“School’s out,” I scribble on the log book, as I have for the past 38 years. When I first wrote the story, I was very excited. We had done something great. Our generation, mere school kids, we sparked a revolution for the entire country. The continent even. But the Adjudicators won’t accept this. Apparently its full of ‘inconsistencies’ with reality.
The only problem is, the only reality I know ends when the bullet pierced through my heart. We were running like crazy from the police. Some of us hit back with rocks where we could. Just for control. To let them know that just because we were running, it doesn’t mean we are punks. I picked up a rock and as I turned back to gooi it, I saw the bullet spinning through the air towards me, the rock rolling aimlessly in the air. I gasped. The bullet hit the bull’s eye and everything went black. Lights out! That’s the last reality I remember.
I write the same story everyday. Everybody does as soon as they leave earth and join the ancestors. It’s sent to the Adjudicators for a reality check. And the next day you’re allocated space, powers and duties in the Post-Life Ancestral Village. That’s only if your story checks out. Otherwise you have to write it again, and again, and again. Until it checks out. And for all that time, you’re stuck in the House for Expectant Lost Lives (H.E.L.L.) One infomercial that keeps appearing on my iGlass is about the creation of HELL:
‘Since the 1800’s (earth time), the scourge of ghosts, zombies, tokoloshes etc. has intensified exponentially amongst earth’s inhabitants. Our investigations revealed that this was due to members of the Ancestory who had lost their lives while on mission and were accepted to the Village before their lives’ mission was fulfilled. We found that, in a sample of 1million ranging from new entrants to those caught terrorizing earth, these members were prone to anger and bitterness and some took upon either punishing earthlings or trying to interfere in earthly matters without proper authorization; thus leading to untold suffering for earthlings. To prevent this we created the House for Expectant Lost Lives; where these individuals will stay until such a time their earthly expectations are realized.’
I have tried to change my story. To say I did not die for a black revolution. To say I did not die for a free socialist education. To say I did not die for black power. But the Precision Extractor Node (P.E.N.) will not let me. I hear some have been able to cheat the PEN by losing their belief in the revolution. And thereby have made it to the Ancestral Village. Most of us however have kept the faith. And therefore unable to cheat the PEN.
“School’s, out,” I write everyday on the log book. It was a Friday and we were in a joyous mood. We bumped into Musa, he told us that Tsietsi and Khotso had called a meeting of all the LRC. I was the representative of Standard 7G. When we got there everybody was there. Not just members of the LRC. We were all in high spirits. Tsietsi instructed us to make sure every student knows about the march. That every student know that we are about to make history. To take back what’s ours. Our education, our land, our souls. “Black Power!” Students shouted top of their voices
However the Adjudicators come back everyday to tell me that my people are still landless, are still receiving inferior education, and powerless. They ask me to write again what is it I died for and I write the same thing. And I get the same reply. Everyday, for 38 years. I’m loosing hope. S’feleni?