Man from Out of Town

George was walking down the street through this small city, although it was generous to call it either a street or a city. The largely illiterate Bantu population lived in self-built shacks with no utilities all spaced almost touching in winding narrow streets of dirt that went in no particular order.

Allegedly, the whole city was squatters with migrants to the city arriving over the decades and putting their homes in open fields previously owned by now-displaced farmers. George did not know about any of that, but this location was relatively new and no property records existed in this part of the world. And yes, all the Bantu settlements and camps were referred to as locations, no matter how large or well-established.

George Nkomo was the name. He was what was locally called colored, but known elsewhere as mixed race. In this part of the world, that mostly made him a stranger to both communities except to the people that knew him by name. He lived in a more modern town than this one but was in town with his truck to trade tools for food to take the short drive back home.

George had left his cousin in charge of the truck and made the quarter-mile trek to his contact's house in the center of the city. George was selling to whoever was buying, but this merchant would buy wholesale. George's nose detected human waste on the street before he saw where not to step, and he kicked an old can out of the way. The sun was hot and high in the sky, and George wanted all business done in order to be home before nightfall as street lights were rare in this part of the world. George adjusted the rope holding his small backpack and moved on until he got to another shack whose only defining feature was that it was familiar to George.

He knocked on the door, and it was soon opened by Furai who smiled with welcome. He invited him in and asked his wife to bring tea, and the conversation they had was in a mix of English and the local dialect.

"How's this place holding up?" George asked.

"Nothing out of the usual. No news is good news."

"Really? Word going around was a lot of those ZIPRA men have been coming down here."

"Yeah, some of them came by and tried to buy guns from me, but I told them I had none to sell. I don't want to get involved in any of that."

George sipped tea. "How'd they take it?"

"Called me a traitor to Communism. As if they aren't fighting other Communists."

"You worried? I mean, your whole family is here."

"Those guys wouldn't know how to shoot even if they had weapons. And besides, haven't the Soviets been giving them weapons? Not sure if these guys really are ZIPRA if they have to go looking on the black market."

"ZIPRA got that rocket they shot that airliner with from somewhere. Definitely would have been put to better use by someone who knows the difference between a civilian and military plane."

A pause. Farai moved the topic to the real reason for George's visit.

"What I'm frankly more worried about the thieves. Someone tried to break in again last night. I hope you have what I requested."

George took off the backpack and untied the string holding the sack closed. "It's not much, but I got a good price and it'll do." George removed a bulky and heavy piece of stamped steel workmanship and put it on the table.

Farai picked it up by the handle and regarded it. "Is it automatic?"

"Yes. The rifling isn't the best and it fires from the open bolt position so it's not as accurate as those factory guns but it was the best the village gunsmith could do."

"I wasn't planning on poaching anything with this" Farai said as he examined the iron sights on the submachine gun and found the tab that removed the magazine. George set the box of bullets and the spare magazine on the table.

"It's good," Farai said and took the money out of his pocket and gave it to George. Farai stuffed it under the seat cushion and they rose for the legal side of their business. George went outside first, agreeing to meet Farai outside town, and looked both ways on the street. Several locals were loafing about either going somewhere or working with hand tools. One man looked at George too long for comfort, interested in the stranger emerging from Farai's house. George walked through the street towards the truck where hopefully George's cousin was busily trading their goods.

A literal stone's throw from Farai's house he rounded a narrow corner and almost bumped into a man going the other way wearing an old Belgian army uniform. George turned, as it was not the strange dress that drew his attention but the face. The other man turned, evidently surprised to see a colored man's face in this town. Both men's faces turned to fear George recognized the other man from a wanted poster as he was the ZIPRA commander in this area. Two men were with him and looked at the Commander and looked at George, and for a few seconds they stared at each other.

George ran, rounding the other corner back towards Farai's house. This was hard as George was out of shape and already tired from the long walk over here, and he heard the men chase after him. As they approached Farai's house he saw Farai emerging from his shed with the wheelbarrow he used to move stuff, befuddled what was going on. George burst through the Farai's door, shocking Farai's wife holding their baby close. George dove for the gun where he knew Farai had hidden it and yanked it out. He slapped the magazine and as he heard footsteps outside, pulled back and locked the charging handle, and just as his adversaries emerged through the door he brought the gun to his shoulder.

The heavy and slow cycling of the gun loudly hammered a dozen bullets into the Commander's chest, and his deafened comrades turned and ran.

George fell into a seated position on the sofa, shocked at what he just did. George always said he was on nobody's side, but here he had just killed a key Communist in his home region, making a hero to some and a villain to others. But George had to do it, as those men knew George would have reported their location to the authorities. Farai came to the coughing and bleeding, coughing, remains of the once proud man. Farai looked in horror, then looked in pity at George on the sofa.

"We've got to get you out of here," he said.

George never did trade at that location again. He told the police about the matter, and they agreed to keep the matter quiet. One of the most wanted men in the region was crossed off a list, and George never heard of people who knew he had done the deed. But there were certainly people who knew. Either Farai had confided to them, or they saw him get rid of the body. Or someone George had confided to would spill the beans. Or someone on the street had seen him escaping with blood stains on his clothes. Or simply the Commander's men would find him later. George really did not live far away from all this, and George really had no means of escaping the fear of the avengers that would surely one day come.