Shelves: crime , africa Unbelievably violent, amazingly confrontational, searingly honest and profoundly emotional, ZULU is one of those books that you may have to read through spread fingers, but it is almost impossible to put this book down until it screeches to an ending that will make you shudder. The "Zulu" of the title refers not so much to the tribe as a whole, but to Cape Town homicide captain Ali Neuman. Heading up the investigation into the death of Unbelievably violent, amazingly confrontational, searingly honest and profoundly emotional, ZULU is one of those books that you may have to read through spread fingers, but it is almost impossible to put this book down until it screeches to an ending that will make you shudder. His profound belief in the job he does comes from his childhood - when he was a young boy he was forced to watch the ritualised murders of his father and brother. He grew up with an overwhelming desire to put an end to the lawlessness that plagues his country. What is different in the portrayal of these elements in ZULU is the context.
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This is his third work of crime fiction to be published by Euorpa Editions. He lives in France. Tell me, are you scared? You see? The words of the giant in the ski mask hit the back of his neck. Or scream.
The noise of the torches crackled in his ears. The man gripped his scalp tight in his callous hand. Not really. Not anymore. The sjambok cracked again. Ali wanted to beg them, to tell them there was no point, they were wrong, but in his throat there was emptiness. The giant was still holding him. Too much blood lost. Skin hanging off him. The real world cracked open. Ali floating weightless to the other end of the sky. They twisted his skull like a screw and flung him to the ground.
Ali fell on the dry grass. He hid his head in his hands, trying to bury himself in them, to curl up and disintegrate, become amniotic fluid again. A few feet away, Andy was weakening by the minute. He was still wearing the red shorts he wore at night, all soaked in urine, and his knees were knocking together. His hands had been tied behind his back and a tire placed around his neck.
The ogres were shoving him, spitting in his face, shouting abuse, vying with each other to find the right formula, the best reason to justify killing him. Andy was looking at them, his eyes popping out of their sockets. Ali had never before seen Andy lose his nerve — Andy was fifteen, his big brother. They preferred to go fishing, or play with the little cars they made out of barbed wire. Peugeot, Mercedes, Ford, Andy was an expert. Now his knock-knees were shivering in the torchlight, the garden where they had dragged him stank of gasoline, and the giants were arguing around the cans.
Andy was weeping, his tears black on his ebony skin, his red shorts damp with fear Ali saw his brother stagger when they threw a match on the gasoline-soaked tire.
Caryl Ferey "Zulu"