Fragments: rewrite of “Future History”

In the past days I have been rewriting “Future History” following the steps in my previous post: “Withdrawal and reworking Future History“.

I am trying to finish it before end of day today.

Fragment, chapter 9 — “we reject you”

Everything we always assumed about ourselves has been a lie.

It has been a lie that helped a few people to stay on top. To keep the masses quiet. I re-read one of the many statements that have been sent out to the world by the people of Uganda:

This is an open letter to all of you who think you can put a claim on us.

We have closed our country for repairs until further notice.
We do no longer want your interference.

You think you are civilized.
You think you are powerful.
You think you have the answers.
You think you are an example for the rest of the world.
You think we cannot manage on our own.
You think we need you.
You are wrong.

Your cultures are toxic.
Your leaders are talking puppets.
Your economic models just another system of oppression.
Your ideals are the works of sociopaths.

You think we still owe you for all you have done to us.
You still think you can deny and pollute our agency.
Your arrogance is beyond comprehension.

You have sabotaged our culture.
You continued to cripple our country.
You continued to enslave and murder our people.
We reject you.

Your culture is no longer relevant.
Your ‘help’ is no longer needed.
Your claims have never been valid.
Your debt to us can never be repaid.
You are no longer welcome.

We  have closed our country for repairs until further notice.

Fragment 2, chapter 8

It is the beginning of September, the cool dry season is over and the hot dry season is starting.

The morning sky is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. The deep blue with layers of red and orange. It will only be minutes before the sun is up. There is dew on the grass. I absorb the glory of the trees look up to see the mist of tiny droplets above the Lumangwe waterfall that will reflect the sun in several rainbows later today. Almost five months have passed since we came back from the woods. The running and the fighting is over for now. We can finally take a moment to sit down and breathe again.

We have taken over the drones. Our government has fallen. Uganda, South Sudan, Namibia and Nigeria have joined us in turning away from the European/American/Arabian/Chinese power blocks. Chaos and doubt reigns within our country and within the hearts of our people.

“Did we do the right thing?”

“Is this worth turning the world against us?”

“Why do we have to hate and reject the people who saved us?”

“How will the rest of the world judge us?”

We have sabotaged the supply lines to support the soldiers who should not be there to begin with. Supplies get sent to wrong destinations. People get sent to wrong places. Orders do not reach their destination. Confusion is our weapon. Chaos our ally. It buys us time.

We have chemical laboratories from the Chinese. We have mining equipment. We have drones. We have factories to build cars and engines. We have laboratories that allow us to build nano-scale solutions. We have mapped out all the relevant, pirated research and development data Saudi Arabia bought and collected until 2023.

Fragment 3, chapter 3 and 4

I sit down on the edge of her bed, holding her hand. You just watch me from your chair.

An accident five years ago twisted your lower vertebrae, paralyzing you from the waist down. You loved sports, you were top class, will always be my hero, just not good enough for the Olympics, but close.

Your face is dark with grief. You have been expecting this for more than a year now. Predicting this, step by step. Watching it unfold and come together. You nod when you see my eyes. My friends have been telling me to stay out of this business you are involved in, that is why I have not been doing anything until now. But too many of them are now dead.

You cross your legs. You breathe in deep. You look at me, blue eyes blazing, nod. The torment and the fire inside you hits me deep and the anger releases, allowing me to cry. You knew. And I feel bad for ignoring it all for so long.

[…]

Software running inside your body takes care of the muscles in your legs, your back, the muscles in your pelvic area so that you can walk and do not have to wear diapers.

Your walking is almost natural. It is hard to notice the difference until you know what to look for: the lack of tiny corrections from a conscious mind. Your legs and your hips are more like a biped vehicle attached to your waist: a vehicle you are driving with your mind.

We walk hand in hand until we reach the river of cars that is Katima Mulilo road at high time, sit down.

Fragment 4, end of chapter 9

I meet Sister in a coffee house on Bombay road.

Her eyes shine.

“You look beautiful,” I say, looking at her face, the smile that is all over her.

 She laughs.

“It is a beautiful day.”

I take her hands. She squeezes mine.

“Something has changed,” I say.

She smiles and something touches me. I have never seen her so happy.

“I can feel my feet again.”

“Yes,” she says later, when the crying is done, when the hugging is done. When we sit down again. When I share my uncertainties. “Many things are still uncertain, but understand this, sister: these are our lives. This is our country, our continent. These are our minds. We are not in war with the world. But any time they will attempt to interfere they will find how fragile their own power structure is. How easy it is to strike them on the places that hurt most. How their power, their wealth and their connections will no longer protect them. How our confusion is anything but weakness. It will take two more wars and the destruction of thousands of people on their side: Chinese, European, Indian, American, North African, before they will understand and respect our simple request: Stay out. Leave us alone. Let us write our own future history again.”

I bow my head, push the little cup around on its little saucer.

“But what if we fail?”

She shrugs, leans back, smiles, starts to laugh out loud.

“Then we move to plan B.”

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s