Revolt

4pm, over 100 pages in on Patric, stopping at the Janissary passage – the Janicari that were of course well known to mother and all the tribes across the hills back home. Unspeakable horrors of history, invasion, power and domination. One’s own flesh and blood come back in the hated occupier’s colours to wage war on the people. There would be contemporary parallels, but nothing quite like that state policy of the Turks. Patric had heard the same stories at his grandfather’s knee possibly; being born in the old country he may have been luckier in that regard…. The older Viet girl here, married in fact with children and hardly a girl any more, understands immediately and accepts without hesitation the mandarin left for her on the counter. Possibly she saw peel on the table beside the bicycle helmet. Most of the lads were fasting of course, day six of Ramadan. Mario the Orthodox Christian in the window seat seen taking a drink of water needed a moment for recall. One could share the fruit cheaply today. Like her younger compatriots who also worked at Abdul Razak’s, the Viet woman was always pleasant, friendly and smiling. The girls here were all well treated by customers and the boss himself. Often the girls took food from a common plate with Abdul Razak, in the usual Muslim way. The ful was loaded up a bit more when Abdul Razak called them to the back table, Come, come. Quizzing the cheeky devil later about one of his common terms often playfully employed the man was less than forthcoming. The Mamalukes were vaguely remembered from the history books – Young Turks weren’t they? who assumed power in Ottoman Egypt for a number of decades, if not centuries. When copy paper boxes had been delivered the shifting had fallen entirely to the boss. The Viet woman in Abdul Razak’s employ had been busy at the coffee machine; there had not been a finger raised to help the man. Too many Mamaluka around here, Abdul Razak whined playfully. Bludgers, loafers, no-goods, Abdul Razak seemed to mean in his usage. Of course where the man came from the hired help – if it was hired and not owned – would jump to cart, clean, scratch the boss’s back without ever being asked; without the merest eyebrow raised. Of course. Those who were good and useful among the labour; there was always the laggard one could do nothing whatever with…. What is Mamaluku? the Viet woman had asked. She may have asked some weeks prior too without any answer from Abdul Razak…. Even he does not know, the woman was answered by the wise guy at the first table. In the enquiry that followed Abdul Razak was told the term was known from books, but what did he himself mean by Mamaluku?... Re-arranging the chairs Abdul Razak took his time responding, crafting his English for the reply. (Greatly improved English over these six years of absence. Six years ago Abdul Razak had possessed no more than four dozen words of English. Five at most.) If you know from books that is enough for you, Abdul Razak cheekily retorted, in a similar form that the elders had sometimes annoyingly employed for enquiries in childhood.  How many times had Abdul Razak been heard: Mamaluka!... Too many Mamaluku…. All Mamaluku here…. Loads and loads of times. Mr Morwell the South Sudanese Dinka might know the answer to the question. In the back room Morwell was working on a computer. A union leader back in his own country, who had spent six months in the USSR in the late 80s shortly before the collapse, Perestroika. Educated by Italian missionaries, Morwell spoke excellent English. Arabic as well as his own Dinka of course. There was some French too and fair chance Morwell knew more than a bit of the Tigrinya of the Eritreans. Teaching English to his people out in Fitzroy, Morwell was also collecting Dinka prose, poetry, proverbs and fables for an anthology he hoped to publish for the sake of the youth. With translations included there would be revealed some of his country’s literary heritage to Australian readers. Close Mugabe look-a-like, taller perhaps than the old fox. One “e” had been confirmed; the name was a compound of something like patience, perseverance, triumph overcoming hardship. Two separate Dinka terms mor and well, and nothing to do with English…. Ah! Yes. That was it. Revolt of the slaves. Yes. Not the Young Turks at all; that crew had been another kettle of fish altogether. One of the most remarkable of events from the pages of the history books; similar to Haiti, but in this case much longer duration. A revolt of slaves. Slaves assuming power and retaining it for a thousand years. Like Mugabe no doubt, once in the saddle ossification and the usual insularity and jealously guarded power centre…. Something Abdul Razak might possibly not in fact have in his knowledge and no need disturb the little chappie.

NB. Black Rock White City, A.S. Patric