LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

come at you in waves over there. You feel more. You know what I mean, right? More alive. More aware. More aware of the fact that every blessed moment could be your last. Boom, you are about to cross the road without looking left or right like everyone else and boom seemingly out of nowhere a matatu with loud music booming from its loudspeakers runs into you and boom you are on your way to meet your maker. Just like that. Boom!”

      “Boom!” I said.

      I sensed he was going to do all the talking, so I let him.

      “That smell. You know that smell, right? There is nothing quite like that smell. The smell of Africa.”

      “We can make that smell happen for you right here at the Ranch,” I said.

      “You can?” he asked.

      “Just give me one second,” I said.

      I gathered dry banana leaves and corn husks and built a little fire. I sprinkled a few seeds of cayenne pepper on it as soon as the leaves started burning.

      He sniffed the air like a young rodent. He breathed in, then sniffed again.

      “The smell, the smell. I can smell Africa again. It smells just right,” he said.

      “That is what the Ranch is here to do for you. We do our best to make our guests happy,” I said.

      “You know, unlike most people who go to Africa, I did not see myself going to Africa in the mold of some kind of Save Africa Messiah. I was kind of hoping to get away somewhere to save myself. I did not go with the intention of helping orphans. Don’t get me wrong, helping orphans is great, and orphans, of which there are a great number in Africa, need all the help they can get. But to be honest, I could barely help me.”

      “There is no place like Africa,” I said.

      “Let me tell you this, Africa was the only place that did not judge me. I was used to being judged by family, judged in school, judged at the shitty dead-end jobs where I typically got fired after a few weeks, but Africa never judged me.”

      “The motherland never judges anyone,” I said.

      The fire was burning out. The Africa smell was fading. His time was running out. I liked guests like him. He was the one who did all the performing. Don’t get me wrong, though. I did of course love to enact.

      I looked at my Palm screen.

      He looked at me.

      “Ah, I nearly forgot myself. You don’t operate on African Time here. You know, back in Africa their attitude to time was one thing that I loved about them. Their sense of time is straight out of Salvador Dali’s The Persistence of Memory. They know something we don’t know over here—time is made for man, man is not made for time.”

      “No truer word has ever been said.”

      “Speaking of which, I have to skedaddle,” he said.

      I thanked him as the Instarating prompt came on. I looked away like a good waiter does at tipping time.

      As soon as he walked off, I checked my Instarating.

      Excellent!

      He’d even included an exclamation mark.

      I was reluctant to admit it publicly, but there was no doubt I was on a roll. Who knows, maybe soon I would become a Leader. In the history of the Ranch none of those who enacted Africa had ever risen to become Leaders. I could be the first. Who knows? I did not dwell on these thoughts for too long. One had to watch out for shortcomings like arrogance, pride, and immodesty. It was OK to take pride in one’s work but one must remember that the Ranch was all little parts working together as one. This was one of the principles that I taught my guests as being at the core of African personhood. This was what Ubuntu stood for. This was acknowledging that one was nothing without others. One was only a person because of other people.

      It was time to clock out. I switched off my Palm screen. Of course, everyone knew the Palm screen never really went off and never stops watching you.

      At the dining hall that night, I was the object of all manners of accolades. Other performers slapped my back. From every corner of the hall my fellow enactors called out to me.

      “Africa rising,” some said.

      “Black power,” some called out.

      “Africa on top,” another said.

      “Africa on the move,” yet another called out in greeting.

      There were questions from all sides.

      “Can you tell us how you do it?”

      “What is the secret of your success?”

      “What can I do to improve?”

      I smiled and remembered that one needed to be modest especially with fellow enactors because everyone at the Ranch was a person because of everyone else. I reined in the surge of pride growing in my chest and put on my modest face.

      “I could not have done it without you, my fellow enactors. If I am standing tall today, you all know what they say, right? It is because I’m standing on the shoulders of my fellow enactors. We are all enacting great continents. We just need to make our clients connect with our beloved continents and watch those ratings go stratospheric.”

      “Great speech,” they said.

      “Morale-boosting speech,” they said.

      “Hear, hear,” they said.

      I scanned the length and breadth of the dining hall for Ling. She was sitting by herself in a corner. She was like the unpopular kid in high school who sat alone during lunch and had serial killing in their future.

      I could see her dinner on her Styrofoam plate. It was a single baby carrot. She was having a single baby carrot for lunch. She needed her morale boosted. She needed a pep talk. She needed a puff of air beneath her wings. Who better to give it than the man who’d just made a great morale-boosting speech? However, as I walked towards her lonely table, she stood up and walked away, her eyes on the grotty floor.

      I asked myself a bunch of questions.

      Had I somehow hurt her by being immodest?

      Had I been less than supportive to my fellow enactor?

      Had I done anything to make her feel a little less about her personhood?

      No, No, and No.

      Since the answers to all three questions were negative, I proceeded to enjoy my dinner heartily.

      My Palm screen told me I had clients. They were a mixed group so I decided to give them my Tell me something I don’t know about Africa routine.

      “Do you know that in some parts of Africa people are buried in coffins made in the shape of their professions?” I asked them.

      I then answered my own question.

      “A doctor’s coffin would be shaped like a stethoscope and a lawyer’s like a wig and gown and a mechanic’s would be shaped like a spanner and a musician’s is shaped like a guitar.”

      Their responses ranged from wow to cool, etc., etc.

      One of the clients, a college kid, raised his hand to ask a question. For some reason, questions made me somewhat apprehensive. Had I not been thorough enough in my presentation?

      “What about the coffin-maker?”

      “Yes, the coffin-maker,” I said.

      “When the coffin-maker dies, is he buried in a coffin-shaped coffin because his profession is coffin-making?”

      A few people laughed. Not good laughter. More like gotcha laughter.

      “Well, technically, a coffin-maker is

Скачать книгу