two leaders of the revolt punished publicly for their acts of defiance.  Let all the Afrikaner schoolboys see two youngsters broken and bloodied.  The others would now reconsider any ideas they may have harbored about staging a second revolt.  They saw now that Zimbis could be absolutely pitiless . . . even ruthless.

Another Dutch boy--the one with the bandaged wrists who had been injured the day before--began to plead for his parents.  He was weeping, but attempted to hide his face behind the bandaged splints on his broken wrists.  Everyone ignored him.                                              

"Well done, well done."  said Chief Mgbafo in English this time to Ogbanje and Ibuza.  He motioned towards the observing Dutchboys standing on the sidelines, his expression still cold.  "Now get these others out of here."

The Thabazimbi soldiers harshly marched the Dutchboys out of the palace hall and back to Boypad S. 

Once the Afrikaner schoolboys were gone, Chief Mgbafo stood up from his lounge and stumbled over to where the unconscious bodies of Eighteen-year-old Will Kaiser and Mace Hertzog still lay crumpled on his marble floor.  His expression had lost its coldness and the portly ruler now looked deeply saddened.  He glanced down at the bruised and battered faces of the two beaten Afrikaner schoolboys--this pair of brave young rebels--and sighed deeply.  These were basically children.  Hateful, spiteful, rebellious children . . . but mere children in almost every sense of the word except true chronological age. 

Choking back a frustrated sob, the portly ruler gazed over his shoulder at Ibuza.  "Have these two moved to the infirmary.  And have my personal physician tend to them."       

So Ibuza summoned two soldiers who promptly scooped up Will Kaiser and carried the inert young Afrikaner out of the hall. 

Instead of having soldiers transport Mace Hertzog to the infirmary as well, Ogbanje Soyinka himself picked up the motionless boy whom he had injured, holding the beaten Dutch schoolboy against his chest as he carried Mace from the palace.

***

The next day all of the Dutch Afrikaner schoolboys made a formal apology to the entire village of Thabazimbi and were allowed to make their way back to their own homeland on the other side of the bush.  All of the Afrikaner schoolboys except Eighteen-year-old Will, that is.

The roguish lad remained proudly defiant and unapologetic, so—instead of joining his schoolmates on their journey home—he was roughly seized by two Zimbi Warriors.

Soon Will found himself tied up, spread-eagled and face up in the courtyard again, to an embroidered kinte-cloth mat, to endure a session of intense, unrelenting tickling for indefinite period of time. Zimbi warriors smeared honey all over the boy’s warm, sweaty, trembling bare feet. Young bare feet with beautifully formed, fair-skinned toes. The warrior then smeared the honey all over the boy coating him from neck to navel.

A third Zimbi warrior appeared with two leashed goats in tow. With an evil look that made his already dark face appear even darker, the warrior let the jackals loose.

Almost immediately these jackals explored bound Eighteen-year-old Will’s young toes and sensitive soles with their tongues, and the boy instantly began to giggle. The giggles deepened into outright laughter.

The boy convulsed against the straw mat. He panted, puffed and screamed. Using their tongues, the goats traveled their way down Will Kaiser’s legs . . . then back to his honey-coated beautiful feet. Working almost in conjunction they licked Will’s toes, one bound foot each, several toes at a time. They did this until both of the boy’s feet were glistening. . . and young Will Kaiser was bucking, spasming, heaving and twitching with hysterics and pleas for mercy that wouldn’t be answered.

END