The Sale

Tendai Huchu

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The sale was yet to be finalised, and Mr. Munyuki was rushing about frantically in his brown suit that he wore only on major occasions—the last time was at his father’s funeral. He’d bought it at Robert Gabriel Retailers in HaCity—as it was now rebranded by the Asian entrepreneurs who’d swapped it for a bad debt sometime in the late 21^st century. HaCity was an appropriate name, something in between a laugh and K-pop trendy. Sweat dripped down Mr. Munyuki’s side, his blue shirt was damp. He wore a yellow tie and the breast pocket of the suit had chicken soup stains on it he’d tried to wipe off with little success that morning.

He entered the tall glass building, formerly the reserve bank building, and told the heavy at the door that he had an appointment. A lift took him up to the top floor with sweeping views of the city. A TV screen in the lobby was tuned to the Voice of Truth. The PA for the Minister for Native Affairs, Anna Kansasian picked up her apparat, spoke into it, and told Mr. Munyuki that the minister was going to be tied up much longer than anticipated. His appointment had been rescheduled for tomorrow afternoon.

“But this is a matter of great urgency, there is no time. It’s about the sale,” he pleaded in his mouse-like voice—the CorpGov hormones did that to the voice, every man in his quarter spoke as if they’d permanently swallowed a helium balloon.

“The minister is a busy man. You really should have Facebooked it, if it was that important,” she replied.

“I’m old fashioned. I prefer Face2facing,” he said, thinking, Facebook, face to face, get it? No of course not. She wouldn’t get it.

“Well, you’ll just have to wait.” She was a thin woman with a long neck, and Mr. Munyuki thought she was probably fucking the minister—male intuition.

“But it’s to be moved tomorrow morning,” he cried out in despair, burying his head in his hands.

“Everyone knows about the sale. It’s on the news every day,” she said. There was no getting through to her, no hint of emotion or human empathy behind the business-like tone. The CCTV whirled round and focused on Mr. Munyuki. She continued, “Look, for what it’s worth, the deal was done a long time ago. Your people sold out ages ago. You started with mineral concessions, agricultural rights. It’s not the minister’s fault if you can’t pay your debts.”

He bit his tongue and tasted sweet salt.

Anna narrowed her eyes a little. “Are you on your meds, buddy?” Her hand reached for the panic button under her desk.

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Munyuki smiled, “tomorrow it is. You’ve been very helpful.”

He made his way out, walking under the sign hanging by the door that said, Ministry of Native Affairs Pvt Ltd—Serving the Nation One Country at a Time.

Outside, back in the bright sun obscured by a thin film of toxic brown haze, he paused on the pavement. Around him were men in suits carrying briefcases. Men from around the world. Businessmen, the only type of men still allowed freedom to come to the centre of the city like this. The apparat worn on a chain round his neck bleeped a warning that his visa-pass had one hour left. Up above drones flew watching, recording everything. The businessmen walked past him as if he did not exist. He made his way to the ticketdrome, walking on the spotless streets, failing to avoid looking at the electronic advertisement boards that surrounded them.

In many ways, the city was cleaner. It had water and electricity, but it’d lost its soul, or so his father had told him during, the great sell-out. He was too young then to understand but now he did. Third World nations heavily under debt were sold off piecemeal to Corporations or voluntarily placed in caretakership as Zimbabwe was. They were the lucky ones. Some countries had to sell people to make up the difference that kept rising with the interest rates. The sign at the ticketdrome read:

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:) The Natives Are Happy and Prosperous (:

:) The Future Must Be Magnificent (:

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The woman at the checkout asked for his passport and checked his visa-pass, which was still valid. “Only twenty minutes left on this, you’re cutting it pretty close. You know what they’ll do to you if they catch you expired?” It was a rhetorical question, everyone knew. She was a fat, red haired woman with a wobbly chin that animated her face as she moved. He noticed her long nails, painted red. A native policeman, hand on Taser, passed by, double checked his passport, looked him up and down, and walked away.

“Was it like this in the old days before the Chimerica?” He found himself thinking aloud.

“Excuse me?” the checkout woman asked.

“Nothing, it’s nothing. I need an extension for one more night.”

“You had an interview with the minister for native affairs... The computer tells us it was for this afternoon.” The contempt in her Cockney accent barely disguised.

“I did.”

“Then you have to travel back and reapply for your pass in Mas-ving O.” Some of the old names had been kept by CorpGov, with minor phonetic changes to reflect the language of the new administrators. They couldn’t be bothered to learn the old names.

“He rescheduled for tomorrow morning, first thing. I’ve literally just come from his offices where I had to wait all day whilst he was in and out of meetings.”

“We can’t help you here. The rules are very clear that visa-passes can only be applied for at your local native office.”

“This is important. I have to stay in the city.”

“Sir, maybe you are not hearing me. Go back to Mas-ving O and reapply.”

“I’m not...” Before he could finish his statement, a public health drone descended from the steel strutted ceiling where it was hovering. It made a buzzing sound, almost bee-like but with a hint of steel in the harmony. The light on its monocam at the front slowly changed from green to bright red as it hovered around his head, sampling pheromones and body odour.

Public health was a major concern for CorpGov and drones were deployed in major cities, always sampling, ever vigilant. They were egg-shaped, metallic machines with a red cross underneath that people could see as they walked about. Life expectancy was up 100% thanks to CorpGov’s unwavering commitment to native health. Mr. Munyuki stood very still while it scanned him. Ordinance 32e: failure to comply with public health drones is a felony.

“PROSCRIBED LEVELS OF TESTOSTERONE

PROSCRIBED LEVELS OF TESTOSTERONE

PROSCRIBED LEVELS OF TESTOSTERONE.”

It kept repeating with loud wailing reminiscent of old order police sirens. People stopped to look at the man who’d failed to efficiently manage his hormonal balance. It was true, he’d neglected taking his NeustrogenAlpha™, but only so he’d have the nerve to fight the sale; the sort of nerve that ended at the PA’s desk. The drone reminded Mr. Munyuki that under CorpHealth directive 706.22.1438, section V, subsection II, all native males were required to maintain low testosterone levels in public unless otherwise authorised as in the role of native policeman and/or bouncer. The checkout woman chewed gum nonchalantly, watching everything, savouring his humiliation.

The drone hovered around him, its spectrometer measuring every conceivable detail about him, height, weight, BMI, blood pressure, pulse rate, sampling the air for any trace hormones emanating from him. It automatically linked into his apparat and downloaded previous medical records, sifting through relevant medical data, allergies, inoculations, dental appointments. Its calculations complete, the top opened and a capsule held by a mechanical arm emerged. “Comprehensive diagnosis complete,” it announced. Mr. Munyuki knew what to do. He unbuckled his belt, dropped his trousers and bent over. The drone hovered zeroing in on the sphincter and pumping the off-white suppository until it was safely, deep inside his cavity.

It pulled back and said, “CorpGov thanks you for your co-operation, please remember your six monthly dental appointment is due in 21 days. Have a nice day.” Then it flew back to the ceiling from where it scanned other native males in the ticketdrome.

Mr. Munyuki pulled his trousers up, avoiding the condemning stares of the masses walking back and forth. Humanity, were they even human at all with their daily diet of NeustrogenAlpha™, and the mood stabilisers and anti-depressants pumped into the water supply? He wondered this knowing full well that within minutes he would be incapable of such thoughts, that he would turn back into a docile robot. He turned to the woman. Something inside of him was happening, a rebalancing of brain chemistry. He felt light and happy for the first time that day. As if his very soul itself was lifted up to heaven. Balance restored in a chaotic world.

“I shall be going back to Mas-ving O, as you suggested,” he said, and smiled at the checkout woman.

“A wise decision. We’ll make sure you get a nice window seeeeaaat,” the woman replied, emphasising seat like one would talking to a toddler.

He left for the transport, a small part of him, unable to understand why despite his every desire to make a stand, he found himself co-operating, wanting to co-operate. The part of him pharmacologically altered was winning over his true self but it still lingered somewhere inside him, he could feel it. He never told his physician this, though under some health ordinance or the other he was fully obliged to.

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He returned to the boys’ hostel on the northern outskirts of the town. It was called ‘Sponsored by Investco Perpetual’ with the sub-tag, ‘Ensuring Better Homes for the Earth’s Native Population’. All the hostels were sponsored by some corp or the other. He swiped his apparat, the door opened, and he went up the steps to his room on the third floor.

“Jimmy!” his workflatmate John shouted out, a weak, subdued call coming from the depths of a NeustrogenAlpha™ haze.

“Hey, John.”

“I’ve got something for you. A letter.” John hid it behind his back. “You have to guess where it’s coming from.”

He knew straight away. There’s only one place where decisions are so important they have to be printed out and sent the old-fashioned way.

“My answer from PopPlan,” he replied hesitantly. He took the envelope, opened it very slowly, and took a deep breath.

PopPlan—Population Planning didn’t send these replies out by apparat because they wanted them to be intimate. Its advertisements on television featured a muscled, smiling man, receiving his letter through the post, opening it, reading it and then looking at the television, mouthing, “Thank you PopPlan,” with Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings in C Major playing in the background. The tune was stuck in his head. The advert played every day, on repeat.

“Do you want me to read it for you,” said John.

“Hang on a minute, will you.” His head was spinning. The future counted on this.

“Come on, read it already, you’ve been waiting five years for this.”

“Dear Mr. Jimmy Munyuki,” he began reading the piece of paper that had the PopPlan Logo on top and pink hearts dotted all round. “Thank you for your application to sire, which the committee has considered in great detail. We regret...” he stopped and froze.

John took the letter from him and continued. “We regret to inform you that we will not be accepting you for the sireship program. While your health is impeccable, the rearfoot valgus presented in your lower limb anatomy may be detrimental to the quality of future stock... We wish you the best for the future...”

“And commend you for being a loyal, hardworking citizen. Your’s Sincerely MM Mcguire (head of PopPlan C-DIV).” He finished it off by heart. He knew the words by rote. Everyone he knew who’d made the application from Sponsored by Investco Perpetual had been declined.

“I guess when mine comes through, it’ll be the same,” John said, resigned and weary.

“What on earth is a rearfoot valgus anyway?”

Jimmy Munyuki lay on his bed and slept, a deep black sleep.

He woke in the middle of the night feeling thirsty, and poured himself a glass of water. John was snoring on the bunk above. Mr. Munyuki undressed, removing the suit he’d fallen asleep in. A mosquito buzzed in his ear. In his underpants, he fiddled behind his back to remove his 36 A bra. He moved his hands to feel his boobs, a known side effect of the daily doses of NeustrogenAlpha™. He lay on top of the covers, feeling the stifling summer heat. He looked up on the ceiling where a screen played nonstop advertisements. He watched them, they were better than counting sheep, for after an hour or so, he fell back to sleep.

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Morning came with the singing of winter birds and the chatter of monkeys in the vast wilderness surrounding Mas-ving O. A handful of natives came wearing worn resigned looks, and amassed outside the monument offices. They’d heard word spreading of some resistance to the sale, but nothing had so far materialised. They looked like vegetables, walking zombies. As soon as they appeared, four health drones appeared from the sky, sampling, testing, checking. One of the drones played a loud, recorded broadcast: “Since Health Ministry Pvt Ltd a subsidiary of CorpGov took over this sector, Native Population has stabilised to a replacement rate of 1:1, life expectancy has doubled, free sanitation, jobs for all, Life, Liberty, Happiness for all. CorpGov is better than OldGov. Life is better. Life is good. You are Happy. One world, One people, United at last.”

The hydrogen-fuelled trucks started rolling in, a large convoy that stretched out past the horizon. Their mirrors and windshields glistened in bright morning sun. Mr. Munyuki saw the hieroglyphs that marked them as CorpGov property. Everything was owned by CorpGov or the little Ltds that found a niche in the gigantic corporate macrocosm. He watched their slow progress as though they were appearing from behind a screen, or he was the one under a glass jar insulated from it all, or maybe the layer was on his eyes, a thin film covering them.

The first trucks were the removers and behind them followed heavy, earth moving equipment. Diggers, bulldozers, caterpillars, all moving silently, a vapour trail of clean H2O trailing as they went. The surveyors had been and gone already. For months, they took photographs, made detailed measurements and noted everything down on their apparats that transmitted terabytes of data to the twin capitals—Washington-Beijing. ‘One world, two capitals,’—that was what the adverts said. The adverts said a lot of things.

This was the new order of stability. Since Nial Gerson, the 21^st century historian, had discovered the doctrine of Consumption=Manufacturing, shortened to ConMan, which was enshrined in the eternal treaty, peace and order prevailed. In this order, China manufactures=America consumes. It has always been this way; it will always be this way. A stable equilibrium combining free markets, scientific rationale, and central planning, was created by the 2059 ConMan treaty that founded Chimerica as the pillar of GloSta. Every nation on the planet now had a ranking and a function from which no deviation was allowed unless CorpGov or one of its franchises ordered it. ‘A better world for all. Eternal Growth,’—more slogans in his head.

The hundreds of workmen in white jumpsuits waited, sprawled across the grounds surrounding the monument. These were native workmen. Strong men. The sort of men with strong bodies and low IQs that were valued above all else by CorpGov. Loyal men who followed orders, the first of a new breed. A call came in to their supervisor who wore a red and blue jumpsuit. He spoke briefly on his apparat and gave the signal. Mr. Munyuku watched silently from the open window at the heritage offices. This is where he worked, a subsidiary of the Ministry of Native Affairs. He clenched to hold in his morning suppository, which felt like it was slipping out. Obviously, drones do the job better, they don’t get distracted by the physical contortion required to slip the fingers in and push the capsule, they just do, pushing deep into the cavity.

He looked at the holographic blueprint for where Great Zimbabwe (Property of Ling Lee Antiquities Enterprises and Debt Recovery) would be finding its new home. The theme park on the outskirts of the Eastern capital, alongside the Cholula Pyramid and Great Pyramid of Giza, the Taj Mahal, British Museum, and a host of other antiquities from nations that had failed to meet their quota, failed to pay their debts. He read the information hailing the theme park as yet another example of how the world was moving towards greater unity, integration and a new era of unlimited growth. Strangely, he thought, it looked good there. He imagined the businessmen and their families drifting round the ancient world and enjoying the wonders all put together in one place.

Mr. Munyuki almost felt like laughing at the history of the monument. The first European adventurers had ransacked it, tearing down the carefully crafted granite walls searching for gold in the nineteenth century. But nothing like when palladium had been discovered under it in the twenty second. He felt tears swell up in his eyes, but he understood this was the chemical balance telling him all was for the best. Yet, deep inside him, a more primeval feeling of rage stirred up. The morning air had a tinge of time and pollen in it. This is the last time it will ever smell this way here, he realised. A message came through on his apparat, reassigning him from antiquities to his new role as a mine clerk. Under the scorching sun, he ran outside, past the small watching group of natives and the workmen. He ran faster than he’d ever run before and placed his body between the old stone walls and the bulldozers.

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Tendai Huchu, author of The Hairdresser of Harare was born in Bindura, Zimbabwe. He has a great love of literature, and currently lives in Edinburgh, Scotland.