Category: Blog

In a word: Good

There is a TV show on at the moment called ‘The Good Place’.

It’s really the bad place which makes you wonder if there really is a ‘good place’.

This started me thinking.

How many people do you know, when you ask them how they are, they say ‘good’.

Can we see behind the facade that is their expression how they really feel?

And how many of us reveal our true feelings?

It seems to me there is an acceptable level of understanding that we take people at their word and move on from there.

And how many times when we suspect there is something wrong, we tend to overlook it in what is regarded as respect for that person?

What if something awful happened?

What if we could have prevented it?

What if we could have tried to gently probe deeper?

The problem is we seem to be too polite and there is nothing wrong with that.

But maybe, just maybe, the next time …

It’s just a thought.

 

An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness.  I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there.  I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either.  Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots and all were empty.  Someone had removed the weapons.  That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch.  One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage.  It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief.  It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely.  It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground.  I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side.  After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks.  It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that.  I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch.  I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end.  I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door.  It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting.  There wasn’t.  It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was.  Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan.  The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental.  But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness.  My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void.  Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly.  A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job.  I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door.  If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in.  One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door.  There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting.  It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it.  The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea.  I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part.  The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives.  Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian.  I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up.  Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down.  The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally.  He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile.  “Not today my friend.  You have made a very bad enemy.”  He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth.  “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave.  Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess.  I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally.  I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved.  Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm.  I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation.  Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria.  I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table.  I thought you might be looking for it.”  She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth?  It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity.  “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible.  I went with the truth.  “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss.  It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it.  You need to leave.  It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened.  She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in.  It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences.  Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge.  She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream.  She didn’t.

She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous.  Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about.  She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me.  I used to work for the Government, but no longer.  I suspect these men were here to repay a debt.  I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded.  “Upstairs.”  I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs.  Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back.  I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound.  Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet.  It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you.  She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.  Will you call her?”

“Yes.  I can’t stay here now.  You should go now.  Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

She smiled.  “As you say, I was never here.”

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2022

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The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 28

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

 

By the time they reached the outskirts of Munich, what the Standartenfuhrer considered their biggest hurdle, it was quite dark and almost impossible to see where they were going.

The whole city seemed to have disappeared so effectively was the blackout.  

But there was one benefit, there was little or no traffic on the roads, which lessened the chance of running into another car or truck.

And it was time to refill the tank with two more petrol cans, leaving two remaining.  Filling up now, the Standartenfuhrer said, would get them to Innsbruck.

He sounded confident, but Mayer got the distinct impression it was mostly that he was putting on a brave face.  There had been one instance, the checkpoint before Munich where he nearly lost his nerve.  For the first time, there had been SS guards at the checkpoint, and which had been entirely unexpected.

An SS officer of the same rank had been summoned and he had requested their written orders.  They had paperwork, but Mayer wasn’t sure if it related to their current situation, further confirming his belief this had been a very carefully planned operation to get him out of Germany, and that there was a more pressing reason why.  It definitely had something to do with the V2’s, but had their intelligence services found out about something else, something he didn’t know about?

Given the level of risk to the two men with him, and that at every turn there was a possibility of capture or death, given the level of planning and the run so far, one he would have never thought of trying on his own, he didn’t have a very high level of confidence that they would get away with it.

Those in the SS were not fools, trusted no one, believed nothing they were told, and disregarded anything written on paper.  Check, double-check, then check again.  Take nothing as read.  The document he’d been given on what made a first-class SS officer in the eyes of the Reich, was fundamentally not him, nor most of the German population.

The officer at this checkpoint reminded him of the one who had shot the shooting in the hotel, and for at least ten tense minutes, during which time the other two had conferred quietly in English, one suggestion they cut and run.

That would have invited a hail of machine-gun fire that none of them would survive.

Both looked visibly relieved when he returned, having obviously called the name of the officer who had signed the order.  The only explanation he had for this was that the level of discontent among officers Military of SS must be greater than he thought.



They managed to cross over into Austria without any problems, the route they had taken, a series of back roads and tracks which had been given to them.  Once again, Mayer was surprised that so many people could be working against their own country, but, of what he’d seen, conditions were harsh no matter which part of Germany they were in.

The war was not going the way the German people were being told, and it was hard to see any resolution of the conflict any time soon.

Perhaps everyone in the high command was hoping the new V2 rockets were going to change the country’s fortunes in the war.  If they were, they were going to be bitterly disappointed.  What they needed was the jet-propelled fighters and bombers, something that remarkably had not been implemented years earlier, and would have given them air superiority.

He’d worked on those early jet engines and they were remarkable, and faster than anything the British or the Americans had.  It was hard to comprehend why high command had not pushed forward the new jet-propelled planes that Belin had finally decided to implement.  

And just when the trio had agreed that everything would work out about 100 kilometers from Innsbruck, on the road to the Italian border crossing, they took the wrong route.  It was a mistake brought on by tiredness, and a momentary lapse in concentration.

A checkpoint where there shouldn’t be one.

© Charles Heath 2020

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress – 1

One

Stations, and particularly for me, railway stations, had a special meaning.

It was not the practicality of the place, where many, many passengers began or ended their journey, whether to or from a holiday or place of work or something else.

It was not the fact many people worked there, in the cafe, as ticket sellers or collectors, as station assistants helping with the mail, parcels or other types of freight, or just there to assist passengers.

For me, it was a reminder of an ending, an end to the life I once knew and had hoped would last forever.

It was where I said bon-voyage to a very special person, hoping as the train pulled out of the station it was not a goodbye.

Three months later I received a text message that said, basically, she was not coming back, that she had met someone special.

Oddly enough I was at the very same station when I received that fateful text and after a hour’s contemplation, and a sudden realization that I had mentally prepared myself for the inevitable, and in fact had talked about it with her sister Emily, not three days before.

She had told me then she had received a very strange email from Cecile, almost as if it hadn’t been written by her, a prelude to that of not returning home.  She, too, had received a message similar to mine.

We thought it odd, but it was not out of character for her, and although it raised concerns with her parents Emily, and I, thought no more of it.

Not till nearly three months later when both Emily and I received another text, from a blocked number somewhere in England that simply said, “help cee”.

‘Cee’ was a name she had shared with Emily and I and would never necessarily give to anyone else to use, not unless she was very close to them.  Not even her parents could use it.  I had considered it was miss-sent, that it was for her ‘new’ friend and not me.

Not until there was a knock on the door of my apartment, and found Emily, and a packed bag, on my doorstep.

“Something is very wrong,” she said without preamble, then barged past, one of her suitcase wheels running over my foot.

I closed the door and leaned against it.  “What are you talking about?”

“You would have got the same message.  She would not use Cee to anyone other than us.”

She flopped down on the best seat in the room, looking tired and exasperated.

“I thought it was miss-sent.  A new boyfriend that’s keeping her there, surely she would accord him the same privilege.”

“You’re joking.  How long did it take you, before she told you?”

I’d known her since grade school, but it was not until we graduated from university, she accorded that privilege.  But she was right.

“OK.  So why did you come here?  If she’s in trouble, there’s not much I can do from here.”

She dug into a voluminous handbag, pulled out an envelope, and waved it in the air.  “We’re going to London.  Tonight.  Pack a bag.  Your passport is current, and I’ve got all the necessary documentation sorted.  You know my dad; he just made a few calls.”

I thought about it for a minute or two.  London was a large city and the odds of picking up her trail after so long was remote, even if we received the message in the last 24 hours, nor did it mean it emanated from London, but could be from anywhere.  Obviously, she knew something I didn’t.

“You know where that message came from?”

“Yes.  When that message was sent, it was near where she was living.  Dad has been talking to the police over there and said she was not home when they called.  It’s the first place we’re going once we get there.”  Then, a second later, she said, “don’t just stand there, get packing.”

It was like an expression I’d heard often, going from one extreme to the other.

When we left it was the middle of summer and coming down from a high of 42 degrees Celsius, to when we landed at just after 6 am to a temperature that was below zero.  We felt the first force of it going up the gangway, then delayed the full force of the weather until we got off the underground at Wimbledon.

Early morning on a workday people were flooding into the station on their way to work, only to discover delays.  We’d seen the snow come, first in a trickle and then a steady downpour that only eased off when we arrived.

It stopped just as we came out of the station onto Wimbledon Hill Road, and from there it was a short walk to Worple Road.  At least, if it held off long enough, we would get to her flat just cold, not wet and cold.  To be honest, the snow was a novelty for us, because where we lived, it didn’t snow.  We had to go to the mountains a few hundred miles away for that privilege.

But the fact it wasn’t snowing didn’t make it any more pleasant.  If anything, the exertion needed to traverse the icy pathways and nearly slipping over several times made it worse.   Emily wasn’t impressed that she had to carry her case instead of being able to drag it, and it certainly didn’t improve her temper.

For the distance, about a half-mile, it took longer than expected because of the weather and the state of the path.  Added to that, it just started to snow again, lightly at least, but we made it, went inside, and shook off the snow on the ground floor foyer, then went up the stairs to the third floor.

Her flat was 3c and overlooked the main road.

Emily opened the door and we both stood back as the door swung open.

It was not what we expected.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 11

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Just the person to see next

 

I couldn’t imagine what those details were.  But if it was a setup, it was a very elaborate one, by people who knew our systems and procedures.  Naturally, the first thought that sprang to mind, someone who was working here, or used to.

Then I had another thought, what if none of us was meant to survive the operation, and hat we had been selected specifically because we were new to field operations.  At the briefing, we had been told this was simple surveillance, observe and report, nothing more.

Usually we had one experienced member and three new team members, the experienced member was there to continue on the job training and evaluation.  What worried me was that an experienced member could be taken out apparently as easy as the others.

And my money was not on the guy I’d cornered.  Of course, I could be wrong, and no doubt circumstantial evidence would go a long way towards proving that, but in my estimation, a cornered man like he was, with a thirst and talent for killing, would not have hesitated to kill me before I’d got three words out.

I believed him.  He was scared and, now that I thought about it, confused.  That was anything but the m.o. of a conscienceless killer.

The wrinkle that hadn’t been accounted for was the explosion.  No one could have predicted that, or its effect on the operation.  It might well have saved him, except that I didn’t play by the rules and reconnected with him.  Maybe he had felt safe after taking out the others, and assuming I’d been taken down by the explosion.

Except, if I didn’t think he did the killing, who did, and why?  Severin?  Just who the hell is this Severin?  There’s been no indication he wasn’t one of us.

I was pondering that question when the woman returned and sat down again.  This time her stare wasn’t quite as glacial.

“Describe this Severin.”

She opened her notebook, and had her pencil ready.  Odd that she should be taking notes in pencil.

I described him.  Five feet eight inches tall, 250 pounds, thinning black hair, making him anywhere between 35 and 50, though I thought he was mid-forties.  He wore a tweed suit, rather an odd choice for the climate, and had the aroma of cigarette smoke hanging about him.

Every free moment I saw him, he had a cigarette, so I thought he was quite possibly a chain smoker, and from that, perhaps a man with bad nerves, or who worried a lot.  Now I knew he was not one of us, that could be interpreted as thinking he might get caught.

But he was confident, and outgoing, which meant he was quite sure he wouldn’t get caught, and that meant, quite possibly there was someone within our department that was working for or with him and had covered his comings and goings.  Either that or he had a universal passcode key to come and go as he pleased.

When I finished the description I could see a flicker of recognition.  IT was possible she knew who he might be, and if so, I was betting she knew him by another name.  I asked if that was the case.

“You know who this man is, don’t you?”

The stern reproving look returned.  “What makes you think that?”

“I read faces.  Yours is not a poker face.”

“Well, that disappoints me because I like to play poker.  Perhaps the people I play with have a different view.”

“I’m usually a good judge of character.”

“It’s let you down this time.”  She stood.  “Before you go, one of the supervisors here would like a word with you.  His name is Nobbin.  He works out of another office and is coming here directly.  After that, you’re free to go.”

She didn’t wait to say goodbye, and I was glad I managed to keep a straight face long enough.

Nobbin.  Just the man I wanted to see.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 5

Day 5 – Fiction based on fact

…

Finding the Balance: When Factual Background Meets Narrative Flow

Introduction
Imagine being immersed in a gripping novel, only to have the story halted by a lengthy explanation of 17th-century tax policies. Or picture a documentary where key context is skipped entirely, leaving you puzzled about the stakes. This is the delicate tightrope every writer walks: providing enough factual background to ground the reader while maintaining a timeline that serves the narrative. Whether you’re crafting fiction, non-fiction, or creative non-fiction, striking this balance is essential to keep your audience engaged and informed.

The Pitfalls of Overloading Factual Background

Factual background gives readers context, but when it overpowers the narrative, it becomes a barrier. Consider these scenarios:

  • Info Dumps: A historical novel that pauses for a 500-word description of a forgotten dynasty halfway through a chase scene.
  • Date Overload: A memoir listing every event in chronological order, turning the story into an encyclopedic list rather than a journey.

Impact on Engagement
Studies show that readers lose interest when factual content disrupts the flow. Excessive background can create “cognitive overload,” where the reader becomes overwhelmed and disengages. For example, a thriller filled with period-accurate military tactics might lose readers who just want to follow the protagonist’s survival.

When It Works
However, rich detail can elevate a story. The Da Vinci Code weaves historical facts into its plot without halting action, using suspense to justify context. The key is integration—not isolation.

The Challenge of Chronological vs. Non-Chronological Timelines

Timelines guide where and how the story unfolds. Sticking to a timeline ensures clarity, but deviations can add depth.

Stick to the Script: When Chronology is Key
In non-fiction, like biographies or historical analysis, strict timelines are essential for accuracy. A book about the Cold War, for example, must present events in order to maintain logical cause-and-effect.

Creative Chronology: Bending Time for Drama
Fiction often thrives on non-linear timelines. The Social Network uses a fragmented structure to build suspense around the founding of Facebook, while Lincoln sticks to a chronological rise. The choice depends on your genre:

  • Fiction: Use flashbacks or parallel timelines to reveal character motivations (e.g., Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell).
  • Non-fiction: A memoir might jump between time periods to highlight personal growth, provided transitions are clear.

The Danger of Anachronisms
Even in creative works, respecting timelines is crucial. A medieval knight quoting Shakespearean phrases or a 1920s novel lacking air travel would shatter credibility. Research is your safeguard.

Techniques to Balance Background and Story

How can writers integrate necessary information without overload? Here are practical strategies:

  1. Show, Don’t Tell
    • Reveal historical context through a character’s actions (e.g., a soldier’s uniform indicating the time period).
    • Use dialogue to drop clues: “The war’s end came as a shock,” a character might say, subtly signalling war’s conclusion.
  2. Summarise, Then Deepen
    • Start with a brief summary of the context. Introduce deeper details only when they’re relevant to the plot. For instance, a character researching a family heirloom can naturally uncover its history.
  3. Pace Your Exposition
    • Introduce background in “micro-doses.” If writing a fantasy novel about a magical kingdom, sprinkle details about its politics through different scenes: a conversation, a newspaper article, or a character’s memory.
  4. Use Tools of the Trade
    • In Media Res: Begin in the middle of the action and provide context as the story unfolds.
    • Signposts: Guide the reader with clear transitions when shifting timelines.

Case Studies in Balance

  • Book Example: Pride and Prejudice assumes readers understand 19th-century social hierarchies—Jane Austen implies, rather than explains, the system through character interactions.
  • Film Example: Inception (2010) layers timelines with clear visual cues, ensuring the complex plot remains graspable.
  • Podcast Example: Serial uses background episodes to build context in a story-heavy format, balancing narration with interviews.

Conclusion: Striking the Right Rhythm

Finding the balance between factual background and narrative flow is as much an art as it is a craft. Ask yourself:

  • Is this detail essential to the story or character development?
  • Would a timeline shift enhance the narrative, or confuse the reader?

Remember, your audience’s expectations matter. A historical mystery might require more context than a modern workplace drama. Use beta readers to pinpoint where facts eclipse the story or where confusion lingers.

Final Takeaway: Trust your reader. Provide enough to ground them, and no more. Let the timeline serve the story, not the other way around. With practice, this balance will transform from a challenge into a narrative strength.

Now, go write—without overwriting!

Call to Action: Share your favourite example of a story that balanced context and narrative perfectly. How did it keep you hooked? Let’s discuss in the comments!

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Abuja

Hidden Gems of Abuja: 5 Off-the-Beaten-Path Attractions You Shouldn’t Miss

Abuja, Nigeria’s capital city, is often celebrated for its wide boulevards, modern architecture, and bustling political hubs. While most tourists flock to well-known spots like the National Mosque, Millennium Park, or the Aso Rock Monument, there’s a quieter, more intimate side to Abuja that often goes unnoticed. Beyond the crowds lies a collection of serene, unique, and culturally rich attractions that offer a more personal and authentic experience.

If you’re looking to explore Abuja beyond the tourist brochures, here are the top five lesser-known yet distinctive attractions that promise tranquillity, beauty, and a touch of local charm—without the hustle and bustle.

1. Abuja National Zoo

Tucked away in the quieter Gwarimpa district, the Abuja National Zoo offers a peaceful escape into the world of Nigerian wildlife. Unlike the more crowded national parks, this compact zoo is family-friendly and sees far fewer visitors, making it ideal for a relaxed afternoon.

What makes it special?
Home to indigenous species like the Nigerian dwarf crocodile, West African manatees, and various primates, the zoo also features educational exhibits on conservation. The lush, well-maintained grounds include shaded walkways and picnic spots—perfect for nature lovers and families seeking a quiet day out.

Pro Tip: Visit on weekday mornings for an even more serene experience, and don’t miss the reptile house—it’s one of the few places in the country showcasing a dedicated collection of African reptiles.

2. Jabi Lake and Boat Club (Beyond the Kayaks)

While Jabi Lake is known for its weekend kayaking activities and lakeside cafes, few visitors venture beyond the main dock or the popular eateries. However, the surrounding trails and the quieter eastern shoreline offer a completely different vibe.

What makes it special?
Early mornings at the lake are magical—fog hovers above the water, birds call from the reeds, and fishermen paddle silently in wooden canoes. The lesser-used walking paths along the eastern bank provide scenic views and a chance to observe local life along the water’s edge. It’s a photographer’s dream and a meditative retreat from city noise.

Pro Tip: Bring a coffee from a nearby café and take a quiet stroll along the back trails before 8 AM to fully appreciate the lake’s tranquil beauty.

3. Kubwa Hills and Rock Formations

Located just a short drive from the city centre in the Kubwa neighbourhood, these natural rock formations rise dramatically from the savannah, offering panoramic views and a sense of untouched wilderness.

What makes it special?
Unlike Aso Rock, which is often crowded and surveilled, the Kubwa Hills are largely unmarked and unmanaged—making them perfect for adventurous travellers who enjoy hiking and solitude. The area is rich in geological history, with unique weathered granite outcrops and hidden caves. It’s also a favorite among local artists and spiritual groups, adding a subtle cultural layer to the landscape.

Pro Tip: Visit with a local guide or a trusted companion, wear comfortable shoes, and bring water—there are no facilities on-site. Sunset here offers one of the most underrated views in Abuja.

4. Arts Market at Sheraton Hotel (Abuja Arts & Crafts Market)

While many head to city malls and souvenir shops, the weekly arts and crafts market held outside the Sheraton Hotel (Friday afternoons to Sunday evenings) is a hidden treasure trove of Nigerian creativity.

What makes it special?
Here, you’ll find hand-carved sculptures, traditional fabrics, beadwork, and pottery from artisans across Nigeria’s 36 states. Because it’s not widely advertised, it attracts more locals than tourists, making it a genuine cultural exchange. The prices are fair, and vendors are happy to share stories behind their crafts.

Pro Tip: Go on a Saturday morning to see the most variety and engage with artists while they’re setting up their stalls. It’s a fantastic place to pick up authentic, one-of-a-kind souvenirs.

5. Nigeria Nuclear Regulatory Authority (NNRA) Garden and Sculpture Park

An unexpected gem, the NNRA premises in Jabi doubles as a hidden sculpture garden and green space. While the agency is operational, its front garden is open to the public and maintained like a mini-park.

What makes it special?
The space features abstract metal sculptures by Nigerian artists, serene water features, and winding pathways through thick foliage. The blend of art, nature, and science is unique—rarely seen elsewhere in the city. It’s an oasis of calm where you can sit, reflect, and enjoy a moment of quiet contemplation.

Pro Tip: Combine your visit with a stop at the nearby Jabi Lake or a quiet lunch at one of the less crowded local restaurants in Jabi Mall.

Final Thoughts: Discover a Different Abuja

Abuja is more than government buildings and grand monuments. Its quieter corners reveal a city rich in culture, nature, and local life. By stepping off the beaten path, you not only avoid the crowds but also gain a deeper appreciation for the capital’s soul.

So the next time you’re in Abuja—or planning a visit—skip the queues and embrace the serenity. These five spots may not be on every tourist map, but they promise experiences that are authentic, memorable, and refreshingly uncrowded.

Abuja’s best-kept secrets are waiting—will you go find them?

Have you visited any of these hidden spots? Share your experience in the comments below, or tag us on social media with your Abuja off-the-grid adventures!

What I learned about writing – The art of interpreting oral stories

The Whispered Word: How the Bible Mirrors the Chinese Whispers Game Across Centuries

The game of Chinese whispers—where a message subtly transforms as it’s passed from one person to another—holds a fascinating parallel to one of humanity’s most enduring texts: the Bible. While often viewed as a fixed, unchanging scripture, the Bible’s journey from oral tradition to written word, and its subsequent translations and interpretations, reveals a story as dynamic and evolving as the telephone game itself. This phenomenon invites us to reflect on how meaning shifts across time, culture, and language, and what this means for the preservation—or evolution—of sacred truths.

From Oral Roots to Written Word

Long before the Bible was committed to parchment or codex, its stories were told aloud. In ancient Israel, the earliest tales of creation, covenants, and prophecies were preserved through oral tradition, passed from generation to generation. Like a whispered chain around a campfire, these spoken narratives naturally adapted to suit new audiences. A tale of a mighty flood, for instance, might emphasise the moral lesson of divine judgment in one retelling, while another might highlight humanity’s resilience. Over time, these oral stories were eventually written down, but not without the imprints of the storytellers and scribes who shaped them.

The Alphabet Soup of Translation

The Bible’s original texts were composed in Hebrew (Old Testament), Aramaic (parts of Daniel and Ezra), and Greek (New Testament). Translating these works into countless languages over millennia introduced layers of complexity. The Septuagint, a 3rd-century BCE Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible, made the text accessible to Hellenistic Jews but also sparked debates over word choice and nuance. Similarly, St. Jerome’s 4th-century Latin Vulgate aimed to stay faithful to the original Hebrew but reflected the theological priorities of his era. Each translation was a step further from the source, with translators inevitably layering their own cultural and theological frameworks onto the text.

Even today, modern translations (such as the NIV, NRSV, or King James Version) differ in tone, accuracy, and emphasis. Consider the word “logos” in the Gospel of John, translated as “Word” in English but evoking rich philosophical connotations in Greek that connect Jesus to Hellenistic concepts of reason and divine order. These shifts reveal how the Bible’s message is not static but reinterpreted through each linguistic and cultural lens.

Interpretations That Shape Identity

The Bible’s journey doesn’t stop at translation. Denominational and cultural interpretations have further transformed its narratives. The parables of Jesus, for example, were meant to be accessible to 1st-century listeners. Yet over time, they’ve been reshaped to address modern issues: the parable of the Prodigal Son might emphasise forgiveness in one tradition, while another might focus on accountability. Similarly, the Genesis creation story has been read literally by some, while others see it as a poetic allegory about humanity’s relationship with the divine.

Even sacred stories like Noah’s Ark or the Exodus have evolved. The flood narrative in Genesis shares striking similarities with Mesopotamian myths like the Epic of Gilgamesh, raising questions about how much of these stories are uniquely Israelite and how much reflects broader cultural currents.

The Paradox of Preservation

Does all this mean the Bible is a mere “Chinese whispers” of its original self? Or does it reveal the resilience of its core message? While the wording and details have changed, many argue the Bible’s essence—themes of justice, redemption, and the search for meaning—remains consistent. The differences might reflect the adaptability of sacred texts, allowing them to resonate across eras and cultures.

Yet this adaptability also invites challenges. Disputes over the “correct” interpretation have fueled centuries of theological debate, wars, and even schisms within religious communities. The question of authenticity looms: if a text is endlessly reinterpreted, does it lose its original purpose?

Embracing the Whispered Journey

The Bible’s transformations mirror the universal human experience of storytelling: we retell our most cherished narratives, reshaping them to fit new contexts. Like the children in the telephone game, each generation holds a piece of the puzzle, sometimes altering it, sometimes preserving it. Perhaps the value of the Bible—and of all stories—lies not in their unchanging perfection but in their capacity to inspire, evolve, and adapt while retaining their soul.

In a world where truth is often contested, the Bible’s journey reminds us that stories are living things. They are whispers carried on the wind, shaped by the voices that pass them on—and in that very reshaping, they find new life.

What do you think? Are the changes in the Bible a loss, or a testament to the power of storytelling? Let the whispers speak for themselves.

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the type of clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’ but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

The was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him was not the concierge, and instead brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position and then made a clunk when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the life lobby, only in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over the the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025

Top 5 sights on the road less travelled – Rabat

Rabat’s Secret Side: 5 Distinctive Attractions to Escape the Crowds

When you think of Rabat, Morocco’s elegant capital, images of the iconic blue-and-white walls of the Kasbah of the Udayas or the grand silhouette of the Hassan Tower likely come to mind. And for good reason—they’re breathtaking.

But the true magic of a city often lies just beyond the postcard-perfect sights. It’s found in the quiet corners, the local haunts, and the places where the city’s pulse beats a little softer. If you’re yearning to experience the distinctive soul of Rabat without the jostle of tour groups, you’re in for a treat.

Here are five remarkable, uncrowded attractions that will show you a completely different side of this imperial city.

1. The Ancient Whispers of Chellah Necropolis

What it is: A serene, sprawling archaeological site on the outskirts of the city that feels like a world away. Chellah is a captivating fusion of history, built upon the ruins of an ancient Roman town and later transformed into a fortified medieval necropolis.

Why it’s distinctive: This isn’t just one ruin; it’s a layered tapestry of time. You can walk along ancient Roman roads, touch the weathered stones of a forum, and then explore the hauntingly beautiful ruins of a 14th-century Islamic mosque with its elegant minaret. The real stars of the show, however, are the storks. Large stork nests perch precariously atop the ruins, and their constant clacking fills the air with a wild, primitive soundtrack you won’t find anywhere else.

Why it’s not crowded: Its location, a short walk or taxi ride from the main medina, naturally filters out the casual tourist. The sheer size of the site means that even on a busy day, you can easily find a quiet corner to yourself.

Pro Tip: Visit in the late afternoon. The golden hour light casts a magical glow on the stone, and the sighing of the wind through the cypress trees makes the whole place feel truly bewitching.

2. The Botanical Wonderland: Exotic Gardens of Bouknadel

What it is: A breathtaking 17-acre botanical garden nestled between Rabat and Salé, designed in the 1950s by French landscape architect Jean-Claude Nicolas Forestier.

Why it’s distinctive: This is more than just a garden; it’s a masterclass in design. A labyrinth of paths winds through distinct zones, from an Islamic-style garden with a reflective pool to a cactus-studded desert landscape and a lush, palm-filled jungle. The garden is famous for its “Grotto Café,” a cool, subterranean restaurant built into a cave—a perfect spot for a mint tea break. It’s a tranquil, beautifully curated escape.

Why it’s not crowded: It requires a dedicated trip, so it’s often missed by those on a tight schedule. It’s a beloved spot for locals but rarely, if ever, overrun with tourists.

Pro Tip: Take your time. Don’t just look for the plants; listen for the birds. The garden is an important bird sanctuary, so bring a little patience, and you might be rewarded with some wonderful sightings.

3. An Architectural Marvel: The National Library of the Kingdom of Morocco

What it is: A stunningly modern structure that stands in stark, beautiful contrast to Rabat’s ancient history. The new building, opened in 2022, is a cultural landmark and a haven of tranquillity.

Why it’s distinctive: The architecture itself is the main event. A series of hexagonal modules create a visually striking facade inspired by traditional Moroccan geometric patterns (zellij). Inside, you’ll find a vast, light-filled reading room that feels like a cathedral of books. It’s a place where Morocco’s rich literary heritage meets cutting-edge design. You don’t need to be a researcher to appreciate the sense of peace and intellectual energy.

Why it’s not crowded: For a tourist, a library is an unconventional choice. You’ll share the space mostly with students and locals, making for an authentically peaceful and modern Moroccan experience.

Pro Tip: You can enter the public areas to admire the architecture. Check their website for visitor access policies, and be sure to walk up to the upper levels for the best view of the main reading hall.

4. A Timeless View from the Moorish Café (Café Maure)

What it is: A simple, historic café perched on a cliffside overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and the mouth of the Bou Regreg river. It has been serving tea and coffee since the early 20th century.

Why it’s distinctive: This is an experience, not just a beverage. The café offers what is arguably the single best panoramic view in Rabat. From its terrace, you can see the kasbah, the ocean, the Hassan Tower, and the city of Salé. The interior is a time capsule, with worn wooden benches and tables, and the air is thick with the scent of mint and history. The sound of crashing waves and the call to prayer drifting across the river is unforgettable.

Why it’s not crowded: While it’s well-known to residents, its simplicity deters the large tour bus crowds. It’s a place for lingering with a book or a friend, not for a quick photo stop.

Pro Tip: Go in the late afternoon and order a thé à la menthe (mint tea). There’s nothing quite like sipping the sweet, steaming tea while watching the sun dip towards the horizon.

5. The Treasure Trove: The Archaeological Museum

What it is: A compact, beautifully curated museum that houses some of Morocco’s most important archaeological finds.

Why it’s distinctive: While many museums attempt to do everything, this one has a focused, world-class collection. Its crown jewels are the incredible bronze artifacts from the Roman site of Volubilis, including a stunning portrait of Cato the Younger. The displays are excellent, providing a deep dive into the pre-Islamic cultures—from prehistoric to Roman—that shaped this land. It’s a quiet, scholarly space that tells a fascinating story often overlooked in the bustling medinas.

Why it’s not crowded: Let’s be honest: most tourists come for the souks and the sights, not the museums. This means you can often have entire rooms to yourself, allowing you to appreciate the incredible artifacts without distraction.

Pro Tip: The museum is right next to the Andalusian Gardens. Visit the gardens early when they’re quietest, and then escape into the cool, calm halls of the museum to escape the midday sun.

Ready to Discover Rabat’s Soul?

Rabat rewards the curious traveller. By stepping just a little off the main path, you’ll find a city of serene gardens, ancient echoes, and modern marvels. These five spots are just a starting point—a key to a quieter, more personal Moroccan experience.

Have you been to Rabat and discovered a hidden gem of your own? Share it in the comments below! We’d love to hear your secret spots.