Free Land of Promise by James Wesley Rawles

attendant.

Chapter 7: TIA
    “He changeth the times and the seasons,
    He removeth kings, and setteth up kings,
    He giveth wisdom unto the wise
    and knowledge to them that know understanding.” -- Daniel 2:21 KJV
    Edinburgh, Scotland -- July, Three Years After Declaration of the Caliphate
    Rick asked, “So, do we recruit leadership first, or do we pitch the concept first and then look for leaders?”
    “That’s a tough question,” Alan replied. “I think we’ll need to pray about it.”

     
    Three days later, Alan and Rick were on a plane bound for London, with a connecting flight to Johannesburg. Meital took a separate flight by way of Paris a few hours later to reduce the risk of relationship metrics tracking.
    On the long leg of their flight, Alan intently read a battered copy of the science fiction novel The Moon is a Harsh Mistress by Robert A. Heinlein. To Rick, Alan commented, “This wasn’t written from a Christian perspective, but it certainly captures the Libertarian viewpoint.”
    As the plane banked to line up on their final descent, Alan looked out his window and said, “It feels good to get back to my red soil.”
    “ Your… ?”
    “I never told you that I was born in Africa, did I? Both of my parents are British, but I was born in Kampala, Uganda. My dad was a low-level diplomat, and my mum was a telecommunications specialist. They were both working at the UK consulate in Kampala at the time. My mum was scheduled to travel back to London for my birth, but I was impatient and arrived six weeks early. ”
    “Well, then you’re certainly more African than I’ll ever be. This is my first time here.”
    “With the change in the OAS naturalization law back in 2044, I now qualify for a Ugandan passport, but I’ve never applied.”
    “You should,” Rick said. “A man who is above draft age can never have too many passports.”
    They arrived exhausted, but enthusiastic. They queued up in the line for one of three booths marked “Other Passports – No-Visa Countries Only.” The passport clerk was polite but casual, chit-chatting in Xhosa with the co-worker occupying the next booth while he glanced with little interest at Rick’s passport. He stamped it without delay, and the two men breezed through the passageway under the green-lit “Nothing To Declare” sign, drawing hardly a glance.
    They had a two-hour layover in Johannesburg before their flight to Lusaka. The flight to Lusaka was on an aging Airbus A319-SLEP-700 that had obviously seen better days. The plane’s seats were stained and frayed, and the cabin retained the faint odor of urine.
    As they flew north, Alan pointed out a few prominent landmarks: The Limpopo River, the city of Bulawayo, the Kariba Dam on the Zambezi River, and the Kafue River. After they’d crossed the Limpopo, Alan said dryly, “Back in the 1960s they had tourism posters that read, ‘Visit Rhodesia and see the Zimbabwe Ruins.’ But now, posters could read, ‘Visit Zimbabwe and see the Ruins of Rhodesia.’ A pity, that.”
    After passing through the sleek, cosmopolitan Johannesburg airport, Lusaka’s Kenneth Kaunda Airport seemed shabby and decrepit. Clearing customs for the second time in a day went more slowly, with a detailed examination of their luggage. One of the inspectors seemed to be angling for a bribe, taking an inordinately long time looking at Alan’s luggage, carefully studying the prescription label on the card-packaged blood pressure medicine, and then comparing it to Alan’s name on his passport. He whispered slyly, “You need to talk like a man.”
    Alan recognized this as a subtle but typical African demand for a bribe. But he would hear none of this and demanded in a fairly loud voice, “What is it, exactly , that is out of order with my bags, my medication, or my passport? Either send me on my way, or let me talk to whomever is in charge!”
    The inspector’s face dropped and he handed Alan his passport, answering in a monotone,