NOTE: This is part of a continuing online novel. Here is the Table of Contents.

The America Diaspora is a sequel to The Chinese Century.

I don’t know if you are reading this.

If you are, I have succeeded.

And I might yet live.

Was it really just 72 hours ago that I came home a hero?

I think it was.

I was quite surprised. Did I look it? I slept well after the press conference, and the next morning was put onto a Virgin-Atlantic flight bound for Cape Town. I lost two hours in the 11½ hour flight back on the time change (not that I noticed), then slept again in transit to Joburg on South Africa Air.

The big shock came when I got off the second plane and faced a host of TV cameras and cheering people. I was hoping for a driver from Virgin-Maverick, but instead I got the rock star treatment.

Apparently my performance in London was shown, live and direct, on local TV. Mma Ramosawa came up to give me a big kiss on the cheek as the lights flashed. She reached into my coat pocket, pulled out my boarding card, and sent a man off to get my bags while we held an impromptu news conference right there on the concourse. Then she kissed me again and told me to meet my driver at curb side.

Everything looked OK. The driver was a black man, about 6 feet tall, with thin features and a chauffeur’s uniform. I would have said he was Xhosa, but he could have been Zulu – I still don’t have all my ethnicities together (except in the case of Mma Ramosawa, a Motswana woman of the traditional shape). The chauffeur smiled and opened the door for me.

I got in.

That’s where the nightmare began.

I should have been suspicious because the limo was a stretch. All the cars I’d taken for Virgin-Maverick had been of a normal size. I should have suspected something when I didn’t see a Virgin-Maverick logo on the car, but I assumed that it was on the door that was being opened. The driver’s smile was also a little too wide.

I nodded toward the two broad-shouldered men who were already in the car. Then they pulled their guns. One grabbed me by the shoulder and held his gun before my nose. The other, I guess, threw a blindfold around me. My hands were bound together, along with my feet, and trussed up in this way I was left on the seat.

I tried to listen carefully as we drove. I listened for changes in the sounds the tires made which might identify where we were going. I listened for words from my captors that might help identify them, by accent or by language or by the subject of their talk.

I got very little help.

How long did we drive non-stop? Maybe four hours, maybe more. We finally did stop, and I thought this might be it. We were stopped for maybe five minutes, then we moved slowly for a while, and stopped again.

Then we moved on again.

My bladder was starting to hurt. The roads were worse here. Finally we lost the asphalt entirely – I could tell from the changed sound the tires made, a crunching rather than a rhythmic hum.

When the car stopped this time, I was finally pulled out. The heat hit me right away, but I felt no Sun on me so it might have been night. The man who grabbed me from outside the car held me by the shoulders while another man (I assume it was one of those who’d ridden with me) grabbed my feet. They moved with me like this for maybe 30 seconds until I was heaved into a room, and the door slammed shut behind me.

It was only now, aching on hard-packed ground, that I began to realize how lightly I’d been bound. (Had the floor been cement I doubtless would have broken some bones. As it was I was just bruised.) I pushed my hands apart, over-and-over again, until those bonds loosened. I reached for my blindfold and saw they had been nothing but duct tape. (So, too, the blindfold.) Then I reached for my ankles and pulled off the tape there.

I looked around. There was a window. Well, an opening anyway. It was barred, but light came through, enough moonlight so I was able to see a single cot and a pot nearby. I used the pot, front and back, saw no paper for my ass and pushed it toward the door. I shoved the cot as far from the door as possible, but I could still smell my own shit, faintly, for some time.

There was nothing else I could do. I slept.

Light came, and with it the sound of chickens. I smiled to myself. I'd kept chickens as pets for nearly 20 years in Atlanta, until the coop collapsed, to Jenni's great relief. The sound took me back. Any pleasure from memory is intense when you're a captive. Even though it reminds you of your captive state.

A few hours later a woman opened the door. She replaced the pot and pushed a second pot toward me, of roughly the same size. I didn’t think she understood English because she only motioned. The second pot smelled good, unlike the one I'd filled. Any food would smell good.

Inside was a piece of chicken, some orange gravy, a few pieces of what looked like winter squash and a piece of bread or griddle-cake that sopped up the gravy quite nicely. I finished quickly, felt my stomach’s pain subside, and sat back on the cot.

The woman came back that night, and this time she brought with her a pen and a pad, along with the food. I'd gotten the drill this time, having filled the previous morning's food pot with piss. I looked at the pad for a long time. I heard rain and the gray day turned to black, Some hours later I began to grow cold.

How long have I been here? I have been going over that in my mind. It seems like forever, but I suspect it has been just three days. I don’t know how much of this you will be able to read. The moonlight has come back, but the wind makes my hand shake over the pad. I try to focus my will on the pad and what I can say with it, to ward off the chill. Mind over matter, if you don't mind it don't matter.

I thought at first I would write a will. Maybe that’s what the pad is for, I thought. But there was nothing to write, except of my love for Jenni, and the kids, who will get everything. The life insurance should come in handy. I think Virgin-Maverick added a bit to what I had in America as part of my employment contract. It should get the kids through college. They can keep the house. I hope someday Jenni can find someone else. She deserves all happiness.

After I cried over this for a time, I wrote what you have just read. I probably wrote a little more. I don’t know how much my captors – and I assume that’s what they are – may have decided to take out.

I don’t know why I’m here. I suspect it has something to do with Virgin-Maverick, although I might be held for ransom from Mma Ramosawa. That I haven't been killed tells me there's money involved in this somewhere, and that I might yet live.

I don’t know where I am. I may be outside South Africa. I may still be inside it. There’s no way to know. I haven’t been outside JoBurg before in this country.

If you are reading this, I assume it’s because my captors want you to know that I’m alive, and as healthy as I could be in the circumstances. One thing you should know on that. I take Diovan for my blood pressure and Lipitor for my cholesterol. Needless to say I haven’t had any these last few days. Not even aspirin for the pain.

Do with this as you will. I have had a good, full life. I have taken stock of it and feel no shame in it. If there is a God, may she receive me into her ample bosom and leave me safe, now and at the hour of our death, Amen.