6. REVOLUTION IN THE JUNGLE
Chapter 1
HERE EVIL IS BREWING
“Here nasty things are brewing. Here death can strike tonight or tomorrow, in a week or maybe even within an hour. No white person is safe here anymore. We will have to fight or move. These are the only two alternatives.” The broad-shouldered, middle-aged Greek slams his fist on the battered counter in front of him. His dark eyes glow in those of the Jungle Hawk, who is looking at him inquisitively.
Poponoulis, the Greek, points to the inside of his spacious shop, in the heart of the tropical jungle. “For fifteen years we have toiled here, me, my wife and my three sons. Here we have worked, here we have anchored and here our earthly means have increased with the coming and going of the years. Now…” He shrugs his shoulders, while his eyes wander towards the door, along the two-track road, to where he sees about five natives coming closer.
“Now I don’t know anymore. Nobody knows anymore. The feeling of security is gone. It simply does not exist anymore. Who can blame us? The whole of Africa is a pressure cooker, a festering sore, a powder keg. The whole world is seemingly against us few whites here. The East hates and despises us, sees us as a stumbling block in their path, and the West wants to surpass the East in its own game.”
The Greek wipes the sweat from his sunburnt forehead. “Bring us something cold,” he orders one of his two sons, who are just standing and listening wordlessly to their father. However, their eyes are admiringly focused on the strong figure of the half-naked Jungle Hawk.
The Jungle Man suddenly feels deeply sorry for the Greek in front of him. Poponoulis was a great friend of his deceased missionary parents. Poponoulis, the big-hearted one, the man of integrity, the man who came to the Belgian Congo almost penniless and made an honest, small fortune for himself here.
Meanwhile, the five natives had reached the shop. Under the awning they stop still, while sly eyes wander inside. Then they fall into a whispered conversation.
The Jungle Hawk’s eyes narrow slightly as he sees the point of a machete sticking out of a bag carried by one of the natives. A quick assessment with his eyes assures him that the others are similarly armed.
He looks at Poponoulis and notices the significant expression on his face. The Greek leans slightly forward. “Did you see the machete?”
The Hawk nods. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“Exactly right,” continues Poponoulis. “But who can say when the day will come that they will indeed use it and suddenly use it?”
He takes the cold drinks from his son and hands a glass to the Hawk. “But we are ready for them, my friend. Here by my hand is a double-barrelled shotgun and in my pants pocket is a German Luger. My sons and my wife are also constantly armed. If there are natives in the shop, one of us is always watching them, especially for the last month or so. They won’t easily catch us unprepared, at least.”
He suddenly turns to his son. “What time is it now? Shouldn’t your mother and Alexander have been back already?” He indicates to the Hawk that they left in the truck to go and get fresh supplies for the shop.
“Impossible, Father,” his son replies after first checking his watch. “They should still be at least an hour and a half away.”
“By the way, haven’t a group of South Africans passed through here recently? About a week or two ago? I’m actually on their trail...”
“South Africans? Oh yes, of course. Instead of telling you about them long ago, but this brewing evil has completely taken ov
