Three Shots

By B.K Taoana

My name is Tau, and this morning, I am going to shoot the King of Lesotho. I can’t say I have anything against him. On the contrary, he is a man I hold in the highest regard. Not only is he a fair and equitable king, but he also seems to have a firm grasp of what it means to be a constitutional monarch, a figure-head, a symbol of unity for the country. This is more than I can say about kings in other countries I know, who whimsically throw their political weight around and invariably pillage the state coffers to finance their indulgent habits. As far back as I can remember my king, he has always lived modestly – well, as modestly as a regal figure can live – and has been humble and unassuming. If all these are criteria of a good king, then he comfortably fits the description.

Anyway that’s neither here nor there. Listen to me go off on a tangent! I’ve got a job to do, and here I am offering in-depth political analyses and unsolicited evaluations of the effectiveness of my king – not what I get paid to do! And regardless of how much I may like him, he must get shot. At noon.

I was commissioned by a highly placed official in the Palace. He had heard about my matchless track record, spanning three continents and thirty countries. My work speaks for itself, really. I don’t advertise. I’m not listed in the Yellow Pages. As a matter of fact, very few people know how to reach me directly. Let’s just say those who really need my services – and can afford my fee – will find a way to contact me. I guess this highly placed fellow I speak of really wants the King taken care of urgently.

These are the moments I live for! The anticipation of doing a big job, especially when the mark is a ‘higher-up’. My heart thumps my chest violently as I go through the motions in my head: Take aim…align the acquired target with the cross-hairs…keep hands steady…three shots. Quick and painless. That’s my signature. Three shots are all I’ve ever needed. I have never mis-shot a target.

I get my equipment case out, hidden in a specially-built compartment in the floor, under my bed. I hide it because I think it would look incongruous among my porcelain ornaments and glassware. I open it to make sure all the components are there and polish them before placing them back in the case. I take great pride in the tools of my trade.

In order to do my best work I’ve got to use the best technology has to offer. My high-powered equipment is the offspring of German designers and Japanese manufacturers. It is the perfect, convenient marriage between precision and aesthetic appeal. It set me back wallet-wise, but trust me, it was well worth it.

I dress in all black, as I always do when I’m on a job. Black is discreet, and more importantly, professional. I wear my contact lenses as opposed to my glasses because the latter make aiming a tricky business. I can’t afford to have my view of the target impeded in anyway.

After wolfing down a hurried breakfast of coffee and motoho (Basotho porridge made of sorghum), I grab my equipment case and my car keys. Just before dashing out I do a quick scan ensuring that I haven’t left anything. One missing piece of this jig-saw would be my undoing. Satisfied that I have everything, I walk briskly to my car. As if on cue, just as I’m about to drive off, that proverbial Nokia ring-tone bleats loudly, startling me. It’s the Palace official.

Ring ring. Ring ring.

“I’m headed to the palace,” I say, skipping the pleasantries.

“I’ve made sure the King will be alone when you get there. I know audiences give you stage-fright!” I grunt at this weak attempt at humour.

“Is everything in place? I don’t want any slip-ups.”

“Why don’t you let me worry about that, and take care of things on your end? I’m not in the habit of slipping up,” I reply sharply.

“Fine. I’ll – ”

I hang up. I’m working under a very time-specific schedule, so I don’t have time for chit-chat. Besides, I prefer keeping all my business relationships strictly impersonal. I don’t ask my clients how their spouses are getting along, and don’t especially care whether their kids are getting taller. I just want to be given the target’s name, a time and date, and a location. And my money when the job is done.

As I negotiate my way through the mild Maseru traffic, I do one last mental dress rehearsal: Distance from the target, angle of elevation…I’ve got to get these just right, otherwise the result will not be as I want it. One degree too much or too little and the whole thing goes pear-shaped. True, the man who commissioned me just wants this done acceptably. I, on the other hand, don’t accept “acceptable”. I didn’t get to where I am by producing “acceptable” work. For me, only perfect, seamless and flawless will do.

Sooner than I expected I find myself at the Palace. This brownstone edifice is singularly imposing with its wrought-iron gates and armed members of the Royal Defence Force standing sentry. I show one of the soldiers a pass card. He gives a quick nod and two soldiers open the gate. As I go up the snaking drive-way,
I marvel at how this beautiful piece of architecture is a testament to the proud Basotho history. Even more history will be made by the time I’m done here, I think to myself. When I arrive at the security door a barrel-chested bodyguard booms at me in a polite but officious tone:

“What is your name, Sir?”

“Tau Lelimo, His Majesty is expecting me for a twelve o’clock appointment.”

He cocks his head to one side and puts his index finger to his earpiece as he speaks to someone to confirm what I just told him.

“Very well. Go right through, Sir. You will reach some turnstiles at the end of the passage. Some security personnel will go through your case before letting you in.” Look through my case? This is where I get slightly nervous. Something may go wrong at this stage. But if the palace official took care of things, as he said he would, there is no cause for alarm. With the best look of calmness I can muster, I make my way down the passage to the next security point where I am met by another, even burlier security guard.

“Mr. Lelimo, is it? May I look in your case please?”

Although I say “yes”, I have a feeling that this is not so much a request as it is a nicely worded command. He takes a long look at the contents of my case, then, gives me a knowing look. He is clearly in on this. “Follow me please, Mr. Lelimo.”

After he leads me through several convoluted passages, he ushers me into the King’s study. By now my heart is beating at Formula One speed, and my palms are clammy from the sweat. As if I’m a virgin at this. Presently, I pull myself together. My escort turns to leave after presenting me. “Don’t be too long in there, otherwise His Majesty will be late for his next engagement.” How interesting it is that he chose that word: “late.”

“Your Majesty,” I begin respectfully, “I have come to shoot you.”

“Hahahaha!” he guffaws in his trademark oboe voice. “You make it sound ever so sinister! Well, you can put your tripod over there and set up your camera while I put on my regalia.” After he has donned his intricately-designed royal wear, he sits down and gets ready to pose. “Legend has it you take the best pictures in no more than three shots.”

“I wouldn’t believe everything I hear, Your Majesty,” I joke, poised to take the first of three shots.