ROGER'S FABULOUS VOYAGES, PART 2, CHAPTER 4. (standard:humor, 878 words) [4/12] show all parts
Author: Danny Zil	Added: Jun 11 2012	Views/Reads: 1925/1529	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Roger meets Hub Cap, who starts to show him round Uhuruland.

FOUR 

When Roger recovered consciousness a few minutes later, he found he had
been carried a short distance from his Ship to the outskirts of a small 
village. 

Groggily, he sat up and looked round. There was a much larger crowd in
front of him now and he was sitting on a grassy clearing. 

A few feet from him, Big Lucas was sitting on Uhuruland's equivalent of
a royal throne – a large wooden packing case. “Bring the wite boy a 
chair,” he ordered. 

Another packing case was produced and Roger hauled himself up on to it. 

“Hey Big Lucas!” someone yelled from the crowd. “When we executin dis
honky!?” 

“We be executin him soon, Someone,” Big Lucas replied, “but first Ah
wants him t' see the beauty an grandeur o Uhuruland.” 

The crowd cheered. 

“Ah wants him t' see wot the black man can do when he no longer under
witey's boot,” Big Lucas went on. 

This brought more cheers from the now substantial crowd. 

“Should we break into ethnic song now, Big Lucas?” Someone yelled. 

Big Lucas shook his head. “Tells you what though, Someone – some o the
sistas come up here an form a sort o half-circle roun me and do the low 
hummin bit.” 

Several fat matronly ladies came out from the crowd and wobbled their
way up to Big Lucas. They were all wearing long blue evening dresses 
which had inscribed on them, ‘Uhuruland Baptist Choir – Low Hummin 
Section'. They formed a half-circle round Big Lucas and Roger and 
started wobbling and humming. 

“We blacks good at this sorta thing,” Big Lucas told Roger. “Anyway,” he
went on, “the story o Uhuruland...for thousands o years the black was 
the downtrodden race.” 

The humming rose dramatically behind him. 

“You wites treatin us like the sub-species – ‘Fetch this, black boy.
Fetch that, black boy. Nip roun the shop an get the Johnnie Walka, 
black boy'.” 

The humming grew louder. The wobbling grew worse. The words ‘Uhuruland
Baptist Choir – Low Hummin Section', unfortunately written across the 
singers' bosoms dissolved into a mixture of Scrabble game letters. 

“Fo years the black man sittin roun muttrin tings like, ‘Fuck this for a
game o soldiers. Why we getting the rough end o the stick? Why we no up 
there wit the top men?'” 

The humming rose to a plaintive wail. Roger had to strain to hear. 

“I'm sorry,” he said, leaning closer to Big Lucas. “What did you say
after ‘the rough end o the stick?'” 

“Wot you sayin, wite boy?” Big Lucas asked. “Ah can't hear yous for the
sistas.” 

The sisters were getting out of control. The humming had now progressed
to loud singing and chanting, complete with ‘Oh Yeahs!' and punctuated 
with ‘Praise the Lawds!'. There was now a choir of some twenty of them, 
all hummin and wobblin an praisin the Lawd. 

“Ooohhh maaa Lawwwddd!” sang the choir. “Praise maaa Lawwwddd!” Two
small urchins in patched dungarees ran up to the clearing in front of 
the crowd and started tap dancing in time to the choir's clapping and 
singing. Several teenagers appeared and began a diving onto their hands 


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