Chimimarcha

Authors Note: Please excuse the, what I must say, gruesome and violent conclusion. I (as I hope you do as well) think of it as the only plausible solution due to the unfortunate circumstances. I understand that such topics as killing, especially as detailed in the story, are very scary things in the times that we live, because such has most likely already occurred. Please take note that this humble author harbours no ill will or thought to anybody, and most certainly not to any much-esteemed teacher, a hard and respectable profession, as the main characters do. Again please excuse the violence, and keep in mind, as always: It’s for the sake of art.                                                                       



Chimimarcha by Michael Pérez



From the shroud of black clouds, all I can see is a desolate, barren wasteland. Outside are the people too, the survivors. Oh, poor souls, to be born into this post-war dystopia ruled by teenage tyrants. The adults died off, well perhaps died off is an odd term for it, but rather expired. It has been noted by the scientists that since the climax of the Great War of 2084, 25 years ago (that horrid sight! Bombs, not bigger than a mortal’s thumb, causing the extermination of a lot the size of what once was Manhattan) people had seem digress in health quite rapidly after the age of 27, the average death being 28. We, the blessed (and some cursed aswell) tried our hardest to impede the continuous progress of digression, but it was no use. It is a beautiful thing, that of human determination. Given only very few years to live, leads many to try and make the most of it. The purity of determination is beautiful, but cruel in its distortion. We tried to prevent, even the damned gods tried, but this progress of intentional digress is constant due to the selfish desires of even the kindest souls. The manipulation and exploitation, now rampant in society, is from this digression, society has become an abomination.           



But on track with the tale; in this desolate land there still be fields that are somewhat fertile, they only grow the harshest fruits, which unfortunately, but unsurprisingly, taste ill. In society, as it always, there are those who rule and those who are ruled. The men gruel in the fields, planting fruitless flowers, providing offspring, and protecting the town, while the women rule over the men, discipline (whip) them, give birth, and rule the tyrannical oligarchy. One man, Okonkuo, sought to change this, a fatal intention, but nonetheless a pure one.  Okonkuo was an embittered old man of 25 years. Due to his sarcastic nature, he was banned from the fields for impeding the progression of the plow, in essence, a naïve rebellion. 



From here on in, I, Chimimarcha, took much interest in the events about to come. This man, Okonkuo, was very troubled and reciprocally he caused trouble. From his inception the female tyrants who ruled over his town, Samba Notres, noticed the insolence, rebellion, and an undeniable and uncommon intelligence taking root in the boy’s character. When born, the son or daughter would be taken away from the surrogate mother, that’s essentially what she was, a surrogate; for love did not existed is this society. Love was an unheard word, almost never spoken, but when uttered was considered the highest insult. The child would be taken to a school if she was a girl, or the fields and barracks if he was a boy. At school, girls were forced into a rigorous curriculum of history (distorted of course), mathematics, sciences, art (a laughable course), and literature (censured of course). When a class reached secondary school, the girls were split in two. Those excelling in mathematics and sciences were to send to a secondary school that primed itself on the mind’s fallbacks, and how to guard oneself from these while exploiting others, learning a very manipulative and corrupt form of psychology. It’s needless to say that this was a very Machiavellian school. Those who prevailed in the humanities of art, literature, and history were sent to another secondary school, one that manipulated the girls’ thought process into a hypocritical belief of unity under strong leaders, and never deviating from one leader, unless of course another leader cursed the other leader; a very easy goal at that seeing as secondary school is the most impressionable time for the mind. From what I derived, the arts were used as trap courses, ones that would surely ensnare those with imaginations and thoughts. Oh, how they hated those!           



The education a male received was given by the end of a whip, a very strict teacher I must say. Anyone whose actions were deemed unsatisfactory, rebellious, or thoughtful was immediately “educated”. And being a male, Okonkuo was forced to suffer this harsh education, but unlike most he “learned” nothing. He was just as rebellious and free (in his mind) as ever, perhaps a tad bitterer with the years but still the same ol’ punk. Having observed him for a time, I decided to write the man a letter. So I got my, if I must say, famous fountain pen from which octopi get their ink, the earth gets its oil, and I get my literature, and I put my pen to paper and began a beautiful detailing of my opinion of the man, the society that he lived in, and what I believe should be done to rectify that world. Me, being a god, magically delivered my letter to him. The following will conclude the tale from which I have digressed often but only for the sake of elaboration, so I ask please forgive your humble author.  Among my desires was the destruction of the Machiavellian school detailed earlier, something that I had never expected to be followed through, but as is the nature of Okonkuo, he did just as I asked (I believe he thought the same). One might ask how this level of rebellion could have possibly occurred in such an oppressive society. To such a question I would simply reply, it didn’t. It is absolutely impossible for one man, an uneducated, bitter, old, tired man at that, to bring an entire sect of society to its foundations, a preposterous, ludicrous thought! But what I meant was the intention, and this intention was completed when Okonkuo ran from the fields, stealing a hoe whilst on his way the facility, a roughly two story ruined building approximately a quarter of a mile from the fields. When he arrived, he proceeded to do the only thing he, an uneducated, bitter, old, man could do, walk into every classroom he could, go up to the teacher, and beat the teacher to death with the stolen hoe (What did you expect him to do? Debate?). This went on for two classrooms, two dead teachers, two dead corrupt, hypocritical, doublethinking teachers; a major success. After he was captured, bound, gagged, and tortured they threw him into the jail. The jail, even though it was dirty, full of people, some dead, and covered with blood, urine, and feces, it was still somehow more luxurious than the barracks. At least he was free in his confinement, rather than confined in freedom. And in his final moments, I watched as he prayed. Not only did he pray, an act unknown due to lack of gods, but also he prayed to me, this probably not a big feat due to the lack of any other gods as aforementioned. He thanked me for the liberty that I had given him. For him, death was freedom, I cried. It rained because I cried, and I cried cause it rained on him, his soul, his mind, his tongue. But from this rain, he was cleansed and that soothed my soul. I watched him hang, heard the people cheer, yelling the unimaginable, I smelled the hatred, I felt the satisfaction. And so ends the tale of Okonkuo and I, with death, as is fit for the end of a mortal man's tale.