
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11522823.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, No_Archive
      Warnings_Apply, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      Other, Multi
  Fandom:
      Far_Cry, Far_Cry_3, Far_Cry_2
  Character:
      Hoyt_Volker, Cobus_Volker, Awande_Moloi, Obasi-Baba_Gonzaga, buck_hughes,
      The_Jackal, Jack_Carver, King_Nnyere
  Additional Tags:
      Segragation, racial_issues, Xenophobia, Apartheid, Violence, Organized
      Crime, Crimes_&_Criminals, Hate_Crimes, Hate_Speech, Racial_slurs,
      Period-Typical_Homophobia, Period-Typical_Racism, Period-Typical_Sexism,
      Period-Typical_Underage, Period_Typical_Attitudes, Colonization,
      Imperialism, Drug_Abuse, Drug_Dealing, Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced
      Torture, Implied/Referenced_Child_Abuse, Implied/Referenced_Self-Harm,
      Implied/Referenced_Drug_Use, Implied/Referenced_Rape/Non-con, Implied/
      Referenced_Incest, Implied/Referenced_Underage_Sex, Implied_Sexual
      Content, Police_Brutality, Poverty, Homelessness, Fetishization,
      Xenophilia, classic_literature_references, Popular_Media_References,
      Corrupt_government_officials, Bribery, Extortion, Gangs, Pedophilia,
      Slave_Trafficking, Weapon_Smuggling, Illegal_Activities, Chauvinism,
      Racial_and_National_Prejudice, Civil_Unrest, blood_diamonds, White
      Supremacy, Multichapter, Historical_References, historical_figures, Fidel
      Castro_-_Freeform, Nelson_Mendela, Quartus_De_Wet, Ernesto_Che_Guevara,
      Angola, Communism, Red_Scare, Cold_War, 70's-80's, spousal_abuse,
      DysFUNctional_families, Prostitution, Sex-Work, Pre-Far_Cry_3
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-16 Chapters: 1/4 Words: 2022
****** Once Upon A Time In Africa ******
by AlmesivaMoonshadow
Summary
     Hoyt Volker’s authority wasn’t always entirely absolute. He climbed.
     He worked for it. He lied for it. A long time ago, he served another.
     Even the Boss had a Boss. Then - he betrayed him. Replaced him.
     Outdone him. Killed him. Usurped him. Became him. The rest is infamy.
     The streets of Johannesburg - it’s grave.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
                                        
===============================================================================
                                        
            -“ Every human being has a bit of gangster in him. ”-  
                             - Binyavanga Wainaina
                                        
===============================================================================
                                        
                                        
                                        
                      South-Eastern Suburbs Of Soweto, '88
                                        
                                        
                                        
                                        
                            Cobus Volker has died.
                          A supposed mining accident.
                       The news reporter blatantly lied.
                     Crack against the base of his skull.
                    Impact of his fall down a worker shaft.
                  No family to mourn for him - at the age 46.
            Fairly young - at his prime - to be ending in disgrace.
          Furniture, artwork and ornaments confiscated - out of debt.
     His estate closed-off, his accounts frozen, his empire disappearing.
Only the briefest of mentions in the paper and a one minute article on the TV.
       Diamond Tycoon and Entrepreneur Passed Away - and now on sports.
         The Springbok’s have lost the state tournament-ship - again.
               Actually, no overly grand surprise there, really.
                     They pretty much sucked bloody balls.
                                        
                                        
                                        
                                        
Hoyt found a wicked pleasure in staring at the flickering neon of the screen on
   the wall of the shadiest, shiftiest downtown motel bar he could possibly
slither in on such a short notice, to avoid the eye of the authorities probably
 on his goddamn ass by now, seated at the very back of the smoky, grime-filled
 hall full of drunkards, lowlifes, imported construction assistants, truckers,
 whores, billiard connoisseurs and thieves all watching the article intently,
 whispering among themselves, displeased at the current foul rugby climate of
  the country and some of them noticeably grinning the moment his father and
death were brought up in the same sentence. Cobus Volker wasn’t a popular man.
  Infamous, maybe. But, far from loved or even tolerated. He didn't like the
  Kaffirs and the Kaffirs didn't like him. Fitting enough. In fact, the cheap
beer bottles clanked in something of a silent cheer among the Somalian manual-
laborers when the report was finished, flashing pairs of brilliant white teeth
 among themselves, in some untold, mutual understanding when the pale, blonde,
 sweet-faced host set her papers down. They were happy, weren’t they? Not that
 Hoyt blamed them. He had to wonder - how would they all react if they knew he
was his son, of all people? Would he be shunned? Despised? Ridiculed? Probably
 even killed? He made it a point not to ever use his surname in front of these
  people. Volker just reeked of colonialism-accumulated, old money, European
  upper-class dumpkoff’s to them. Or maybe - just maybe - he’d be regarded as
 something of a champion for finishing this piece of shit off the way he did?
   He’d rather not risk it. Nowadays he was smart and silent - like a mouse,
 clawing at the underbelly on the city. A sewer rodent. Never too long at one
   place. Never dwelling at a single address. Virtually homeless. Virtually
  perfectly fine with staying that way. There was a certain freedom to this.
Living by one’s own rules. The master of one’s fate. And the streets were long.
                  Very long. Long enough to serve as shelter.
                                        
                                        
                                        
                                        
                 There was certain people he was looking for.
         A certain faction - piracy ran rampant down here - knew that.
  Even his old man used to complain that they were messing with his shipments
                                 from abroad.
   They were everywhere - supposedly - everywhere from here to Botswana and
                                  Madagascar.
  And he couldn’t just approach them - they had to approach him - simple as.
           They were secretive, lucrative, smart and pretty careful.
               Hoyt Volker wanted to be noticed and approached.
                   He didn’t plan on working as a dock-boy.
                        Pack crates from nine to five.
                              Live off of scraps.
                       That kind of life was bull-crap.
                 He missed the pizzazz, the flash, the style.
            Ironically, one of the few things he missed about papa.
                                        
                                        
                                        
                                        
      The motherfucking luxury, the wealth, the opportunities, the bling.
                                        
                                        
                                        
                                        
They actually did find him, sooner then he anticipated, in fact. Then again, he
did cockily and openly saunter down the streets in the middle of the night all
by himself on their turf on purpose far too often not to become an eyesore for
some petty-drug runner, corner-store prostitute or orphaned, nameless brat who
 might or might have not ratted out on him to his superiors in return of a dry
bread-scrap. Oh, yes. It was an invitation to get caught. It was precisely want
  he wanted too. Hoyt was a striking site to any observer, he understood. He
  could have prided himself with the features of a certain Dutchman with high
   cheekbones, a gaunt, bony face and pale, green eyes if it wasn’t for the
   bronzed, deep overtones of his skin. He was dark - yet, not entirely. Not
   entirely white either - far from it. He was neither here - nor there. Not
    truly. He assumed people tended to notice that, especially down in this
 hellhole where everything revolved around shades and colors for a while now.
 From way before his poor mamma pushed him out into this flea-invested snake-
    den. His dark, olive complexion invited the scorn of the whites and the
  suspicion of everyone who wasn’t. He shouldn’t even exist, by all accounts.
Racial mixing was something prohibited by the 55th act of 1949 and his papa, if
he wasn’t who he was would by all accounts by ostracized, ridiculed and jailed,
 if only he didn’t half of South Africa’s police officers, judges and jury in
    his pockets, bought by his blood diamonds, opulent gifts and packets of
imported cocaine. But, out here? Out here it was different. Hoyt would be like
a walking, breathing neon light from an onlooker’s perspective - especially in
  this neighborhood. And someone would notice him. Sooner or later. Someone’s
  attention would be drawn to him and he would find himself exactly where he
 wanted to be. Step by step. In Joburg’s elusive underworld. The very bottom.
                   Thick and pitch black. His type of place.
                                        
                                        
                                        
                                        
    Cobus’ often recited, all too familiar speeches came to mind unbidden.
  On this one occasion, when he was a boy - mingling with the servants of the
                                    manor.
   The Nigerian children of Nigerian maids - chasing the ball in the serf’s
                              separated backyard.
No less dark then his own mother - he felt at ease with them for a short while,
                                   perhaps.
  Less out of place, less unwanted, less awkward, less unnecessary, far less
                                 mocked even.
  At least - that’s what he wanted to feel - projecting safety and acceptance
                                 unto himself.
 Playing and attempting to win a score isolated from the main courtyard of the
                                    villa.
 Unseen and unheard by any would-be guests here to visit Mr. Volker’s office.
   His shady clientele, his business partners, even his mistress and whores.
          Papa wasn't very comfortable showing his son off to anyone.
              Or the black woman nobody knew he actually wedded.
                  Never claiming them openly, without shame.
                        Never introducing them anyone.
                          Practically avoiding them.
                            In his own damn house.
                              Fuck knows why, eh?
                                        
                                        
                                        
                                        
-”In your mother’s Colombia, you’re far too European. In Africa, you’re just a
 white man with a tan. Water with a bit of color in it. In Europe you’re lower
 then a Gypsy. You shouldn’t even think about setting foot in Asia if you know
 what’s good for you. Eastern Europe is white-only communist ghetto, so that’s
off your radar too. In Scandinavia, they only pretend to like coloreds to seem
   tolerant and progressive, but as soon as you turn your back, they’re out
talking smack about you. In America, they’d make fun of your accent and in Cuba
 they’d put you away for not being Marxist enough and not licking Castro’s ass
  quite as ardently as the Party would like. What other options have you got?
Unless you go and isolate yourself to some remote island and live like Robinson
Crusoe. Which, really - is a stretch. And you certainly can’t afford that. Not
                without me. I pay all your bills. I feed you.”-
                                        
                                        
                                        
                                        
                      Now, there was a food for thought.
                         Living on some remote island.
                             Like Robinson Crusoe.
                    Hoyt, his Parrot and his friend Friday.
            Deep down knowing his father wasn’t just taunting him.
      Conditioning him to feel unwanted, unnecessary and like an anomaly.
He was correct, in a sense - travelling far and wide, seeing the world for what
                                    it was.
 Unity and co-existence was the greatest con and scam of humanity, father told
                                     him.
   People with differences didn’t like people with differences - not truly.
           They only forced themselves to for the sake of the world.
                And Hoyt relied on that in this very instance.
                     Hoping to attract negative attention.
                        Like a flame attracts a jackal.
                               And when he did.
                                  He smiled.
                                 Triumphantly.
                       Everything was going as planned.
                                        
                                        
                                        
                                        
            -”What’chu doin’ here, Goffal-boy? This is our turf!”-
                                        
                                        
                                        
     -”Same thing you are. Buy and selling. Got some? Want some? Which is
                                it, booitjie?”-
                                        
                                        
                                        
 Hoyt cockily retorted to the pair of angry-looking street watchmen armed with
  guns, matching white, worn wife-beaters, shaved heads and pierced nostrils,
   purposefully using an Afrikaner word in front of them in hopes of angering
 them on sight, knowing exactly how they would react as he attempted to taunt
them with a sarcastic label - down in the slums of Soweto, tomfoolery like that
 could easily carry a death sentence - casually reaching for the pocket of his
  jeans to reveal a little plastic, translucent bag of something he picked up
 along the way - some cheap shit - mainly for the easy dough and his own damn
satisfaction. Wouldn’t be the first time he was detained for this. Wouldn’t the
last time. Racial profiling was a bitch, wasn’t she? They would arrest him even
  if he wasn’t packing any heat to begin with just because of how he looked -
 but, he had quite the gall, walking in someone’s territory all by himself and
 attempting to deal to a pair of dealers. Suicidally stupid, in fact. Just as
 stupid as his father always claimed he was. But, if this was his only mean to
  catch the attention of the right people through sheer idiocy and basic-ass
  gooseshit, he might as well give it a desperate attempt. Hoyt Volker didn’t
have much of a choice anymore. Another alternative. Back home he was unwelcome
from the very beginning. His mother’s side of the family didn’t want to hear of
him. He was tired of being without a roof over his head and living off of petty
  thefts, small-time jobs, gambling and winning in poker-games on some moldy
  corner store and street brawls. And he hardly had enough resources to move
  elsewhere. Above else - fuck cheap manual labor. Fuck it! He didn't want to
 turn into his own mother. A life dedicated to working the fields, working the
  kitchen, working the barns, working in his father's bed - and still - not a
penny to her name, even after decades of suffering. Pain. Shame. Abuse. Mutual
 tears. Nothing she can show-off and call her own. Not even her own integrity
and identity. Might as well toss himself off the first bridge available then be
on the giving end of Capitalism. His favorite type of systematic rule - except
- he wanted to be on the top of it’s food chain, much like his daddy-Boer. Not
 the bottom. The very same bottom he hit when one of men punched him straight
  across the face, sending him flat into the warm concrete beneath his feet,
sending one kick, another and then another only to drag him away to some back-
alley to deliver the finishing blow. Not like he was trying to defend himself.
 That wasn’t the point. The point was to play the role of a clueless idiot and
         infiltrate the lair of other clueless idiots in the process.
                                        
                                        
                                        
                           Hoyt knew he was risking.
                       Majorly, at that - his own life.
                        The very head on his shoulders.
                     Much like in a humble game of poker.
            You need to bluff in order to put the player off guard.
  Hit him with all you’ve got once they least except it - a trick thought by
                                    Cobus.
 So, when he found himself falling unconscious from the blood loss and a slash
                                 to the head -
  The two men he was just letting get the best of him easily much bigger and
                                    taller.
    Not that that was all too strange, seeing his own scrawny slenderness.
             Hoyt remembered to let the chips fall where they may.
                                        
                                        
                                        
                                        
             After all, he never lost a round of cards to anyone.
                    Only to his own father, rest his soul.
End Notes
     Goffal - Goffal or Goffels is a term applied to Coloureds, or persons
     of mixed race claiming both European and African descent, in Malawi,
     Zambia, and Zimbabwe. The community includes many diverse
     constituents of Shona, Northern Ndebele, Bemba, Chewa, British,
     Afrikaner, and occasionally Indian descent.
     Kaffir - The word kaffir (or alternatively kaffer) is a term used in
     Southern Africa to refer to a black person. Now considered an
     offensive ethnic slur, it was formerly considered by whites to be a
     neutral term for black South Africans."Kaffir" is derived from the
     Arabic word (Arabic: كافر kāfir) that is usually translated into
     English as "non-believer", i.e. a non-Muslim. The word was originally
     applied to non-Muslims in general, and therefore to non Muslim black
     peoples encountered along the Swahili coast by Arab traders. The
     Portuguese nation who arrived on the East African coast in 1498,
     encountered the usage of the term by the coastal Arabs (but not the
     Swahili who used the term Washenzi (meaning "uncivilized") to the
     describe the non-Islamic people of the African interior. The poet
     Camões used the plural form of the term (cafres) in the fifth canto
     of his 1572 poem Os Lusíadas. This interpretation was probably passed
     on to other Europeans in succession, the Spanish, English, Dutch and
     French.
     Boykie - (also booitjie, boytjie) - South African, Informal - A boy,
     a young man, especially one regarded as very successful or talented.
     The South Africa national rugby union team - commonly known as the
     Springboks, is governed by the South African Rugby Union. The
     Springboks play in green and gold jerseys with white shorts, and
     their emblems are the Springbok and the King Protea. The team has
     been representing South Africa in international rugby union since 30
     July 1891, when they played their first test match against a British
     Isles touring team.
     Domkop (South African Slang) – Idiot (lit. Dumbhead), same as German
     "Dummkopf" or Dutch "domkop".
     Boer - is the Dutch and Afrikaans word for "farmer". As used in South
     Africa, it was used to denote the descendants of the Dutch-speaking
     settlers of the eastern Cape frontier in Southern Africa during the
     18th century. For a long time the Dutch East India Company controlled
     this area, but it was eventually taken over by the United Kingdom and
     incorporated into the British Empire.
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