especially with that T-shirt …and his left ear -protruding somewhat more than the right -also helps very much. Man, I am so proud of that boy!
But there I go again, blabbering. I need to tell you about the important event of the week; it’s
The Official Class Photograph, commissioned by Yersinia [High on airtime].
Yersinia is in the middle, with her wagonload of airtime – focal point of the photograph – feet neatly next to each other and smiling her “look-at-me-I’m-Lady-Macbeth”-smile into the camera. Jack is the one right in the back row in the centre; the only other person smiling. The others are all wearing their be-polite-surly expressions. And then… the real focal point of it all: smiling and waving in ecstasy – is me.
I had to diminish myself by a good 90% of course, just to fit in. And I’m usually invisible, but for a few instances where I can make myself visible just for a flash – no pun intended. I donned the hobo look, dirt and bottle of booze included. It’s my favourite. (The fact is, if the Star Breather were on earth in these times, that would probably be the look He would adopt, maybe without the bottle. However, with that Star Breather, you can never be too sure. That is how his love works.)
So Yersinia is upset.
“What RUBBISH is this?” she politely enquires.
Her airtime is gone on account of me. She wants to know who this person on the photo is. It must be framed and exhibited in the entrance hall. (Well of course, but how dare she call me ‘it’?) She says I must be photoshopped out. Why? I won’t have myself photoshopped out on any account. So, she is furious every time I reappear. In the end she admits defeat, hangs the photo in the hall and puts a silk flower over my face. A silk flower? What a cheek! I move the flower so that it is in my hair. Perfect. A photo of Jack and me! I’ve always wanted something like that - a nice keepsake for a coming age. Just look at us! We are the two persons smiling.
A surprised Jack
Can you believe it? My Dad, Apatheto Gullible is a SECRET AGENT! [That sounds quite normal to me. It’s those ‘phone repairs that worry me.]
He is such a trusting person; he even believed what this Yersinia woman told him about her “good” school. How on earth has he ever managed to do the work of a secret agent all these years? Poor Dad really thought I would be safe here, and now I am stuck in this very scaly joint, from which there is little chance of escape. And what was all that talk about a king? In the new South Africa? And finding my real father? Can’t be.
I opened that package that Dad gave me last night. It’s difficult with all the other boys around. There is simply no privacy… There is a device in the package that contains code – secret code. But that’s not all. It is also some kind of a GPS - but it’s weird. It whispered something to me about Dad’s assignment; something about a GPS message preventing bloodshed; about a very important kid that was taken from his mother. Is she going to kill to get him back? It does not make sense to me. Are we all on the verge of being killed? This device caused a fight between Wesley and me. You see, I had to hide the thing so Wesley would not see it, but it would not keep quiet!
Video clip, from the hidden camera in Jack’s dorm
“What are you doing, Gullible? Are you busy with some little private business that I should know about? Wesley approaches with his cocky stride. “You know that nobody in this dorm keeps any information from me. And if you have something to share, it belongs to me. Do I make myself clear?”
Jack hurriedly hides the GPS under the mattress, but it refuses to keep quiet.
“Mind your manners, you miserable manipulative maniac!”
Wesley stops in mid-stride and mid-sentence. His surprise makes place for a fuming jealousy.
“What did you say? What is it that you’re hiding under that bed? A tablet? MP3?”
“You leave my property alone!” Jack looks at Wesley with calm resolution.
“Ho! Ho! Look out! JACK is on the warpath!” Wesley looks at Jack mockingly. He is much heavier and taller than the latter, but Jack does not budge.
Amahl’s little school moment
The problem with bullies is that they are so faint-hearted. It frustrates me to see that, because it does not give me much of a chance to become - what you guys call a star - a Milky Way star, perhaps? (These are very common in my world. We angels don’t bother much about them.) I might be commended by the Star Breather and be famous in the Milky Way galaxy, if I do something, what you guys call like, really brave, you see. (I am not sure I have the concept right, though.) That’s why I don’t like wasting my time on bullies. OK, I know it’s not the universe, but it’s a start.
In a previous earth age, I had a little argument with a guy called Hitler, and my friend Caritas had Joe…. Stalin I think it was? We spent a whole afternoon (I think it was an afternoon, maybe it was 70 years…I don’t know. We don’t have that thing you call time in our dimension. I measure my speed in light years, just so you can get an idea of how awesomely exciting my life can be.) dissing each other about who was the most difficult to sort out, Hitler or Joey. It was OK, but I want to do something really important, something that will attract special attention from the Star Breather. Something that might make me the bearer of the Good News, like, in a real starry way. Wow!
Anyway, whining Wessie comes for Jack and trips over his own bag of supplies that he has stolen from the kitchen, (That was me – boring, I know) hurts his back and then poor Jack has to run for the Maitre D. Yersinia decides to save on doctor’s expenses and gives him the injection (Or the infection, maybe?) with muscle-relaxer herself. ( I did not even have to organize that part – the things some humans organize for themselves – unbelievable.) All that yowling and howling is so commonplace. I wish Jack would wake up and give me a chance to do something really fabulous.
Jack’s secret
I have a feeling I am going to need this GPS in future, but I shall have to learn how to control it. Wesley now knows something’s going on. He wishes I am afraid of him. Well, I am not.
Just because Wesley has some backup in the dorm next door won’t intimidate me. He is always ranting about this blood business. There’s this guy, they call him Bitzer. The rumour goes he is a knife fighter. So Wesley wanted to be in his dorm. Yersinia decided he must be a good influence on Amoran, Lefty and me, because we are the water team and we do not care for all this blood thirst. So now he is stuck with us. Old Wes is real acid about it.
Next door are Bitzer, Sniper, Gugu and little Goody-two-shoes. Everybody calls him that. I don’t know if he actually has another name, but Yersinia calls him Phillip. He is such a pain, always trying to please the other three from the blood squad. The reason he chose blood, is he is so afraid of Yersinia and her sorry side-kicks, I’m sure.
The water squad is me, Amoran, Lefty and Gugu. So Gugu is stuck with the rest of the blood squad. It must be hard on him, because we from the water squad have this policy of no violence, unless in self-defence. I got it from this talking GPS and it suits all of us just fine.
Wesley’s into something with those two retard grallochers [the act or an instance of disembowelling a deer killed in a hunt. https://dictionary.reverso.net/english-definition/gralloch Jack once needed this word while doing a puzzle.] whom Yersinia calls her sons. They have jobs as security guards at the school, more to keep us slaves in that to keep tsotsis out, of course. They must be their mother’s greatest joy. Apparently working this Wood of Words makes it impossible to change the name that the wood calls you. When they were teenagers, they tried to run away from home, couldn’t find their way out and returned with their scaly tails between their legs, reinforcing their unenviable names of Doubt and Fear. Yersinia was overjoyed. She is forever telling everybody that her two brats ‘have earned their titles.” Excuse me.
Now we have to put up with that Goody-two-shoes who has become the slave of Doubt and Fear. He gets up at five every morning, kicks up one raving ra
cket in that kitchen, preparing their bacon and eggs and forest fruits. He is so afraid that he might oversleep; he sleeps with his clothes on and with that blinking old-fashioned alarm clock in his steel cupboard. He gets all kinds of curses shouted at him, but all he says is: “At least I have a job. You are going to be part of the entertainment.” Whatever.
Anyway, the Wood of Words surrounds this whole place. Before you can reach it, you will have to cross a huge, severely electrified fence that was made from Yersinia’s hair - the kind before it turns into snakes – pre-snake hair, if you like. Previous inmates (Oh learners, sorry) had to plait and weave for months on end before it was ready. She powers the thing in person, or so the rumour goes. I wonder whether she can also get zapped by it in person, accidentally of course. This thing gives an entirely new meaning to the concept of security in the New South Africa. The worst is; it works like a trap. You cannot see it from the outside, and it allows you to enter, but believe me, once you are in, there is no doubt about its existence. You cannot get out again. The parents are assisted on the way out, of course, by one of Yersinia’s side-kicks, but we, we are captives. We. Are. Captives.
You cannot pass through the Wood of Words unless you know the right words. No one here seems
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