The Headhunter

The Headhunter was longlisted for the 2023 Afritondo Short Story Prize and published in The Anatomy of Flying Things

‘I have told him it's very easy, anyone can fly. All you need is somewhere to go that you can't get any other way. The next thing you know, you're flying among the stars.’

Faith Ringgold

‘Everybody all over this planet is always begging the Creator for things, but nobody ever gives the Creator anything. So every morning I give the Creator a song.’

Sun Ra

‘I have said it before and I’ll say it again– the universe is a gigantic chamber of possibility where everything has the right and chance to happen, and so we must not have cut-and-dry theories regarding just how life should look. Life could surprise us!’

Credo Mutwa

👽👽👽

The raucous applause broke the space jazz reverie on which the audience floated so high. Shouts and whoops of appreciation ricocheted off the walls of New Horizons, a tiny legend of a Parisian club. The young musicians’ sonic spontaneity soared and dripped off of them in beads of sweat. An eclectic Afropean free jazz riot, The Pyraminds, was taking Europe by storm. A small, low-budget storm, but a storm nonetheless.

They took several bows and received a standing ovation that made the roof tremble. Zerom, the group’s trumpetist, made his way humbly through the crowd, through tunnels and bridges of praise, high-fives, fist-bumps, and hugs.

Near the backstage door, an impeccably dressed older gentleman caught him by the arm.

‘The trumpet shakes with great discord,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Nostradamus, talking about 2023,’ the stranger offered.

Zerom couldn’t hear anything over the din.

‘You play well, my friend,’ the man shouted so Zerom could hear him.

‘Merci! Are you a musician?’

‘Used to be. Drummer.’

‘Cool, who did you play with?’

‘You wouldn’t know them, young man.’

‘Try me.’

They entered the backstage area, and the volume eased.

‘Sun Ra, Miriam Makeba, Archie Shepp . . .’ the man answered.

Zerom’s eyes widened as this stranger listed some of his core inspirations. ‘No way!’

‘You must come see me tomorrow. We will talk music and more.’ He gave Zerom a business card that felt like cotton, embossed with his name and address, this random Jean-Claude Point du Sable. ‘Come for breakfast,’ Jean-Claude instructed before disappearing.

When Zerom managed to slink away to his rented room on the 7th floor of a turn-of-the-century building, he rolled a cigarette and pushed open the skylight with a creak. He put on a record by one of his favourite fellow trumpetists, Hermon Mehari. The blue smoke curled skywards, and he read the card again, mystified by the brief encounter with the old mystery mélomane. Curiosity killed the cat, but sometimes the universe speaks in this strange city, he thought, and music is a universal language. He had a free day before The Pyraminds’ European tour continued. He decided he would take up the invitation the next morning.

👽👽👽

Immaculately decorated, warmly lit, the place smelled of lilies and luxury. A Faith Ringgold quilt rippled down a wall. A cream-coloured sofa stretched over dunes of sand-tone wood. Black and white photos peppered the wall, monochrome portals each—one of the Sphinx, one of a Black American family finely dressed in their Bronzeville best, and one of a vintage panoramic view of a Caribbean, palm-framed beach with a volcano looming behind it. A wall in the corridor was decked with what looked like a tapestry from an asteroid—dense, mineral.

A beautiful mahogany record shelf boasted loosely gathered gems from across the ages: Herbie Hancock, Chaka Khan clustered with Ben Lamar Gay in a Chicago corner, Kassav jammed with Jean-Claude Naimro in a Martinique zouk section. Dozens of Sun Ra LPs aligned with kindred spirits like Gary Bartz, Pharoah Sanders, Alice & John Coltrane. The Brazilian section brought Naná Vasconcelos, Itamar Assumpção and Hermeto Pascoal in spades, plus Milton Nascimento, Gilberto Gil and Djavan. South Africa was represented by Hugh Masekela, Miriam Makeba, Letta Mbulu, Caiphus Semenya and Ladysmith Black Mambazo.

‘This collection is insane,’ Zerom blurted in stunned admiration.

Henri Salvador’s Beta Gamma garbled out of the speakers. Shabaka Hutchings’ Your Queen Is a Reptile album rested regally against decks.

‘So futuristic, so visionary!’ Jean-Claude gave an uncle shimmy and finger-snap to the Salvador song. ‘This young man from Cayenne, French Guiana, predicting the future line by line in the 60s: computers, GPS, dating apps—amazing.’

Zerom smiled. ‘I like his Quand Je Monte Chez Toi best—reminds me of where I stay when I’m in Paris. It is so cheerful that it makes climbing up those endless stairs bearable.’

A low marble table, nestled in the plush surroundings, cradled heavy books on ancient Egyptian mythology, the Haitian Revolution, the Great Migration, Airports, and deep sea creatures. A bizarre but beautiful library. Navajo carpets covered the parquet with geometric cosmology. In the hallway hung indigenous Australian art, myriad dots mapping out Milky Ways of Dreamtime and songlines.

In the adjacent room stood his elaborate desk, decorated with silver-framed portraits of long ago, different worlds, each one containing Jean-Claude at different ages, or JC as he asked to be called. Baby JC, scowling in a tropical yard under a breadfruit tree—the sweet and spicy scent of island twilight faintly palpable. A determined young dude JC on drums, jaw clenched, decked-out in cosmic sapology. An older JC, suited and booted, standing next to a brilliant blue banner for the Movement for the Social Evolution of Black Africa, the man next to him smiling gently at the lens, the woman next to him statuesque in traditional dress and headwrap.

“You must come see me tomorrow. We will talk music and more. He gave Zerom a business card that felt like cotton, embossed with his name and address.”

‘Barthélemy Boganda. Independence Hero, President of the Central African Republic. My mentor. My guide. And Elisabeth Domitien, the Prime Minister. First woman PM of a sub-Saharan country. Brilliant people. They taught me so much,’ JC explained, answering Zerom’s unspoken questions in reverse order. ‘This photo? Three months we stayed in Egypt. After every gig, Sun Ra would listen to the concert recordings played backwards, over and over again. No drugs, no alcohol. And this, ah, the pearl of the Caribbean—Haiti. Where my father’s family is from.’

‘Ayiti . . . Point Du Sable—are you related to the founder of Chicago?’

JC’s eyebrows spiked, but he laughed loudly, ‘Of course, you know this. And yes, of course, I am. Chicago is an important city for me. You know that’s where Sun Ra really became Sun Ra.’

‘I thought he was from Alabama?’

‘No, maybe born in Alabama, but he was really from Saturn. Chicago is where his music really took root and, how you say, blossomed. Haiti, Chicago, Martinique, Central African Republic—we are one, we come from the same place.’

Zerom took that in with a thoughtful murmur before gesturing to the tiny gold frames dotted on top of a proud grand piano like a mini mountain range. ‘And these people? Nice keys, by the way.’

‘These people are the three survivors of the Mount Pelée eruption, 1902, Martinique: Ludger Sylbaris, Léon Compère-Léandre, and Havivra Da Ifrile. To remind me that we are survivors, we endure, and we can escape the unimaginable.’ He pointed to the name SHADD printed large on the side. ‘Black-owned piano company,’ he nodded firmly, lips nearly meeting his nose in an expression of profound approval.

Zerom spotted a crystal cabinet brimming with a collection of cigars and fine rums. Plantation XO, Bologne, La Favorite, A1710, Charbonnaud Transat and La Belle Cabresse. One bottle of Togolese sodabi stood out, wrapped in twine and cowrie shells and red wax, stuffed with lemongrass. Goddamn. This guy is not messing around, he said in his head, impressed. ‘You should see my wine cellar.’ JC smirked, as though hearing his thoughts.

The morning bubbled into an exchange of records, songs and stories, weaving in and out of English, French, and Kreyol like the jazz improvisers both of them were, as if they had known each other for years. The coffee flowed. ‘You know in East Africa they drink coffee with rue? Also known as Herb-of-Grace, plant of regret. What do you think they regret then, in Ancient Ethiopia?’

Zerom looked quizzically at his host, who shrugged. ‘Your guest is as good as mine,’ he said in confident and colourful franglais. ‘Maybe they regret being sent to Earth for the sins of our forefathers? Maybe they regret taking so much time trying to make it work down here when they could be reclaiming their rightful place as royalty in galaxies beyond?’

‘Yeah, so, um, how many languages do you speak, JC?’ Zerom sidestepped the weird and winding tangent JC presented.

‘Oh, French, Kreyòl, Sangho, shway-shway Arabic, a little English. Listen, Z . . . can I call you Z?’

‘Anything but Zero.’

‘You know, all these fine things, this “expensive shit” to quote Fela, why you think they call them trappings? Because they trap you if you don’t know what’s going on, man. If you let them brainwash you. When the Black man ruled this land, things were very different. You see, me, I’m the brother of the wind; I am the altered destiny.’

Zerom chuckled but quickly caught himself when he saw JC’s face was straight as hell and his eyes were as sombre as coal.

‘Okay . . .’ Scrambling for a change of subject, he asked his host about a painting on the wall, of a winged serpent-woman frowning and side-eyeing them from a bed of flowers. ‘Damballah La Flambeau, by Haitian artist, Hector Hyppolite. White people see a big red snake with wings, but she is like, big energy, what they call it, The Big Bang?’

‘Uh, right. There are snakes on the Martinican flag too, right? Is it connected?’ Zerom asked.

‘Everything is connected, but that flag is some French bullshit. Fuck the French.’ JC was surly again, then shook it off. The storm cloud on his brow smoothed. ‘Listen to me, I think your music is incredible, especially your solo stuff, and I want to work with you. Me? I produce, I know people, I want to spread your music all over the worlds. There are just some things you need to understand first.’

A pug waggled into the room with an apologetic smile and wheezed a friendly greeting, his face ridiculously creased, his tail furled tight like a young fern. He sloppily leaned against his master with love that only dogs can deliver. ‘Bonjour, Sirius B. You little lazy chops ha!’ JC made silly goo-goo faces at his furry friend before snapping back to business.

The next hour spiralled into what felt like a middle school social science class. Laminated maps of Atlantis and Temple of Mu appeared from who knows where. JC gestured wildly with the fervour of a Ghanaian evangelical pastor, part Neil De Grasse Tyson, part pocket-sized Denzel, spraying Zerom with questions in a thick French accent: ‘What’s under the Sphinx?’ ‘Who built the Pyramids?’ and ‘Quick, come to the window—how many trees do you count in that little park? What shape are they forming?’ To Zerom’s blank expression, he urged optimistically, ‘You see? You see now?’ After trying to feign interest for a while, Sirius B the pug made his exit at this point. ‘What do you know about Ariel School, Ruwa, Zimbabwe, in 1994? 60 children being told by aliens that they needed to take care of the environment? Hmm? What! Do! You! Know!’

The crescendo of this intergalactic history lesson was listening to a 15-minute-long symphony written by JC. The song seemed to transcend chronology, and Zerom became increasingly nervous, sneaking a look at his Movado watch to see what time was doing and when he might be able to bounce right out of JC’s intense company. The music was wonderful, but Zerom was beginning to question the wisdom of his visit At the end, JC told him, ‘This is what I composed . . . for when they return.’

On the way out, JC took him through the garage, where a slate-grey Range Rover rested comfortably. ‘Damn, JC,’ Zerom whistled, ‘did you accumulate all of this through being a jazz drummer?’ JC grinned, ‘No, my brother, for a long time I was also the financial advisor to the Central African Republic.’

‘Aha, I’m in the wrong line of work.’ He spotted a shape nestled in the shadows. ‘What’s that?’ Next to the car was something smaller, cloaked in a large blanket of sumptuous velvet. ‘Is that your spaceship? Are you going to the moon?’ Zerom cracked.

‘Why go to the moon?’ JC snapped, before he melted into a charming smile. ‘There are new horizons you have only dreamt of. Next stop, Mars, man, the realm of lightning. Where you wanna go? The door to the cosmos is wide.’

‘Ah . . . I’m good, you know. I get bad jet lag.’

‘The first time, you will feel a jet lag that you will not believe. Your bones will shout! Whoa! Where is tomorrow, you will ask, haha!’

‘No, really though, what’s under there?’

‘My solarship.’

‘What does it run on, rum?’

‘No, on the intrinsic energies of mythic worlds, you smart ass.’

‘Can I see it?’

‘No.’ JC gave the hidden vehicle a satisfied slap. ‘We will travel the spaceways soon enough. The universe sent me to converse with you, to collect those down on the ground, the first guard. The free jazz ambassadors. I’m a recruiter, a headhunter, if you know what I mean, ha!’

He called after Zerom with enthusiasm, ‘I meant what I said about your music. It is very special. I will take it to the STARS! Ha!’

👽👽👽

Zerom lay on his bed in his 7th-floor sanctum, feeling somewhat perplexed and blue as the rain dropped steady rowdiness on the skylight. He scrolled through his social media timelines, observing a gloomy, global chain of climate change disasters and Elon Musk’s designs on space tourism (‘Musk on Mars by 2029!’), bookended by police brutality and more young Black men gunned down like prey. The night before, in a cloud of green haze, Zerom and his Pyramind bandmates had discussed the depressing unlikelihood of racism ever dissipating, at least not in their lifetime. A new, fiercer strain of COVID was spreading, exposing even worse inequality than the first round had. He remembered JC’s ranting about looming global obliteration and realised that he maybe wasn’t so crazy after all.

Zerom received a text message, not from JC for a change, but from his bank, warning him sternly that he was sinking deeper into his overdraft. The peanuts from the tour were being frittered away with a quickness, on expenses, managers, rising rent and the cost of living (the acronym ‘COL’ made it sound just a touch jazzier). Zerom sighed and threw his phone to the side. What a joke! The Pyramids were some of the leading jazzmen in the world, but the bottom line still looked like dust. A million streams for what? For who? These streams were forming rivers that gushed into the pockets of the labels, the Spotifies, the whitest 1%—who seemed more and more to make up the majority of their jazz club audiences.

I’ve Known Rivers by Gary Bartz started to play in his head, and he listened until the pain subsided. He picked up his trumpet and improvised accompaniment, to the music, his permanent companion.

Propping himself up on his side with a sudden start, he thought of the people and places that his kooky but intriguing new friend JC had mentioned. He picked up his phone and let his fingers walk through Wikipedia. The more he researched, the more questions he had, and no matter how he diced it, it couldn’t be possible that JC had been all the places he said he had unless he was pushing 100 years old. Boganda set up the Movement for the Social Evolution of Black Africa in Bangui in 1949. Sun Ra sailed his Arkestra to Egypt in 1971. And half a century later, JC was here, chatting shit about aliens, looking half his age?

As if on cue, a Whatsapp message popped up from the man himself. It was a link entitled ‘The Real Baptism of Christ’, which led to a Renaissance-style painting of a UFO blasting the Nativity manger with a golden beam of light. Zerom guffawed and typed ‘LOL’ but thought better of it and deleted it. Instead he typed, ‘Thanks, JC! How you keeping? Any news on the music follow-up you mentioned?’

JC replied, ‘Do not worry about that, my friend. I know everybody from Sidney Poitier to Wyclef Jean to Presidents and Prime Ministers. I will take your music FAR FAR FAR!’

Zerom shook his head in exhausted exasperation. ‘I’m going to retrain and learn how to code or some shit. This industry is fucking nuts.’

👽👽👽

JC continued to show up at gig after gig. Brussels, Glasgow, London, Berlin and beyond. Always alone, always charismatic, always a little strange. Zerom got used to his presence, like an eccentric godfather. Their relationship would cycle between listening to each other’s music and the music of the artists they both loved, to JC’s obsession with extraterrestrials and the insistence on their imminent return, and to what sounded more and more like hollow promises of helping Zerom get his big break as a stellar trumpeter. Round and round it went, weaving a kind of unusual but inspiring, sometimes infuriating kinship.

However, JC’s tall tales were starting to mess with his dreams. Or instigate his dreams, rather, since he never used to dream. His slumber came through swiftly, after smoking, most nights, and he woke feeling a bit crumpled until his first espresso. But now his dreams began to flicker to life, projected on a screen of his sleep. Snippets of JC’s ramblings rumbled through the dark: animals gracefully descending to Earth from the constellations that birthed them; Masai warriors gifted herds of cattle, shuttled through the heavens by a white-bearded god in a metallic canoe; there were fish-people; there were firebirds. ‘What the fuuuuck,’ Zerom would groan as he woke, making a mental note to get stoned enough at bedtime to retrieve his nocturnal peace. Good sleep, God sleep.

When Zerom complained of this to his garrulous and volatile uncle the next time he saw him, JC quipped, ‘The Zulu word for sleep is butongo, the state of being one with the star gods. The word for dreams is ipupo. The verb “pupa” refers to flight. Therefore to say “I dreamt” means “I flew”. A little Credo Mutwa knowledge for your ignorant ass. I guess that means you are almost ready to fly, ha!’

“The more he researched, the more questions he had, and no matter how he diced it, it couldn’t be possible that JC had been all the places he said he had unless he was pushing 100 years old.”

One night, in Istanbul, Zerom smoked on the steep, cobblestone slopes of Galata, near Nardis Jazz Club. He had a bad cold but allowed himself a ritual cigarette before the gig to calm his nerves. JC appeared—which had ceased to surprise his young friend. ‘Why are you smoking when you are sick, you idiot? This kind of stupid behaviour is why they exiled us in the first place,’ and pointed to the heavens. Zerom closed his eyes and exhaled, silently willing JC to shut up. JC placed a finger on his forehead for a second, and Zerom felt a peculiar, indescribable pulsation transferred. The cigarette dropped out of his mouth, and he stumbled back in surprise, ‘What the . . . !’ His shock was not so much about JC’s antisocial distancing tactics but that the chill that had gripped his sinuses and scratched his throat had entirely disappeared.

‘Not so dismissive, now, you little punk, ha,’ beamed JC as he bopped smugly towards the entrance. ‘Maybe you’ll start listening to my old ass!’

He turned around, ‘Oh and by the way, I played your music to the head of a really brilliant, uh, label. They want to talk.’

‘To me? Or should I take them to my leader?’ retorted Zerom, still shaken.

‘You are a fool. I should have left you with your snot, hein? You might play better, ha!’

👽👽👽

Days later, back in his Paris dive for more gigs, Zerom felt totally exhausted. The flights were a mess, and they had lost his suitcase. He got questioned and ‘randomly’ profiled as usual. Strikes and delays felt like a normal part of travel these days. Life these days. ‘New Normal’ as if ‘Old Normal’ was ever normal, or right, or fair. Zerom rolled a spliff and approached the open window, the cool night air embracing him as he puffed. He had a job interview the next day, and he had found some online teaching work in an effort to make ends meet a little less stressfully.

Looking up, his heart nearly stopped. Squadrons of flying saucers formed, shining in glowing flames of emerald-green, blood-red, and copper-yellow against the blackest night. Dozens and dozens of these fiery visitors filled the celestial dome, burning shields in the noiseless night sky. Time froze, stopping the smoke in midair, until a terrifyingly funky bassline unstuck things.

A souped-up, sleek-as-shit kind of badman batmobile hovered three metres from Zerom’s open 7th-floor skylight, appearing to be made of solid malachite, with HAVIVRA emblazoned on the side in moonstone tiles. The sound system was insane, blasting the Martinican party tune Aveou Doudou so loud that the stars shook. JC was the pilot, dancing in his seat, lit up with maniacal joy. Sirius B’s tongue stuck out, and the pug co-pilot’s eyes bugged with excitement. JC magically stuck his head straight through the window, which was made of a substance that clearly was not glass, and yelled:

‘Are you coming or not, motherfucker?’

FIN

& Playlist