Mazwi Literary Journal - Here we write!

Cell 4702

By Christopher Mlalazi
‘We carry the flame of Independence, Brother,’ Jeridan said. He was sitting Buddha-like on the head of his narrow iron bed, which sagged in the middle. Across the tiny cell sat the Brother, on his bed also, his bare feet dangling to the floor, a book on political science in his hand. ‘One day they shall release us, and they shall see.’

Jeridan had been 40 years old when the unforgiving Black Colonial regime’s secret police had broken into his home in the early hours of a snowy morning. It was the year 10000, and they had handcuffed him, threw a hood over his head, and bundled him into a grey closed van. His blond hair, close cropped, now had a sprinkling of grey ash at the temples, but his skin, despite advanced age, still remained clear and healthy looking. All the years he had been incarcerated in the penal colony, he had maintained a rigorous exercise regimen.

‘If a man spits into your eye, and you don’t spit into his in return, you are the blessed one, so says the Ragana,’ the Brother said, and fingered back his Freudian reading glasses back on his thin, sharp nose. ‘Bitterness is man’s worst enemy, so the ages have proved.’

The Brother had been 45 years old when the secret police had taken him away. He had pure white hair that fell down to his shoulders, a matching white beard and moustache, and owlish green eyes that gave him a sages look. Before his arrest, he had been a firebrand critic of the regime who did not mince words. He had also been taken by the secret police before his Ragana congregation one snowy Sunday morning and bundled into a grey closed van, never to be seen again.

‘We have been locked away for thirty years now,’ Jeridan said, his brow creased. ‘Thirty bloody wasted years.’ They were both dressed in luminous orange prison overalls with large black prison numbers at the back.

The Brother sighed softly. ‘I have always told you not to count the years, Jeridan,’ he said in a gentle voice. ‘Otherwise it will affect your mind and judgement. You must meditate only on higher and divine matters of the soul, and you shall be at peace with your heart, and learn to forgive. Anger does not build, but it destroys, so says the blessed Ragana.’

Jeridan abruptly stood up from the bed and started pacing up and down the small cell, his hands clasped behind his back. His fingers were long and smoothly tapered, like those of a pianist.

He paced between the two beds, from the back wall to the solid iron door, then back again. The door had a narrow slit at its top that allowed an also narrow view of the corridor outside and the grey iron door of the cell across if one pressed one’s eyes to it. ‘My wife tells me that the International Community has clamped down hard on the colonial regime, with the United States of Africa being the most vocal of all, and our release is imminent now,’ he said.

‘That is good news,’ the Brother replied, his eyes following Jeridans transverse. He raised a finger at him. ‘But remember that sanctions have failed to aid our cause ever since the struggle for Independence started sixty years ago.’

‘But this time I am sure if Africa, as a super power, imposes severe sanctions on the regime, things will work out our way.’ Jeridan answered, looking at his bare feet, this time walking towards the door. ‘The regime is tottering. Their economy is down at its knees, the urban guerrilla war is at its most intense, their forces are taking severe loses, and morale in their camp is at its lowest - I think we are almost there Brother. I can feel it in my bones; old as they are now, bless the Ragana.’

‘So many lives and so much blood wasted where the word could have amicably resolved things for everyone.’
‘She also tells me that the party has my name listed down as its presidential candidate in the country’s first democratic elections should that day come.’
‘You are going to win the elections.’ The Brother smiled fainly at him. ‘The majority of our people are all behind you, not counting the rest of the world.’
‘Except for this damn bloody regime. And should that happen Brother, I shall nominate you to my Cabinet as the Vice President. We have suffered together for so many years in this cell in the hands of the black man.’
The Brother’s smile widend. He had one tooth missing from his upper jaw. He had swallowed it during a beating in the torture chambers. ‘Who can refuse such an offer?’
‘When I am in power, I am rightfully claiming back all that belongs to us, the mines, the oil fields, the land - there is no compromise there!’ Jeridan’s eyes were burning from an inner light that verged on insanity. He kept clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back.
‘I would not advise you to go on such an extreme path Jeridan. You would only incur the wrath of Imperialist Africa. Remember it is their kin who colonised our country and they are also the owners of the International industrial syndicates that are plundering our resources and enslaving our people. I wouldn’t advise you to do such a thing brother. It would be like stirring a hornet’s nest - you can’t fight Africa - you will come out the eventual loser.’

‘I would rather lose than see my people crowded in tenements and in their own country, whilst a few black people, just because they have superior weapons, drive around in posh cars, and lead wealthy lives. Over my dead body!’ He punched his right fist into his open left palm.
‘What is that about Black people?’ A voice said from the door.
Jeridan and the Brother looked in that direction.

Angry bloodshot eyes glared at them through the slit in the door. The door clanged, and then opened.
Bhobho stood in the doorway. He was a giant of a man with broad weightlifters shoulders and powerful arms. His neck was so thick that his head seemed to sit on his shoulders. He was dressed in a purple jail guards’ uniform with a blue plastic helmet on his head with the visor raised. In his hand he carried a truncheon. A radio was holstered at his right shoulder. His face, cleanly shaven, was coal dark.

‘What’s that about Black people?’ he asked Jeridan in a raspy voice, advancing towards him, his bulk filling up the cramped cell, and tapping his truncheon against his right thigh. An acrid smelling body spray invaded the stale air of the cell.
‘Black people have enslaved white people in their own land,’ the Brother boldly said. He quickly stood up from the bed and stepped between Bhobho and Jeridan.

‘Get out of my way honkey,’ Bhobho growled. ‘This is not Sunday school.’ He raised the truncheon. The Brother did not flinch, but his penetrating eyes lasered into Bhobho’s blood shot ones. Bhobho dropped his eyes, and brought his right arm down again. He stepped back to the door and stood in the doorway.
‘Jeridan,’ he rasped. ‘There is a visitor for you. Step out, on the double!’

****

The visitor sat across the table from Jeridan in the armoured glass visitor’s cubicle. He was a slim aristocratic looking black man with intelligent eyes, and a cleanly shaven head. He was dressed in a white summer suit. A smart lion skin briefcase sat on the table in front of him, beside a bright red bowler hat.

‘I will get straight to the point Jeridan,’ he said in a cultured voice. ‘No need to beat around the bush.’

‘What can I do for you Sir Londi?’ Jeridan asked in a guarded voice. ‘Fancy getting a visit from the richest capitalist in the world. I think this portends something for the liberation movement of my country if Africa is at last getting involved.’

‘I represent an international business cartel.’

‘The heartless exploiters of the First World.’

‘The winds of change are at last blowing over Europe, Jeridan, and we can’t ignore them.’

‘They have been blowing for the past sixty years ever since we became aware of our situation.’ Jeridan placed his elbows on the table top, and touched his fingers together in a steeple in front of his nose.

‘But this time it’s for real.’ The aristocrat crossed his legs. ‘The United States of Africa has finally publicly denounced the racist black colonial regime in your country, which is a positive step for your liberation movement.’ He reached inside his jacket pocket and took out a silver cigar case. He opened the case and held it out to Jeridan. ‘Smoke?’

Jeridan shook his head. ‘You know I don’t smoke.’

Sir Londi looked sideways at Jeridan, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Jail does funny things to people.’ He placed a cigar between his lips and lit it with a silver lighter. ‘Especially, so many years.’ He expertly blew smoke rings at the ceiling. ‘So many wasted years for a man of your high intellect. But, as they say, greatness has a price.’

‘Please,’ Jeridan said softly, fanning his nose with his hand, his nose puckered.
Sir Londi shrugged his shoulders again, and stubbed out the cigar into an ashtray.
‘The cartel I represent,’ he went on, ‘has a business proposition that they want to make to you. I have all the documentation in my briefcase, if you can give me a little of your precious jail time.’
He leaned forward and opened his briefcase.
Jeridan was grinding his teeth.

****

When Jeridan returned to his cell five hours later, the Brother was still sitting on the edge of his bed, now reading a leather bound Ragana. He looked up as Jeridan came in and the door clanged shut behind him.
‘What is it?’ he asked, quickly standing up. He had seen it in Jeridan’s eyes.

Tears welled into Jeridan’s eyes. The Brother placed his Ragana on the bed and hugged him tightly. Jeridan sobbed into the Brother’s shoulder, his arms also tightly around him.

There was a snigger from the direction of the door. The Brother looked that way. Bloodshot eyes, glinting with laughter, looked back at him through the slit.

‘Go away!’ the Brother hissed at them, for once in the thirty years he had been in this cell loosing control over his emotions.
The eyes disappeared, and derisive laughter echoed down the passage outside.
The sobs died down. The Brother held Jeridan by the shoulders at arms length. Jeridan’s cheeks were wet with tears.
‘It has happened?’ the Brother asked softly.
Jeridan sniffled, and nodded his head.
‘Praise be to the all seeeing Ragana.’

****

That night, the two men in cell 4702 dined on a four course meal that would have shamed the famous cuisine of the internationally renowned Table Mountain Hotel in Cape Town, the capital of the United States of Africa, and washed it down with a bottle of vintage wine, courtesy of the jail superintendent.

‘You were right Jeridan,’ the Brother said as they lay back on their beds later, with the light switched off. ‘I have been meditating over this, and I think I have been blind all along.’

‘About what?’ Jeridan’s voice sounded strange even to him. It had lost all its bitterness of the past thirty years, and had a lighter tone. A slight smile graced his lips in the darkness.

‘About the colonial regime. You have been right all along. Once we are in power, we have to dispossess them of everything. It is our country. When they came here they were our servants and we were rich, now they are rich and we are their servants. If somebody spits in your eye, spit in theirs in return too.

Jeridan’s bedsprings creaked in the darkness. ‘You are a Brother.’
‘Yes I am, and fully qualified too, praise the Ragana.’
‘Good. I have also had a change of mind Brother.’
‘About what? Don’t tell me you are going to refuse the Presidency when it is offered to you after suffering so much for it? Remember the torture chambers. We lost so much in them.’
‘No, not that. I am not going to refuse it. But I am quickly going to step down after a few years and give it to somebody else younger than me to carry on with the work of national rebuilding. I am an old man now, and I don’t think I will be able to withstand the pressure that goes with such an appointment.’
‘Yes, that is the mark of a great man. I fully back you on that. You will be famous internationally. Even imperialist Africa will revere your name, for you would have broken a world record. No leader from a formerly colonised country in white Europe has ever done that. They all stick to power until they collapse at state house from old age, and often employ dirty and ruthless tactics to remain in power. I respect you for that brother.’
‘And I shall let them keep everything.’
‘Who?’
‘All the children of the Black colonialists.’
The Brother’s bed creaked sharply.
‘WHAT!’
‘After all, they are not to blame for the sins of their forefathers. You have been right all along Brother, and I thank you for bringing light to my eyes. I think I should start reading the Ragana too now. Would you have a spare copy for a penniless cell mate?’

There was the sound of the Brothers feet hitting the ground, then his voice spoke from a lofty height in the darkness.
‘Who was your visitor this afternoon?’ The Brother’s voice was accusing.

‘The visitor - oh I forgot to tell you. It was only my wife come to make arrangements for the reception party tomorrow at the party’s headquarters when we walk out of jail after thirty long years. She tells me we are going to enjoy ourselves.’

The smooth voice of Sir Londi was speaking softly in Jeridan’s head, ‘- just look at you, you are now an old man Jeridan, and if you play ball with us, we shall create you into a demigod, and you shall be worshipped internationally. And of course you shall not lack in anything. Come on look at it Jeridan - in the first place, this is nobody’s world. Man has no tangible claim to territory, because he is not rooted to the ground, like the tree, or a mountain. The claim he has over territory is illusory. His folly are his two legs that have no roots to join him with the land, but that take him everywhere, thus making him similar to the wind that has no permanent home. Any territory that he claims he does so only with his mouth and a powerful weapon, so at the end of the day, the powerful man is the owner of everything. Our business cartel is powerful Jeridan, that I wont hide from you. It makes, or destroys continents, and so, if you shake my hand today, you shall be the immediate owner of one percent shares of world power, not this insignificant little European country that you are ridiculously fighting over with the black colonial regime. And if you refuse, you are not walking out of this jail alive…’

He had shaken Sir Londi’s hand…

Christopher Mlalazi is a renowned Zimbabwean writer and playwright. His stories have been widely anthologised around the world. He is a former participant of the Crossing Borders Project and recently coordinated a British Council poetry project, Power in the Voice, in southern Africa.