ABIGAIL IIN AFRICA

 

Jackson Kains

 

© Copyright Jackson Kains, 2025

 

Part one: Abigail the worker

 

Squatting on the dusty sidewalk, Abigail contemplated the lifted shoe of her latest customer. It was old and scuffed, and in that sense, it reflected its owner, a stooped black man dressed in a faded dashiki shirt and dirty track suit pants. As a shoeshine girl, she had dutifully buffed many such an item of footwear, crouching at their owners' feet in the tiny and revealing costume she was obliged to wear, conscious of male eyes on her white body in this steamy African city.

Shining shoes in Africa was not a career that Abigail pursued willingly. The idea was not her own, but chosen for her when, on her 21st birthday, she had been compulsorily enrolled in the Reparations Programme. Six months of service in the Programme was enforced uniquely on young white people across the world.

In truth, shining shoes in the street was not Abigail's sole occupation. She had what might be called a portfolio career. At different times in the two months since she had been shipped to Africa from her home in England, she had tried her reluctant hand at a variety of tasks. They all had one thing in common, however - they were intended to be unpleasant, humiliating and degrading to her, to all her fellow white 'reparees'.

"Clean it good, musungu, or I beat your fat white ass", said the old man leaning over her, and he cackled nastily. Abigail hastened to open her tin of shoe polish and applied it generously with her fingertips to the worn leather, keeping the man's foot propped on her squatting haunch. She had no brushes, quite intentionally. Obliging her to use her soft white hands was part of the process of humiliation. As she worked, the man enjoyed the view down her deep cleavage. Abigail's full breasts swayed beneath her skimpy halter top as she rubbed, and her unconstrained, long, blonde hair swung in sympathy as she now directed her efforts to the other shoe.

At last she was finished, and the shoes were as clean as they were ever going to be. There was no question of payment, of course. Instead, she had one further duty to perform. "Suck it", said her customer, pulling out his long, circumcised black cock. Suppressing a groan, Abigail edged towards the length of thick male flesh so casually presented to her. She would have preferred to use her hands but had learned the hard way that sullying a customer's cock with her polish-stained fingers was unacceptable business practice. So she began dutifully to lick, then nuzzle and suck.

As Abigail's blonde head bobbed dutifully, and she tried not to gag as she felt the thick shaft push deep into her gullet, she was only vaguely aware of other reparees passing on the street before her. Two white boys in filthy shirts and shorts were bent double under huge loads of brushwood tied crudely into bundles, sweating as they sought to match the pace of the man who had use of them for that day.

A small cart laden with sacks of some sort of foodstuff was hauled past by two straining white girls, their hair rat-tailed with sweat and breasts bouncing extravagantly. A slight black youth sat atop the sacks, urging them forward with a long, whippy switch applied regularly to their unwillingly presented backsides. "Please, please I have to go to the bathroom right now!" wailed one of the girls as they passed Abigail's kneeling form. The heedless youth urged her forward, unwilling to stop for so trivial a cause as allowing a white girl such relief. Her cries receded as the cart passed on its way. Abigail sucked dutifully on, her tongue swirling around the man's stiff length as she urged him to a climax.

After five minutes of diligent, hollow-cheeked effort, Abigail felt the now so-familiar jet of African seed fill her mouth and throat. She swallowed the repulsive load and set about laving the man's cock clean with her delicate pink tongue. At last she sat back on her heels and repeated the prescribed formula, "Thank you sir, for helping me repay my debt". The man grinned and slipped his hands inside her top. He squeezed her full breasts, pulling on her nipples almost playfully. Then he spat neatly on the sidewalk between her splayed knees and went on his way.

How had it come to this, Abigail asked herself for the thousandth time. When her parents were born in the mid-21^st century, white people were still narrowly in the majority in England. Now, as the 22^nd century loomed, they were a dwindling 13 per cent of the population in a country that regarded them as irrevocably tainted by the original sins of racism and colonialism. And they were seen as needing to be reminded of their ancestors' transgressions at every opportunity.

The same pattern had repeated itself wherever white people had once lived as complacent majorities. As their numbers fell, their power and influence waned, replaced by a state-sanctioned persecution they had scarcely resisted. It had happened gradually, incrementally. They had sat like a live frog in a pan of water as the heat was applied. Once the water began to boil, it was too late to leap clear.

The Reparations Programme had begun in the former United States but had quickly gone global. A once voluntary scheme to allow young whites to extirpate their innate guilt for the sins of their forefathers had quickly shifted to compulsory service for a minimum of six months. Across the world, but particularly in Africa and Asia, young whites were made to perform the lowliest of services for no reward, clad in the only two garments permitted a reparee - tight shorts paired with tee-shirts for boys, or halter tops for girls.

Barefoot, abused and humiliated, they carried loads like beasts of burden, dug latrines or laboured on construction sites. Reviling them was seen as making an offering to African or Asian forebears who whites had once made suffer in like manner. There were few who declined to make such a sacrifice to the memory of past injustice by groping a white tit here, slapping a white buttock there. As throughout history, if one group of people is given permission to mistreat another, most will gladly do so.

A bold few objected, such as a French imam who caused a scandal when he preached that white dhimmi should only have to pay their jizya tax, not perform unpaid labour or experience abuse. But these were rare and mostly ignored voices. Far more prevalent were those who argued that the Reparations Programme did not go far enough, and that permanent slavery was the inevitable destiny of the remaining whites.

Abigail sat awaiting her next customer, the taste of the previous man's ejaculate still on her tongue. The heat of the day and the accompanying humidity were at their most intense, and the sweat ran freely down her exposed flesh. She waved a hand ineffectually before her face in an effort to deter the persistent flies. But at that moment she heard the whoops and shrieks of delight that signalled a far greater source of discomfort.

Even before she saw those responsible for the noise, Abigail knew with a sinking heart what was coming her way. Sure enough, a gang of street youths - unemployed young men who roamed the city in lawless packs - had identified her as the latest object of their cruel sport. She had fallen victim to such hateful gangs before, and although they knew as she did that any attempt to seriously hurt her would result in their punishment, anything below that loosely defined threshold was acceptable. And Abigail had to sit there and take it, like an aspiring sorority pledge enduring a brutal hazing. It was, after all, unthinkable that a white girl should offer even the mildest rebuke to these young sons of Africa.

Almost at once, they were upon her. One pulled her long hair, making her wince and squeal; another jeeringly pinched her nose shut, and when she opened her mouth to breathe he forced his own upon it, his tongue pushing past hers with a lasciviousness that belied his years. A third snatched her tin of brown polish and began smearing long streaks of it over her exposed flesh. Her heavy breasts, freed from the halter top which they had ripped from her, came in for especial creativity. Whorls of brown polish soon decorated her creamy white udders, her pink aureoles artificially darkened.

"You like it, white bitch, yes?"

"Yes, thank you sir, I like ... AHHH!"

Abigail's response ended in a screech as the artist of the shoe polish gave her nipples a vicious twist.

Oh, please let them stop, please let them get bored, thought Abigail, even as one of the pack pulled the waistband of her shorts forward and tipped the remains of the bottle of soda he had been carrying into the aperture he had made. Abigail felt the sun-warmed, sticky liquid dribble through her pubic hair and around the curve of her plump pussy lips. Proud of this innovation, he next removed a wad of chewing gum from his mouth and stuck it in her ear.

It was a good 15 minutes before they finally tired of their sport and ambled off, leaving her sore, weeping and demoralised. She retrieved the halter top and tried as best she could to don it, tying the torn straps with a crude knot. Then she resumed her vigil, awaiting customers beside the scrap of cardboard upon which were words that summed up her business proposition with crude ambiguity, "Let me polish you".

***

At that moment, the city-wide Director of Reparations also had footwear on his mind. Chiemezie Fanon was admiring the mirror-finish of his toe caps, the product of much anxious labour by the white he had chosen as his personal servant. The quailing German girl was only a few days into her six months of compulsory service, but she was a quick study. She soon learned to meet the Director's exacting standards, encouraged in her endeavours by his open palm and doubled belt, both applied freely to her curves. It did his heart good to keep her perpetually on the edge of tears as she bore his endlessly creative assaults - both physical and mental. He peeled back her dignity like an onion skin, just as he scourged her ripe white body.

It was for her own good, Fanon assured himself. These white girls and boys must learn. They and their kind had enjoyed centuries of dominance. With scarcely a second thought, they had oppressed people around the globe, stealing their wealth, land and freedom. Now their white skins would bear livid testimony to how the tables were turned. They would know the despair that comes with lack of agency, the helplessness of being at the very lowest rung of the ladder.

How he loved to see the look in their eyes as they endured each taunt, each slap. They were thinking, 'Once we could do these things with impunity to black and brown, yet now we are few and powerless. God's curse on our forefathers for bringing us to this place'. Yes, he thought of himself as an educator. And his lesson was repeated over and again to each new group of reparees: 'suffer in mute submission to righteous African anger'.

He checked his watch, an expensive 'gift' from a reparee, and rose from his chair. It was time to meet the latest batch and to give them what he privately referred to as his 'welcome speech'. Knowing that, to the nervous new arrivals, it would prove to be anything but.

Outside, the heat of the day was at its fiercest. His position entitled him to an official car, and he was glad of it now, with the air conditioning cranked high and his white driver, a young Serb, shivering in just shorts and tee-shirt. With a word to the boy, the car pulled into the honking, stop-start traffic. Sleek limousines such as his own competed for road space with trucks, bicycles, donkey carts and scooters.

Stopping at an intersection, two whites - a blond boy and a strikingly good-looking girl with high cheek bones, aquiline nose and dark hair pulled back into a long ponytail - at once began to polish the windshield with their shirts. The girl's bared breasts swung and bounced appealingly as she applied her by now filthy halter top to the glass. Fanon's job had made him very sensitive to the moods of whites, and he became aware now of a sudden change in that of his driver. The boy was stiff, alert and anxious. He decided to find out why.

"Do you know either of these two?" he asked with seeming innocuousness.

"The guy, no sir. The girl, yes sir - a little. She is Serbian, like me."

Interesting, thought the Director. The white boys and girls were kept separate as far as possible. This was ostensibly on grounds of propriety, but it was mainly to prevent them from enjoying the consolations that men and women can find in each other's arms. So how did his driver know this topless girl who scrubbed the windshield with feigned enthusiasm?

"You didn't meet her while you were both serving here, I hope", said the Director with a minatory lowering of his voice. The driver fell easily into his trap.

"Oh no, sir. I know her from back home. We are both from the same town."

Fanon said nothing, allowing the driver to hope that his curiosity was satisfied. Then he said, "She is just spreading the dust around with that rag. If anything, she is making the glass even dirtier. Help her out. Use the washers but not the wipers". Obediently, the driver touched a control and two jets of screen wash played across the windshield. Both boy and girl flinched a little at the unexpectedness of it.

"Open your window", said Fanon. "I want you to speak to her in your own tongue."

The driver slid down his window and the girl stepped to her right to stand beside it, leaning forward expectantly, sweat-slicked breasts swinging outward before settling on her chest. She placed one slim hand on the door, the hand unencumbered by her ruined top. She placed it very close to where the driver's elbow now rested. In a tiny gesture, so small as to be almost unobservable, she briefly brushed the driver's arm with one finger.

"Tell her I have given her all the help I can with her task, by spraying the water", said the Director.

The driver dutifully translated his words and the girl replied in Serbian.

"She thanks you for your kindness, sir. They both do, she and the boy."

"Now tell her that her efforts have not been good enough. That soiled rag can never adequately clean my windshield. Tell her to use those big white tits."

The driver appeared to freeze. The girl sensed at once that something was wrong. Then with an obvious effort of will, the driver spoke to the girl again in Serbian. Her face became almost comically distraught. But she stepped back to the windshield and began to push her bare breasts over the smeared glass. From inside the car, the flattening orbs presented a most erotic display, her long nipples pushed one way and then another like the hands of a crazily malfunctioning clock. Her white flesh took on a darker hue from the filth that it was spreading across the glass.

At that moment, the traffic began to unblock, allowing the driver to move the car forward again. Both whites stepped nimbly back and bowed simultaneously. Turning around to look through the rear window, Fanon could just see them mouthing the expected formula, "Thank you sir, for helping me repay my debt". The driver had closed his window, and the car resumed its air-conditioned chill.

"I hope you enjoyed that little show I contrived for you", said the Director.

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir."

The Director thought of that tiny, affectionate gesture of the girl's finger laid so briefly on his driver's bare arm. For it had not escaped his eye.

"How well did you know her in your country? The truth now, or face the consequences."

The driver was gripping the wheel tightly. "Sir, in truth, we were in school together, in the same class. And we, we dated for a while, when we were teens."

The Director smiled a knowing grin.

"Oho! Childhood sweethearts, eh?"

"Yes, sir. Years ago", the driver acknowledged.

"But not so very long ago, surely? You are both still young. And is there perhaps a spark remaining between you even now? Or maybe something more?"

The driver didn't reply.

"ANSWER ME!", shouted Fanon, his deep voice filling the enclosed space with sound.

"Yes sir, we are engaged to be married", the defeated driver said quickly.

"Really? Well, congratulations. She is very lovely. You are a lucky young man."

They had slowed again as a rickshaw pulled by a straining white boy appeared ahead, it's occupant a large black woman in a gaudy wrap and matching head cloth. A light whip was visible in her hand.

"What is the name of your beloved?" asked the Director.

"Sir, she is called Katarina."

"A sweet name for a sweet girl. But does it not trouble you", the Director continued smoothly, "that your betrothed spends her days in the public highway, shaking her tits at the traffic?"

The driver's knuckles grew even whiter as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

"Sir, she is compelled to. As part of her reparations. And it is - it is right that she pays for the past."

Fanon leaned forward in his seat, his grin spreading.

"Is that what you really think? Come, tell me the truth. And on this occasion, there will be no punishment for you, on my word."

After a moment's hesitation, the driver said simply, "I hate it. She hates it. We hate it all. We are a proud people. Our women are proud. This shame, this disgrace that has fallen on us, it is too much. Serbs were never in Africa; we were never colonisers or slave traders. All this is..." He struggled for the word and at last spat out, "Nepravda. It is injustice."

The Director sat back in his seat. "You are honest. And as I promised, I will not punish you for those words. I will punish Katarina. While you watch."

The rest of the journey passed without any further conversation between the two. What more was there to say?