The Coil Spring

Adil Aboobakar, 2022

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Although real events have inspired settings or
backdrops across this work, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the
product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, or locales should be considered coincidental. This work aims
humbly to inspire reflection and is just that.
For the lost ones, in their favour…

-3+1+2-

2
16:47, 23 January 1968

‘Private!’

Lin’s white tulle veil,

Half conceals her face,
Her lips… twitching,
Like only hers do,

Into dimples,
Into (that) smile,
At crossroads with her curls,
Curls of her sunkissed brown hair.

Our hands united,

Her eyes into mine,
They spill into clouds,
Gunmetal, turquoise?

Future Mrs. Linda Holden.

“Do you take this woman to be your wife,
To live together in holy matrimony,
to love her –”

I do. I do! I do!

‘Jesus Christo!’
When did spring in Surrey,
get so effing hot?’

‘Private Bumwhole!’

Backyard sparrows chirp,

Almost like they bark.
Ma tells me not to,
Feed them bloody crumbs.

“Smells like flatulence.”

It’s not crumbs that,
Make them smell like fart, Ma.
It’s human trash.

The beasts peck like,

They got fangs for beaks.
Ian pokes at my forehead.
Like it’s an elevator button.

3
“Fix your mug, Private!”
Picks up my stray hat,
Hits my mug with it.
“Blimey! Let’s go!”

Thick, misty heat,

Has found ingress.
Uniform sticks to my body,
Like a swimsuit.

God, is this what it feels like to sleep a thousand years?

The open door of the Hercules,

Outlines a clean slate of blue sky.
Poke – Poke – The smell of flatulence –
That’s Ian’s breath, “Next poke is a fist, Private!”

The crew is spilling on the tarmac.

Aircraft’s engines are shutting down.
I unbuckle, cup my face, sweat – argh.
Time, space, consciousness – catching up…

Major Huelin – back in Malacca –

Knifing the sandman at past midnight.
‘You, you, and you. No, not you – turdface!’
B-Coy, First Battalion – Standby – March!

Dry eyes – Uniform – Backpack – Rifle –

Boots – Left for right, right for left – Again.
Where are we going? First, Singapore,
5-hour drive from Terendak Camp.

Pressed against the black of night, peering –

At each other’s faces, soul searching.
Faces like water balloons that could –
Burst into tears – sit – sleep – sleep sit.

I need to send a letter to Lin…

Truckful of us unloaded,
At the foot of three Hercules’,
Mastodons against the twilight blue,
Where I bumped into Ian Edward Poole.

4
We go back 12 years this January,
When he stole my bike and left me for dead –
(Kind of) by St. Luke’s square in Guildford.
Cut for this infantry business.

Two heads above the crowd watermark,

Rifle dangerously on his shoulder.
“Good to see you, Bumwhole!” he said,
“Sun, sea, and turkey! Cannot wait!”

14-hour flight that felt like –

Sitting in that machine Ma bought,
From America that does laundry.
Heading Southwest to – Island of Nassau?

“Lowe awaits us at the Line Barracks,”

“File in!” – This is Second Lieutenant Price.
Metallic clanks, rhythm of boots,
Ian’s smug face, all swell and afflict.

‘…the man who don’t know fear… seein’ his duty clear…’

I shall be needing Dr. Holson,

Once I am back in London.
To burn the memory of that tune,
The words, the stench, the infantry.

We sway like broken compass needles,

On the back of the anti-riot truck.
Some with legs bridging from aching butts,
Some gripping the side bar, catching wind.

Sweet smelling manure in random puffs,

Fuse with our already stinky lot,
As we pass the fields of livelihood,
Pass trees with bright red flowers – blood, why?

Some men lay by stony patios –

Drunk way past the Rubicon.
Children in stained shorts chasing us,
Like kite runners – one stops, salutes.

Women clad in bright silky shawls,

Concealing semi-curious eyes,
Barring dust and our white faces –
They look at us looking at them.

5
Us, the empire… collapsing under the weight of an overindebted crown…

A gross heat-prone 18th century,

Stone abomination – the Line Barracks.
Mostly barren courtyard, obviously French.
We disembark and file into neat rows.

KSLI, SMF, civil cops,

All gathered to cushion the falling,
Pieces of a collapsing Empire.
I want to be home in Guildford.

“They call themselves Istanbul and Texas!”

Major Lowe dives deep in his speech, prancing,
Back and forth along a 10-yard line,
Which comes down to 3 on emphasis.

The word Imperialist trails him,

Like a thought bubble, over that blond grey,
Moustache of an archaeologist,
Lost in Giza, and that matched theme hat.

“…Several reports of atrocious,

Acts of violence, unacceptable…”
A dozen black birds with strange yellow beaks,
Debate something quite crucial up a tree.

Just want to be home in Guildford, under the duvet with Lin…

“…We are called upon to restore peace!

Call to which our response shall be firm!”
A stray dog infiltrates the quarters,
Bites its tail and sits on its bum.

“… informed of crudely fashioned weapons…

You are advised to act prudently.
You will patrol both on foot and rovers…”
I need to locate a post-office.

“Do you think they have a post-office?"

I look up and down the empty street.
Ian has a foot on the step of a church.
Sun is about to set with public curfew.

“Sure, they must,” Ian lights a cigarette,

“Speak to Malox. He’ll get you there.”

6
A ruckus up in the trees is sort of,
Climaxing – birds screeching like monkeys.

Church walls eat up the dusk, soak in the night.

We are two at this unlikely checkpoint,
500 yards from the Line Barracks.
Ian blows thick smoke against the dying light.

The empire…

“What do you think is the riot for?”

Ian sucks on his cigarette, inhales deep,
As though pickling a profound answer.
“Nationalists, maybe. Bloody joke, eh?”

“Nationalists? Fighting each other?”

His eyes darken, like none other could.
“This isn’t Nam, Bumwhole. Or Borneo.
Jokers flew the coop when we landed.”

Ian flicks his torch on then off then on.

“I’d rather patrol the inner quarters,
And shoot me some bloody turkey!”
His torch flicks on then off then on, repeat.

Molotov cocktails – acid bombs –

Hurled at houses – people – each other –
Charred wood – charred skin – NO NO – smell of piss –
Screams – daggers – rust – blood – blood on rust.

In the windless night, four shots are fired,

From two different rifles, up North.
Echo pounds the sky, Ian grunts.
I stare at my rifle to flush my mind.

Blood on rust – obscenities in a language I did not want to understand – children

crouching in fear in some ratty basement – men beating – being beaten. Torch flicks
on and off and on and off.

I heard the engine first.

Quite a familiar sound.
Rata-rata-rata.
Church wall grows a halo.

A pair of dim headlights.

At the crossroad, 50 yards,

7
A dark Vauxhall Victor.
Gravity leaves my body.

Ian frees his rifle,

Me, long seconds later.
The car jolts to a stop.
Rata-rata-rata.

Ian motions with his torch.

Gears crunch, switch to reverse.
Unwinding grates my nerves.
Driver goes first gear, Ian shoots.

Left headlight shatters.

The car jerks, engine stalls.
Through a misty window,
Ian aims clean at the driver.

A Vauxhall Victor, just like Linda’s Pa…

“Step out of the vehicle!”

The car rolls backwards... “Now!”
I close in, flash my torch.
Driver is built like an ox.

African, male, wearing,

An Indian sort of outfit.
I inspect the back seat,
Pile of junk – looks like sheets.

Ian jabs hard at the window.

“Get out now! Or I shoot!”
The African looks at me.
We lock eyes, for a second.

He raises his arms.

“Sir – asthma – urgent, there – ”
He reaches for the back,
For the pile of junk – BANG.

Shattered glasses, a thud,

Blood against crystal webs.
I feel levitated.
Back seat – the pile of junk – moves…

A boy.

8
07:00, 18 December 1985

And his ashes shall then be scattered,

In the holy Ganga.

Prabha said it’s to obliterate,

The runanubandha.

I then chose to leave my thoughts unsaid,

We who bury the dead.

The driver shifts gears on the upslope,

Engine chokes a little.

Heads bob on the bus, ghosts howl in mine,

Passing Coromandel.

Chacha, come home when elemental,

At the Bay of Bengal.

They sing Vox Populi, Vox Dei –

Under colonial cowls.

Even in the land of the Phoenix,

They would only see fowls.

Man pulls the stop chord to end his trip,

Fourteen stops to Curepipe.

I heard Pa talk to Shirin Poopoo,

About his last hours.

Last week, not in 1982,

When there were no prayers.

No, no one celebrates the living,

If it’s not self-serving.

Sound policymaking consumes time,

When you favour people.

But fossils of a toxic Schedule,

Will badger: “Who’s steeple?”

I hear the thud of Tonton Dan’s head,

In Pa’s car where he bled.

9
My faith is mine, your faith, well, it’s yours.
A metal head, cares not.

In Curepipe, the buzz is agnostic.

In Chacha’s steps I trod.

My faith is mine, there’s only one true God.

Angels descend for everyone.

10
11:29, 22 February 1999

“NU ALE! N’ALE!”

“LEVE DO LEVE-EH!”
KNOCK-BHAM! KNOCK-BHAM! BHAM-BHAM!
It’s my brother Aldo,
Beating down my damn door.

I get up, pull the door,

Out of harm’s way and say,
“Kave manioc? En saler?”
“TIZEAN! TO PE DORMI?
“TU DIMUNN PE DESAN!”

“To pran nisa manioc!”

“Twa ki dan nisa zom!
“Gard tu pe defalke!”
Revolution, at last?
Stand up! Stand up! Let’s go!

If euphoria could be,

Extracted from my veins,
To make an elixir,
Right now would be the time.
Dream come true, world is mine!

I emerge on the street,

Barely recognising,
The energy, the strength,
A stream of protesters,
Like cyclonic flood tides.

Past Tabagie Rasta,

Down Desperoux, I run.
From her eternal porch,
Creaks old Matante Suzette,
“Fer tansyon mo garson!”

I forgot to tell Mam,

That we were heading out.
She’ll get cranky, but then,
Cranky’s been the usual,
Since Papa buggered off.

“Yo manioc. Mam kote?”

Aldo is trailing me.

11
“Pa kone. Lin sorti.”
I’ll deal with this later.
My people are calling.

I kind of hear the bass,

First, then see the chopper,
Out of a side alley,
With a makeshift sound system,
That blasts a mile, at least.

“Ki la loi pour servi,

Parmi enn bann rebel,
Enn bann synthetik,
Enn bann ras viper.”
I’m high on the shivers.

Denis rides his chopper,

Without much pedalling.
His shades are oversized,
Always looking kind of,
Upwards – to who knows where.

Jordan, Kersley, Yoan,

Castel and Jeremy,
Chopper-less but on track.
Right behind, armed for war.
Castel brought his nunchucks.

We all stop and gather,

By Ding-Dong tabagie.
Yoan had made a mask,
Out of his black T-shirt.
Jordan draws a bottle.

We pass around the rum,

The demon hits my blood,
Whispering icy clear,
“You are invincible.”
I take an extra swig.

Further down Desperoux,

Dark thick smoke billows up,
By the police station,
Where the crowd converges,
Where the magnet draws in.

12
Station’s abandoned,
The gates had been bashed in,
Front façade’s charred out.
It smells of burnt rubber,
And the awakening!

Ton Paul, alias ‘Zinzam’,

Mam’s half second cousin,
Stands on the station wall,
Holding a loudspeaker.
I thought he’d been locked up?

“ZOM! ZORDI NU LEVE!

“NU PA PU EKSKIZE!
DESAN LOR CAPITAL!
NU TU DIMUNN KI LA,
DESAN LOR CAPITAL!”

Today we take over,

The system, the country.
“Hein, check soz so transpor.”
A black Mitsubishi,
Zeyom’s, Aldo’s good mate.

Tinted screens, truck-like wheels,

Exhaust like the barrel,
Of a freaking cannon.
Every bolt vibrates when,
The sound system is maxed.

We cram into the car.

The rum passes again.
Music is cranked up, up.
“Of good over evil,
Good over evil, yeah.”

Anti-riot police,
Stands by the roundabout.
Blocking the motorway,
Locking the capital,
We number three hundred.

The noise is electric.

The air burns of new hope.
Past the fuming debris,
We march, hands full of stones,

13
Heart fearless, I hurl one.

A tear gas canister,

Somehow lands at my feet,
I kick it back at them.
Close to 50 meters,
I unload all my stones.

“VINI,” I shout, “VINI!”

A cocktail Molotov,
Bridges over my head,
Shatters on a cop’s shield.
On my left someone waves.

I recognise the man,

Dominik Lavanant.
Genius reggae artist.
He’s waving a white shirt.
Words indiscernible.

He’s hit in the neck first,

Then the chest, neck again.
Drops, but keeps getting shot.
I leap forward into,
The line of riot cops.

I swing, I punch, I kick,

Not sure what but I keep,
Hitting, hitting, hitting.
I hear and feel my ribs,
Crack, tears overcome me.

The enemy draws me in….

Feels like a swamp… I look back…

Everyone’s retreated…

Shouting silently in the distance…

Dominik Lavanant lays there… motionless…

Amid the smoke…

***
I wish Mam did not have,

14
To see me like this, caged.
Fifteen more days to go,
Before the court calls me.
This is all unreal.

Dry bread, devoid of rights,

I cannot smell the piss,
Anymore, light is night.
“Ofisye! OFISYE!”
My demon is silent.

I forget I exist,
On this bed of concrete.
Profanities echo,
Jingle-jangle of keys,
Constable’s at my door.

“Hein! To avoka la.”

A man enters my cell.
I stand up and greet him.
“Zot pe donn twa manze?”
My words fail, I nod ‘yes’.

“Asiz twa. Nu koze.”

I feel dirty, ashamed.
“Kuma to apele?”
“Tizean,” I managed that.
He chuckles. “Non, serye.”

“Wes – Wesley – Danakil.”

I cannot remember when,
Was the last time I said,
My name… the man sits down.
“Danakil Cité Martial?”

“Non. Pu ou ki enan?”
I fight irritation.
“Tonton – Misye Danny,
Danny Gerard Danakil,
Parente avek twa?”

No one ever asked me,

About him before this.
Mam rarely mentioned him.
“Mo gran papa. Kifer?”
He gets up, cups his chin.

15
His white face turns deep red.
He draws an inhaler.
Breathes in deep, then holds it.
“Dan… ti mo – tonton sa…”
His eyes are tearing up…

But the walls of my cell,

Seem to dissolve…Please, God,
Let light be light, once more…?
“To pu korek…,” he says,
“I promise.”

16
19:45, 26 November 2018

Reconcile an educated ape,

with an obsession, to keep it busy,
Call it paper money – or value-added lies.

The ape is fine to be lost in translation,

When value is translated in mass,
In ink and labelled something like – money supply.

If money is inventory for banks,

And its supply and price are controlled,
Then why not call a cartel, a cartel.

Client portfolios are in red, this year,

Because whoever is trading them,
Feels they are worth less, it’s mathematics.

It’ll be fine when the money tap opens,

Because money does not grow on trees.
Process is quicker, if the central bank makes it.

I close my laptop, done killing overtime,

And wonder about my value added,
As a wealth manager, in exchange for paper.

***
Alcohol is not a depressant,
My cognitive functions are not impaired,
Not at all, and I’m on the second bottle.

You are only depressed,

When you no longer can afford it,
Or when no one drinks with you anymore.

Look at this place, everyone is drinking,

Sure, not drinking alone, but aren’t they lonely?
Inhibition depressor? Perhaps.

We seek inhibitors to socialise,

To tolerate the ugly in each other –
With alcohol, dim lights, neon lights, music.

“Hey Sahad! Long time!” Moist hand on my back.

It’s that dude I never recall the name of.
“Hey, long time!” And it’s always a long time.

17
And somehow under ten minutes, I’m caught up,
With his life – brand new house, brand new wife,
Leasing a Porsche, works in offshore – (backspace) global business*.

***
I struggle to see how shifting tax,
Liabilities, create any value.
It’s blood transfusion, money owed somewhere else.

A tax is a price that you have to pay,

To live and work within the borders,
While you benefit from what is communal.

A Bangladeshi gives me the go sign,

Into Vandermeersch, past it, I turn into,
Bramista, into the posh crime zone where I live.

Guys here have set up a neighbourhood watch,

With a WhatsApp group and everything, but,
Last month my house got broken into, no one pulled jack.

I never saw any of these people,

They sit behind security cameras.
While thieves flock from Barkly, apparently.

Isn’t there a fine line between paying taxes twice,

And bleeding governments? It’s in – There!
Three guys, armed with sticks, walking along Balfour…

***
I keep them aligned in my rear-view mirror,
Zoom in and take a quick picture from the back,
Share it on the WhatsApp group and dial some key heads.

No one is answering, they are closing in.

I decide to go around, I’ll take them upfront.
“I made the devil run. I gave him poison...” Full blast!

I drive past them again and make sure they know I’m there.
I check my phone, someone’s text-replied,
“Not our zone, sorry. Call the cops.”

I go around again, not going to let,

Some low-level thieves intimidate me.
There they are, by the mosque, behind the rail!

18
I smash the accelerator and screech,
To a stop right by the rail, pull a bat,
From under my seat and hop off. “KI PE FER LA?”

***
“Misye! Misye! Nu pe lasas tang, misye!”
One of them holds up a dead hedgehog.
They are kids, from twelve to maybe fifteen.

One of them is shaking and cowers,

behind the older ones. “Gete misye!”
I feel ashamed. What gives me the right?

Mortification vaporises,
The alcohol and I’m consumed,
By a sense of dread, fearful of myself.

A family of respected lawyers,

Working with all people, without judgement.
Me, the know-it-all white collar pseudo-anarchist trash.

Love is not blind.

Arrogance is.
What have I become?

19
10:00, 16 December 2032

Rachel says she will go to Srinagar,

With her parents, to ski, and do X-Mas.
How is snow really? Teeth-grinding coldness?
Mom says we’ll go next year, if there’s no war.

This Sunday, she has prepped us a surprise.

I heard, when she told Nani, in Creole.
A week at a hotel called the Ritz Tol,
It’s got a big pool, good burgers and fries.

If everyone comes, then it’s really nice.

Asad Mamoo and Nana and Nani.
Fahad Mamoo with his wifey Noori.
Sahad Mamoo with his wifey, sometimes.

Sahad Mamoo smokes but he’s my bestie.

He says I’ll help him build a space shuttle.
To carry humans to Mars and settle.
He says I’m the brain and he’s the money.

He says there was someone from the Left Globe,

Who once built a rocket – the Falcon-9.
He had lots of money and a good mind.
Now he’s in a Rwandan backslope.

Last week Mamoo bought two big telescopes.

This Wednesday at 5 in the morning,
Over the eastern sky we will zoom in.
Next to Virgo we will see Mars, he hopes.

He says Mars is green with traces of blue.

In 2024, before the split,
That man from the Left Globe had transformed it.
But space travel was banned since the Great Flu.

Only Left and Right Globe, not the Midriff.

Mauritius’ part of the Right Globe, it’s sad.
Rwanda’s in the Midriff, I may add.
But to travel there there’s a waiting list.

Mamoo gave me the Book of Large Islands,

For my birthday, I know all the maps from,
Madagascar, to Pulau, to Luzon.
Beyond, my teacher says it’s all drylands.

20
18:00, 15 May 2052

Winter is tardy this season.

I get up, to let some breeze in.
I know Sharona hates the dust.
She programmed the Cybereason.
To only open filtered vents.

Where’s the headset again – oh, here.

“Welcome to Cybereason on Air.
Please state your full name and password.”
“Wesley Danakil, 05 –
051927.”

“Welcome sir. How are you today?”

Now now, what’s the window control?
Here. “Override filter. Open –”
“Command invalid. Try again.”
“Open –” “Invalid. Try again.”

“Override. Overkill. Reboot!”

Reboot always solves IT bugs.
“Override. Open West windows.”
The wind is cooler than I thought.
And the air is not that dusty.

“You last accessed the news section –

On four-teen-may at two-thirty.
Access news now or reschedule.”
Better get it done. “Access news.”
“One mandatory hour left.”

“The Right Globe Free Press welcomes you!”

I swear, this music wires you.
“Western border of Belarus,
Brest Oblast, where heavy shelling,
Continues from Left Globe Union –”

“Next.” “Papua Island officials,

Deploy Right Globe Navy to curb,
The Australian mass migration.
Aussie refugees are fleeing,
Intense droughts, heat waves, and famine.”

“Next – Only local news access.”

“Mauritius signs bilateral,

21
Treaty with neighbour Mozambique,
For water exchange, it’s a first,
Right Globe and Midriff cooperation.

“Members of parliament,
Awaits Peninsula orders,
To extend Construction Budget,
For the completion of Cuba,
The EEZ island project.”

“Next.” “Terrorist Sahad Abbas,

Has committed suicide today.
Captured last year in Tamatave,
Sahad was still under trial,
For treason and war mongering.”

Bleak clouds hang on the horizon.

Towers of the Transocean Bridge,
To Mada, reveal only tips.
La Tourelle withstands on tiptoes,
And awaits the low tides’ return.

The last blue in the sky, I saw,

Must have been in 2040.
Sharona should be home before sunset, in an hour?

22
∞
I would gather that evolution is hardly a straight line,
but more of a coil spring involving something… dark and grimy.
Understanding adds to nothing at all then,
if not mere speculative babble,
that somehow stores momentum,
amazingly well.

Is there some meaning,

that perhaps slips from my grasp,
as I sit here, a thousand feet high,
over this island that always climaxes?
Pythagoras’ vision, skyscraping numbers, toxic bubbles.
I contemplate, for three seconds, the World Wide Web less this world.

A young inquisitive lad is wearing a face once my own,

Carrying a copy of Mein Kampf without having read it.
Warless warrior, ambitious alcoholic.
Against anti non-conformism.
Sporadic discordance.
Chronic depression.

Something less ex-post,

a science of ex-antes,
engineered mechanics of some sort,
that would self-destruct-construct in one logic,
I’d say would drive my future into a bit more dilution.
But a saturation point so low renders all atrophic.

Technically speaking I’m confident of being wrong.

Lines work magic into the uselessness of analysis.
Some store of value is what is not needed.
Value is simply a misnomer.
The store is the carrier.
Hence a load of… noise.

Poisonous water.
Exhaust and soot.
This future,
may not,
be!

23