It was a fine Tuesday afternoon, the streets of Brussels flooded with light. The early March sun was still weak but carried the promise of spring and, with it, new life. Jumaane was standing in the corridor, looking out of the window. He admired the view. In the past six months he had learned a lot about this ‘capital of the world’ as it was popularly referred to. The strange buildings, the clothes people wore and the many electronic devices flashing and buzzing no longer unnerved him. The strange languages they spoke did not make him uneasy. Neither did the collar he wore.
He had learned English and a little German, been taught to read and write, and educated about European culture and habits so that he would not make himself look so much of an outsider. Apart from the colour of his skin, of course. Not much could be done about that.
It was probably worth it after all, he thought to himself, as he watched the buzzing street. He could see the parliament building of the United States of Europe from here. He had been told that this was a really rich area, one that only the most influential people could afford to live in. He could believe this by just looking at the furniture in the house. He could never have imagined such luxury in his life.
***
It had not all started so smoothly though. He could not remember how he had got into the camp, his last memory being that of his only white friend, whose name he would probably never learn now, supporting him as they rushed towards some hazy goal where there was nothing but forests and gunfire. He had lost consciousness on the road. When he came to, he was lying on a rough bed, surrounded by strange men all wearing plastic bags and helmets.
They injected him with something, and left him without a word. As he looked around, he saw many people, all lying on beds. Most of them were Africans. He sat up, looking for a familiar face. He was wondering if the women with the small ones had ever made it this far. Whatever this place was, nobody shot at them, and although it smelled strange and felt weird, it also seemed safe. He turned around and caught a glimpse of one of the women from the forest. She was talking to someone he could not see. On the next bed, one of the children was sleeping.
Jumaane smiled. He wanted to get up and go to them, but he could not move his legs. He soon discovered that his arms were restrained as well, but before he could call for help a great tiredness took over him and he fell into a deep, empty, dreamless sleep.
His second awakening was a lot less pleasant. There was cold and dark. He smelled piss and faeces. When he tried to get up, a stabbing pain shot into his neck and up into his head. He fell down, his whole body a cramp. When the shock was over, he lay panting a little while longer. Whenever he tried to move, the pain came again, so he soon learned to stay still. When his senses cleared a little, he already knew that he was lying in his own piss and his own soil.
He could not tell how much time had passed. He was in complete darkness and motionlessness. Time stood still, just like he did if he wanted to avoid the pain. He fell asleep and woke up seven times before something happened. A door opened somewhere beside him. He could see a blinding light and a silhouette of a man from the corner of his eyes, but he dared not move his head.
The man came closer and did something with an electronic device next to Jumaane’s head, then ordered him in French to stand up. He did of course understand the words, but he could not obey them. He had learned to lay still, all his muscles were reacting instinctively. Movement meant pain. He could not move.
“I said get up!” commanded the voice.
“I cannot,” said Jumaane, “the pain…”
“The pain will come if you do not obey,” answered the voice, but what it said did not make sense. Jumaane knew the pain would come if he moved.
“I’ll tell you the last time. Get up!”
Jumaane did not move. Then the pain came again. This time it was stronger and longer than usual. He half-lost his consciousness. He heard more footsteps and felt like he was being lifted up and dragged across the floor.
Soon a gush of water pressed him against a cold tiled wall. This made him open his eyes. He was in a small white room where water came from the walls in all directions at once. He curled up into a ball and wished he was dead. Then the water ceased and a bad smelling yellow mist filled the whole room. He choked on it. The mist went into his skin through his pores and burned his flesh. Then the water came again, washing away the mist and the pain from his skin too. It was strange, but he felt better for it. The smell was gone and somehow his body was cleaner. It was explained to him later that this was a disinfectant, and the procedure was standard. Nobody wanted him to carry any diseases, and while the preliminary checks had allowed him to get out of the quarantine, they could not have been too sure, as it was his own faeces he had been covered with, for days.
He then received new clothing, a white overall with diagonal yellow stripes. He was told he would only need to wear this for the duration of his training. When he asked what training, he received a shock from his collar. Only a little one now, to remind him of the pain, then they told him not to ask any questions. He did not ask anything else.
Soon it all became clear. The collar was his discipline and pacifier. If he disobeyed, he got an electrical shock. If he misbehaved, he got shocked. If he tried to run away, he got shocked. If he asked questions, tried to talk to others, did not pay attention, or even just hesitated to obey a command, he got shocked. He tried all of that nevertheless, but eventually learned not to. He soon discovered that he would do anything to avoid the pain.
It was quite easy after all. Not much was expected of him. He had to attend some sort of school with many other Africans, all wearing similar collars and uniforms, with whom he was not allowed to talk. Nobody told him why this was happening, but he learned languages and etiquette and the workings of different cleaning and household equipment. He became proficient in programming robotic vacuum cleaners and setting up auto-cook ovens, and quite good with handling the wet cleaner machines that made sure that tiles and windows were always spotless.
He found some enjoyment in these duties. At night he was confined to a cell that was barely large enough to contain a single bed and a toilet, but during the day he was always shown something new and exciting and learning had soon become his sanctuary. Six months had passed, or so the man who had become his trainer, or ‘mentor’ as they’d called him, had said. And now was the day to be introduced to his new masters. He felt excitement. Something new would happen. He would probably miss the training rooms he was so accustomed to, but somewhere he felt that there would be a better life to come.
***
He was now standing in the corridor, waiting to be asked inside. The door opened and the elderly butler in a black uniform called him in. His own uniform satisfied Jumaane very much. He had never worn such fine clothes in his life.
Where he was ushered to, was a room unlike anything he had ever seen, or been able to imagine before. The ceiling was as high as the sky. The windows on one side looked over the busy avenue. Everything glittered with gold and precious stones; fine carpets covered the floor.
The furniture was elaborately carved, a mixture of wood, metal and glass; the shapes were otherworldly. Jumaane’s mouth opened in amazement. Such richness he could not have dreamed of. He never believed there was so much wealth in the whole world, yet here it was, all amassed in a single room. In the middle of it all was a fine young lady. She was slender and beautiful. Jumaane was sure that she was the new mistress they were talking about. His new owner.
The butler signalled him to come closer, so Jumaane stepped forward. The lady got up and looked him up and down. Jumaane knew that his frame had again become what it once had been. He had good food and plenty of it, he felt full and strong once again and he stretched himself out proudly.
“Fine! Excellent!” said the lady.
“Yes, Mrs Crowley,” replied the butler. “If I may suggest, you should not let it get too close to the window. Regardless of how many of your friends have these, possessing it is still considered illegal in the States.”
“You are right,” conceded the lady. “Move over to the wall!” she ordered Jumaane.
Jumaane obeyed. Obedience without delay was the only way to avoid being punished, and he had developed the habit of doing do what he was told without thinking.
“Yes, it’s a shame my husband never lived to see his gift delivered. That madman that shot him… What was his name? It was so long ago I fail to recollect.”
“The Colonel was killed by his aide, one Captain Patrick Rickard, Mrs Crowley. He shot down an unknown civilian, murdered your husband, and then shot himself in the head. Quite tragic.”
“Yes, it is,” said the lady. “He was a man after all.”
“Pardon me?” said the butler.
“Never mind. You may go now. And take it with you.”
Jumaane knew that ‘it’ referred to him, but he did not mind. In fact, he had got quite used to it during the past months. He knew now that being human was not a birth right, and he had much greater things to worry about anyway, like learning his tasks perfectly and avoiding being punished. As they left the room, he thought how sad it was that the beautiful lady had lost her husband.
They reached the basement where he was sent into a room. It was magnificent. Very similar to his former cell, with the major difference being that it was three times bigger and contained a small table with a single chair too. Jumaane smiled when he saw it. It would be so much more comfortable to live there. He stepped in, but the butler did not go inside.
“Can you read?” asked the butler.
“Yes, master. In two languages. I was taught to.”
“French too?”
“Yes, master.”
“Excellent. These are your instructions.” He handed a small booklet to Jumaane. “You have until tomorrow morning to memorise it all. It details your tasks and duties. Food twice a day, here. In fact, any time you are not on duty you will be here. You must not leave these premises. Is that perfectly clear?”
“Yes, master.”
“Do not call me master. She is your mistress, I am not. It is not right.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Calling me Sir would also— OK, Sir will be fine. What else, let’s see…” The butler hesitated. “You are not to talk to anyone apart from me. You must never show yourself to anyone in the household, but me. This is very important. Officially, you do not exist. And the appearance must be kept this way.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Jumaane.
He knew this all, he was well prepared, but he also knew that interrupting him would be punished automatically. He was happy that not calling him ‘master’ was not picked up by the AI chip that controlled the collar. Probably it did listen to the master’s voice too and took his reply into consideration. Smart stuff.
“I think that is it. This was the last time you saw your mistress unless she explicitly asks to see you. You can expect that she will show you to her friends to boast about the gift she got, but those will be the only occasions you will see anyone apart from me. And if you do see someone, you are to tell me immediately.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. I will bring you food. You’d better start reading.”
The butler closed the door and left Jumaane alone. He lay down on his new bed. It was much softer than the one he had before. His cell was really nice, compared to the previous one, and a lot cleaner too.
He ran through the little booklet detailing his duties. They included quite a few instructions. They tried to make it step-by-step and as easy to follow as possible. Jumaane smiled. These people obviously did not know what sort of training he had been given.
Then his food arrived. He ate it. It was plentiful and of good quality. There were even a few scraps of meat, something he had never got in the training. After some time the butler returned and gave him a small envelope, and said, “I was told that this was found on your person when you were delivered. Don’t show it to anyone and never mention that I gave it to you. If anyone sees it, you will be in trouble. And so will I.” He was visibly distraught, never looking at Jumaane.
Jumaane did not understand, but he dared not ask. He was taught never to ask questions. The butler hesitated, then left the room again, and did not show himself afterwards.
Jumaane opened the small envelope. In it was the picture of his wife and children. He smiled, kissed the photograph and put it on the table, propping it up against the wall. If only you could be here to see all this!
He watched the image of his family a little while longer, then he lay down again, looking at the ceiling. He thought about Africa, and the violence, the trip he had taken to come here, the risk, the shootings, that he had almost died. He had always been hungry. And he had always been cold.
But here, there was no hunger. There was no cold. There was no violence, no guns, no fighting, no war. There was peace. Punishment could be avoided simply by behaving well, and his duties were light. People back home were right, Europe was the land of promise. Freedom was not real, he never dreamed about that now, but warmth and comfort were. And he would never be hungry again.
Jumaane was happy.
The End