Short Writings from Bulawayo II

2084

70 2084 Wim Boswinkel Although situated in the landlocked province of Zimbabwe, the inhabitants of the sparkling city under a perpetual blue sky spent lots of time at Indian Ocean resorts. Several times a day, a climateconditioned magnetic propelled passenger train left Bulawayo, to arrive within the hour in the coastal territory of Mozambique. There, for a while, the travellers could forget about oxygen production, water purification and energy collection, and instead enjoy the surf and super-fresh seafood during a well-deserved leave of absence. John was seated with his parents in a family compartment of the train. These cubicles were all identical, as every family was the same size, nowadays: three persons. That Chinese demand had been adopted, even before the move of the seat of the World Government from New York to Hong Kong. As a seventeen year old, John had recently matriculated and would begin studying history after these very holidays. Old books had always fascinated him, even from as far back as the second half of the twentieth century; their contents had stimulated his interest for the Dark Age. He was looking forward to researching the past, also to get a better understanding of the present Light Age. They had spent a marvellous time at the beach and were now returning home. John enjoyed speeding through the African bush, which had recovered so magnificently after almost two centuries of mistreatment. It was teeming again with wildlife and covered by lush vegetation, producing all the pure water and clean air that was needed. The SAYP-screen in the compartment was showing pictures of features of interest along the railway line; he had programmed it to concentrate on archaeological topics and a large selection of images, reflecting the distant past, flicked by. There were graveyards, sites of both primitive and industrial mining, and many indications that intensive farming had once been the main land-use in the surrounding countryside. 71 Bulawayo wasn’t far and neither was Nomakha. They had agreed to meet at the ancient museum, a round building that must have been constructed about 150 years ago. Centuries old trees surrounded it, with many more forest giants growing in the area to the west, the remnants of a park from a long time past. John and Nomakha regularly spent time in the area. They loved to roam through the dense vegetation, to dig with their hands into the moist soil and bring some of it up to their noses to inhale the fragrant aroma of the decomposing top layer. It made them feel part of nature, as once mankind had been, in long forgotten primitive days. It stimulated suppressed instincts; it momentarily diminished some of the effects of the XK-ing of humans over the last half a century. Then it would not be long before the soil dropped from their hands, which found each other as their lips would, and a short time later they were engaged in an act that, they had learned, animals performed to produce offspring. Maybe, one day, if approved by the Council, they would be allowed a child too. It would even look like them, although, with each generation, distinctions between children were diminishing. Afterwards, holding hands, they walked back towards the old museum. They passed by Demons Acre, an open section, where over a dozen statues were assembled. They represented despots from the Dark Age; a few of these giant sculptures had once graced some of Bulawayo’s major thoroughfares. These evil images served as reminders of a miserable past and as a warning of what could be if the principles of the Light Age were no longer adhered to. Some statues were easily recognized by the two teens. The sturdy figure at the edge could only be that greedy empire builder, after whom this territory had once been named. And a little to the left of him stood the fat tyrannical king who had so cruelly terrorized neighbouring tribes. John immediately recognized the statue placed prominently in the centre of the field as Hitler: the moustache gave him away. But coming closer, he realized his mistake: the Führer had never worn glasses. Three months earlier, John had joined the other grade-16ers for their 72 end of school camp. Since their second year of life, they had learned and lived together; soon they would each go their own way. Away from Bulawayo and its...