The Last Man on Earth Club

by Paul R. Hardy

  “This is very impressive. It’s good work,” I said.

  “I have not finished.”

  “I didn’t expect it to be perfect. This is more than enough to be going on with. What does RY mean?” I pointed to a column of numbers running down the left hand side, all labelled ‘RY’.

  “Railway Years,” said Kwame.

  “So you’ve managed to tie it down to actual dates?”

  “In places. Some things are more vague than others.”

  “I’m sorry, I have to ask — why is it Railway Years?”

  The question surprised him. “Oh… my world was never able to agree on a common system for dates. But when railways were first built and had to go across the whole of Africa, they needed to publish timetables that everyone could read. So they started a new calendar just for the railways, and eventually everyone used that. It was not perfect, but we could never have agreed any other system. It would only have started a war.”

  “I see. So this is when you were born. 116 RY.” I pointed at the top of the leftmost of the two main columns.

  “Yes. These are the memories I know to be mine.”

  “And the second column is…”

  “The other memories. The other man.”

  “Where’s the first time you have conflicting memories?”

  He sighed and walked to the wall. “Here.” He pointed to a period during what must have been his childhood, around 129 RY. “I went to a good school. My father was a university lecturer, my mother… my mother did everything she could to hide her politics. But she still made me aware of the issues of poverty. One summer she left me with a family she knew in the slums in Zimbabwe City. It opened my eyes. And I remember there was a film showing, a war film my mother would have hated. My hosts took me to see it — it was a terrible imperialist thing about the Great War but the kind of thing boys like. At the same time…” He indicated the second column. “I remember I was in a street gang. We robbed a drunkard and used the money to go to the cinema and see the same film. But I was never in a street gang. My hosts were poor but they never let me do that kind of thing. That is the first problem…

  “And then later, I think here…” He pointed out 132 RY and a note on the second column. “I remember… we beat up a queer. I mean a homosexual. We found a club they went to and started robbing them. None of them could call the police. They would have had to explain why they were there. But… there are two things. I was at school in that year, a private school far away. So I could not have been there, on the streets. And also I remember being… ashamed. And guilty. These men we were beating… I knew they were queer and that was wrong but still…”

  He shook his head. “I felt… I looked at the boy who led us… and I felt… I felt… he was so…” He lapsed for a moment, unable to give voice to the desire. “And I think, I think I was scared because I realised what they would do if they found out what I… that I… that I felt… that.

  “So I stopped running with the gang. I stopped avoiding school. It was a horrible place in the city, not the one my parents sent me to. I remember the other school as well, in the country, the private school. I could not have been at two schools…”

  “So there are two boys here,” I said.

  “Yes. Two boys.”

  “When’s the next time the memories clash?”

  “Around here. The late thirties, the early forties.” He indicated a period from roughly 138 to 143 RY. “When I finished my schooling, I did national service. I did not have to but I think I had something of my mother in me. I wanted to serve with the ordinary men, not go straight into the military as an officer. But the dates are wrong. I should have done national service here—“ He indicated 134 RY on the first column. “But I remember doing it here.” He indicated 138 RY on the second column. “It is four years too late. By this time I had finished national service, been to university and joined the army as an officer. And then I was deployed to Horonga.” Horonga seemed to equate to the Straits of Hormuz, which were narrower on his world, and apparently a frequent flashpoint for conflict.

  “Ah. So the other man is younger?”

  “Yes. About four years.”

  “So what happened in his timeline? Column two?”

  “No war. I remember being in the army, but not fighting in Horonga. I was… it is complicated. It is…”

  “Just go slowly, Kwame.”

  “I met… men. I remember doing things… I feel I should be disgusted. But the disgust is… hollow. I do not understand it.”

  “Let’s stick to the events. Where were you stationed? In the second column, I mean?”

  “The first year was national service. That was a guard station in the south of Mutapa, the border watch. When it was done, I think… I seem to remember they asked me to stay. They said I had skills for engineering and electronics and they wanted to train me.”

  “You do have some aptitudes in that direction…”

  “Yes. I know.” He seemed distinctly troubled.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “They sent me to a college in a port city. Matongu. They had Chifunyikan teachers there. They were assisting our military in updating our equipment. I learnt how the new systems worked. Biofeedback, conscious control, detection of the enemy through biological signatures. Things such as these. But this is not all. It was a military city. There was always a laxness in the armed forces. There were many places used by homosexuals.”

  He paused, and swallowed, as though trying to settle his stomach.

  “I went looking for them. And I found them. I became one of them. I mean to say… I remember these things. I remember doing this. And I remember him.”

  “Who…?”

  “The man in my dream. The one dressed as a woman.”

  “Do you remember anything else about him…?”

  “I married him.”

  I couldn’t help my surprised expression. “Oh…”

  “It was blasphemous! Disgusting! They would do this at the bars, two men would… they would have a ceremony in the bar, one of the men dressed up as a woman… I cannot say more…”

  I felt he had much more to say despite his protestation, but did not press him.

  “And all this time, the war in Horonga was going on. Good men were dying for their country and I was… fucking a man. Or was I? I don’t know…”

  “Let’s keep moving. What happened next?”

  “The bar was raided by police. She, he… agh! I keep thinking of that creature as a woman! He. He fled. And then I was posted overseas. To Horonga, of course, though the war had ended. I did not see her — him. I did not see him for many years.”

  “Did he have a name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me?”

  “He called himself Mudiwa. A woman’s name. I do not know his real name.”

  “Mudiwa will do.”

  “The name is a lie. A disgusting lie. Like him.” At some point we were going to have to deal with his homophobia, but I didn’t want to push him too far while he was making so much progress, so I decided to move on.

  “Okay, so we’re up to 143 RY on the second column. What about the first one?”

  “I was still in Horonga.”

  “Still fighting?”

  “No. The war was brief. We held the straits and controlled sea traffic but Sanganyikan forces invaded from the north. We beat them back and occupied the northern shore of the straits; then we built a wall to keep them out. The Chifunyikans helped us with automated defensive systems. I left when they were being installed. I could have stayed and had a career in the army but… it was not what I wanted.”

  “What did you want?”

  “I wanted to make a difference. There were soldiers coming to us who could not read, who did not know the most basic arithmetic, and yet they were expected to operate the Chifunyikan biofeedback systems. Mutapa had become a backwater. Poor children were playing in mud while the rich amused themselves with imported video games. Our
education system only trained the poor to operate machines in factories, but we needed to give them more, much more.” He sighed and looked at me. “Of course I do not have to convince you…”

  “No, you’re right. Education is vital. I take it this is all in the first column?”

  He looked back at the wall. “Yes. I left the military here. In 143. I took a teaching job at a university, I joined the Free Liberal Party, and the Mutapan Education Society. We campaigned for educational reform. I would even hand out leaflets in the street. And that was where I met Jendayi…”

  His voice trailed off into sadness.

  “Your wife?”

  “Yes. My true wife.”

  “Do you… remember her?”

  “No. I still cannot recall her face.”

  “But there are some things you do remember?”

  “I remember how we met. I remember courting her. I remember our marriage. I remember our children… but there are no pictures. I see nothing. I only feel…”

  The silence overcame him again.

  “Do you want to stop?” He didn’t answer. “If it’s too much, we can come back tomorrow…”

  He snapped his attention onto me. “No.”

  “Kwame?”

  “I do not want to do this. I must.”

  “Okay then. If you’re sure.” I looked back at the screen. “So all this here, down to…”

  “I was elected to parliament in 149.”

  “149. Okay. So that’s you starting your political career. What’s happening in column two?”

  “I remember many places. Many parts of the world. I think I was in uniform, as an engineer. Perhaps at Mutapan embassies. I am not sure. There are several years of this. And then it ended and I was a civilian again.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “I think… I think I was injured. I lost the strength in my arm after an explosion. I do not remember much…”

  “You actually have that injury, don’t you?”

  “Yes. But I was injured in the first column as well, in the fighting in Horonga…”

  “So you had the same injury in both memory tracks?”

  “I… yes. No. The wound in Horonga… I do not remember how bad it was. It could be the same. It could be.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

  “Okay. So where did you go after the army? I mean in the second column?”

  “I found work in Zimbabwe City.”

  “And where were you in the first column?”

  “Zimbabwe City again. The seat in parliament I wanted to run for was there. The Harande district. A slum. The Free Liberal Party had held the seat for decades — they handed out food and clothing in return for votes.”

  “That’s interesting. On both sides you’re back in Zimbabwe again. Is that significant?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps.” He looked at it: the year 148 RY, already full of notations. “UserKwame: add note to 148. Investigate proximity of memories in Zimbabwe City.” A note was added to the list.

  “Okay, so on one side you’re a member of parliament, and on the other you’re working… where, exactly?”

  “An electronics repair shop.”

  “Not exactly close to the levers of power.”

  “No. It was a humble existence.”

  “Would you say the person in the second column was the kind of person that you in the first column would have been trying to help?”

  “I… yes. In some ways. But he was a pervert. A disgusting creature.”

  “Let’s ignore that side of things for now. Is he someone you would have wanted to help?”

  “He could have been… an example. Of how the poor could improve themselves if only they had the education. He had all the talent to be a great engineer… but I suppose… I suppose his position in life made it more likely for him to… fail.”

  “Interesting. I think these two people sound related in some way. I don’t mean family. But something is bringing them together.” He didn’t reply to that. He still didn’t want it to be true. “So. 149 onwards. You’re an MP in the first column and a repairman in the second. What’s going on here?”

  He indicated the first column. “I was a member of the opposition party. I was good at embarrassing the government. It was easy: they were corrupt and stupid. They would say they stood for reform but their actions were always different. I introduced an education reform bill. They said it was too expensive. But we were spending millions on remedial courses for new army recruits — and the cost of teaching them properly as children was less than half of that. So the bill was passed. My party won the next election, and I hoped I would be appointed to the cabinet…”

  “Whoa. Wait a minute. You’re speeding ahead. The next election is… let me just read this… 155?”

  “Yes.”

  “All the political stuff is in the first column. But what’s happening in the second column?”

  He swallowed. This was what he had been dreading.

  “I was searching.”

  “For what?”

  “Mudiwa.”

  “Ah. Did you find her? I mean, him?”

  “I found him.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was squalid. He was a prostitute. And a drug addict.”

  “He wasn’t like that before?”

  “No. But we lost touch after I left Matongu. It was too dangerous. He fell a long way and blamed me for it. He wanted me to pay him for sex. I was angry. He provoked me. I… I took him. And then I ran away. But I could not help it. I had to go back. The second time, I tried to help him, but he did not want my help. And he stank of khat. I hated him, I wanted to hurt him, I became a… customer.” He was almost grinding his teeth as he said it. “And when I went back again, I was arrested.”

  “What for?”

  “Being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The security service was sweeping the slum for drug users and perverts. How happy they must have been to find her. Him.”

  “And you?”

  “Yes. And me. They took me, put me in a cell. That cell. In the dream.” He stepped back from the screen, his hands shaking. “They gave me a choice, because of my military record. I betrayed him. Mudiwa… Mudiwa would not have been seen again.”

  “You mean they killed him?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s…”

  “Barbaric. Yes. I spoke out against the activities of the security services when I was in parliament, but the government barely restrained them at all. They thought it would make them popular. With some people, it did. No one wanted to defend queers.”

  “How do you feel about it?”

  He shook his head helplessly. “He disgusts me! But… I betrayed him. I left him in Matongu. He became an addict. And then I let the security service have him…” He could say no more.

  “So what did you do next?”

  He indicated the next few years on the second column: a few scattered memories but very little of any detail. “I do not know. The memories from here… I am not sure what belongs in the second column. There is not much.”

  “Were you still in Zimbabwe?”

  “No. I kept moving. Many towns. Many jobs. Until 154 — I remember receiving a letter. I do not know how it reached me. I was recalled to the military. I received an exo-skeletal arm support so I could do my job, the finest Chifunyikan technology. We were still short of trained engineers. They put me to work in… I do not know. An installation. I do not remember much.”

  “We’re getting close to the end, aren’t we?”

  “Yes.” He indicated the first column. “My party won the election in 155. They made me minister of sport — they did not want me getting in the way of real government. I found a way to gain promotion anyway. I proposed a world passball tournament, which had not happened since before the Great War. I almost had agreement to fix a date when they promoted me to stop it getting too far. So in 156, I was made Minister of Culture. I was visiting Chiwikuru when the nuclear b
omb went off in Zimbabwe… and you know what happened after that.”

  “Escalation.”

  “Yes. The presidency was mine but I had no choice in my actions. Jendayi and the children died. I had to defend the nation. It passed beyond my control… and then there was the bunker. And the final war.”

  “What about the second column?”

  “I do not know. There is nothing I can put there.”

  “Can I make a suggestion? You said you were sent to an installation, in the second column. Was that installation the bunker?”

  He took a moment to reply. Another thing he didn’t want to be true.

  “It is possible. But it could have been anywhere…”

  “I think, given you have both these sets of memories, it’s the most likely thing.”

  “But I remember nothing!”

  “Okay. What about the first column?”

  He pointed out the final weeks before the end of the list. “Here is when I armed the device. Here is when the war took place. We heard from the last survivors on the surface here. One of my aides killed himself here. A general did the same here. We waited before we went into the hibernation units. We waited as long as we could. And then we laid down and slept.”

  “But there are things missing, aren’t there? At the end?”

  “Perhaps. But I do not know what they are…”

  There was nothing more on the list. I took a step back. “Well. This is fantastic work… and very brave.”

  “It is not bravery.”

  “No, seriously, Kwame, I know you didn’t want to do this. I know it was difficult.”

  “I…” He really didn’t know how to take a compliment and seemed at a loss.

  “But I think there’s still more to do,” I said.

  “I do not know what else I can do… this is all I can remember.”

  “Well, more might come out over time. This all came in something of a rush, didn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But maybe…”

  He waited for me as an idea sparked in my head.

  “Maybe we can jog your memory a little more. This all started when you saw your dream. Maybe we can put you back there and see what happens…”