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Meet The Guardians of Poverty
“Good Morning Mbuyangwana,” said the
prosecutor, with a loud voice, as if deliberately awakening me from a long
night of deep sleep. I felt as if I was cosily slumbering on a couch that was
floating on a pool of water and still wishing I could continue sleeping. I must
have been dreaming. The prosecutor turned to look at me, as if I was one hell
of an idle truant being rudely awakened to face another day of reluctant
schooling. I fixed my eyes on the man-animal. The prosecutor was wearing a
black suit, with a jacket revealing a white shirt that briskly covered his
torso. From where I was sitting, I noticed that the prosecutor had an eagle’s
head. I don’t know if the litigator was therefore a man or a bird, or both: a
man-bird, perhaps. In fact, upon close inspection, I realised that was no
eagle’s head at all; it was a raven’s head. When I fixed my eyes on the raven’s
head, I also realised that he wasn’t speaking to me, but to a certain gentleman
man who was uncomfortably sitting in the witness box.
“Mbuyangwana, please tell the court the truth,”
he said, to the other gentleman.
“Describe to the court what kind of virus you
employed in your endeavour to destroy this man’s life,” said the prosecutor,
pointing at me. I was surprised, employed to destroy whose life? Mine? Who was
this gentleman? I looked at him; he looked disoriented. He seemed ashamed; not
too happy to confess to what would be a brutal truth in front of my astonished
eyes. There seemed to be a tinge of remorse in his eyes.
“Go ahead Mr Mbuyangwana, the court is all
ears,” the prosecutor urged him on.
Mbuyangwana turned his eyes away from me as he
started to explain his Machiavellian ways to the court.
“Well, the virus is one of the highest viruses
that any scientific lab could have ever produced,” said Mbuyangwana.
“What do you mean? Could you be a little bit
more specific?” asked the prosecutor.
“Only the Engineers of Human Suffering could
come up with something so destructive to the human population,” said Mbuyangwana.
“Mr Mbuyangwana, we need to have a little bit
of clarity, please elaborate on the virus,” said the prosecutor.
“Okay. The virus is like that of a Tsetse fly,
that once bitten the victim falls into a life of sleep; they sleep-walk through
every decision that they make about their personal life. The virus’s chemical
engineering is way beyond ordinary scientific experiments. It actually involved
the de-fragmentation of human DNA strands through the inter-pollution of the neuro-biological
pathway, especially targeting the human emotion pool, consequently causing an
almost irreparable damage to the perception and the worldview of the victim.
The virus messes with the philosophy therefore traps and invalidates the
psychobiology of the victim,” he said.
“In other words, you turned your victim into a
moron. You forced him to mess up everything related to the matters of his
personal growth and development?” asked the prosecutor.
“Yes sir,” responded Mbuyangwana.
“For our records, does this virus have a name Mr
Mbuyangwana?” the prosecutor asked further.
I was still in shock. The victim referred to in
this matter was me. I had DNA strands that had been totally destroyed, courtesy
of some people called the Engineers of Human Suffering. The destruction had
affected the way I reasoned and conducted my day-today business? Tjerrr! What
the hell was this? I wanted out of the court, but it seemed I was stuck. I was
trapped. Somehow I knew that I had to witness the trial. I was the victim and Mbuyaman
was seemingly the perpetrator. Worse of all, we had just been introduced to
each other. I never knew that I had someone who was working on my life,
ensuring that I never made it in life. No wonder there’d never really been any
progress in my life, except for Ona. Oh, Ona. Where was she? Had I really died?
How was she taking my death? The whole affair was beyond me. I had drowned and
now I was attending a court case somewhere between heaven and earth? Tjerrr!
What a night!
I looked at the judge. He was sitting aloof on
a golden throne while the accused sat on a big black leather-coated chair
across the clouds. The centre was too misty to notice, but I could see that the
prosecutor walked with ease, as if on ceramic tiles, the sound of his shoes
registering a statement that he was indeed a man of authority. From around the
courthouse came murmurings that made me look sideways in a fruitless attempt to
identify the voices. I searchingly looked to my right and looked to my left,
but could not see what my eyes were yearning to see. I concluded that the
murmurings came from some invisible attendants who were present in the
celestial courthouse.
A little thunder here, a little thunder there;
lightning flashes here, lightning flashes there. The trial was in progress.
It seemed like this was the day everybody had
been waiting for – everybody except me. However, I could not tell whether it
was day or night. I just knew that the hour had come: A time to come
face-to-face with all the elusive answers to why my life had been such a mess.
It was time for me to get answers to all the uncomfortable questions I had
spent my life dodging. According to my scanty understanding, I was led to this
place to be a witness, a hostile witness to say the least. It took a drowning
for me to get here. I had to be here; I had to witness the testimony being
given by a man called Mbuyangwana, the very gentleman who was being
cross-examined over there on the black leather-coated chair. To my surprise, Mbuyaman
looked a little familiar. He was wearing a black robe that covered his entire
body, with a hood that covered his head and only revealed his face. I now
noticed that I was wearing school uniform, primary school uniform. It didn’t
matter though; I was more interested in Mbuya, I somehow felt closely related
to him. He was facing a string of charges, mainly that of messing up my life.
Apparently, Mbuyaman had turned celestial
witness against the Engineers of Human Suffering, a formidable group believed
to have masterminded my downfall. Their goal was to guarantee my downfall even
way before I could rise. They ran my life like an automatic programme. His role
was to ensure that the plans of his masters became a reality in my life; all he
had to do was ensure that everything I did turned out to be a disaster.
According to the charge sheet, he had slowly infected me with a virus that
disabled all my efforts at living the life I dreamed of living: The life Q was
living. The virus had left me tremendously stupid. It was like a bug that bit and
turned me into a non-man. Once bitten twice stupid. I was infected. Good God!
How did this happen under your watch? I asked myself, but no answer came, at
least not immediately. Worse, I had no idea of the infection until I briefly
appeared in the celestial court.
“During the production of this virus, our
Engineers of Human Suffering labelled it the Plawt virus,” Mbuyangwana answered
the prosecutor’s question.
“The plot virus?” he asked.
“Yes, Plawt; spelled P.L.A.W.T,” he answered.
“Okay, go on,” said the prosecutor.
“The Plawt virus represents Poverty, Lack and
Wishful Thinking,” Mbuyaman explained. “It affects how a human being thinks and
how he or she conducts his or her life in the world.”
The prosecutor moved around for a few seconds,
one hand folded and another on his chin.
“Could you please explain to the court how this
Plawt works!” he said.
Again Mbuyaman seemed uncomfortable. He somehow
feared that the truth might hurt me. However, he had sworn to tell the truth;
and unlike the entire celestial courthouse, I was all ears. I just had to hear.
Finally there was an explanation to why I had lived my life the way I did. I
would finally know why I couldn’t afford to give Ona what she expected out of
me. I would know why I had enlisted to the Domkops
Anonymous Project.
“This is how the Plawt works. It first makes
the victim to be unafraid of poverty, which is a good thing because fear on its
own is dangerous. However, not only does Plawt make the victim to be unafraid
of poverty, but to be comfortable in it as well; to embrace poverty. Once they
embrace poverty, they do everything in their power to stay in it; to protect
and serve it. In other words, to become Guardians of Poverty,” said Mbuyangwana.
The entire court was buzzing. It was
fox-trotting with sounds of shocked attendees, whom I could not see. If there
were humans in the courthouse, I promise they would have killed Mbuyangwana
without hesitation. They wouldn’t kill him for what the virus did to humans,
but for exposing their cathexis of poverty, their love; our love, an undying
love.
“Once the virus has fully entered the human
blood stream, it affects their DNA and their brain function, and consequently
they no longer see poverty for what it is. They see it as a way of life, their
way of life – their Tao,” he said. “The evidence is all there. It’s really
normal for anyone in the world to say I’m sick or I’m broke or I’m poor. Yet it
is esteemed high treason and ungodly for anyone to say I’m rich or I’m
financially healthy. No wonder the majority of the world is sick, broke and
poor. A majority of human beings are operating in the Plawt gear, so progress
is a hated word in the world, because the quagmire into which they have fallen
is swarming with lovers of poverty.”
“Is this the only way of life they know?” asked
the prosecutor.
“Not necessarily, that’s just the only way they
have chosen,” answered Mbuyangwana. “Imagine that a group of people are walking
in a jungle. Then they get to a place where the roads separate into two. One
road is written Food and Water Path while the other one is written The Road of Fasting.
After long deliberations a majority of the group chooses the Road of Fasting
and only a few choose the Food and Water Path. You happen to have gone with the
majority. Once deep into the road without water and food, you start talking
about water and food; do you think they will love you? No way! On this road
they love people who speak phrases like, ‘To hell with the rich, let the poor
survive.’ The hatred for the rich becomes intense because they know that to travel
on the Food and Water Path they’d have to make a big turn; they’d have to
repent, but like they killed John the Baptist for telling them to repent,
they’d kill anyone who dares suggest they change their way. They will hate you
for reminding them that they chose the dry road – that it is their fault they
are in the situation to begin with – and once you decide that you are turning
back, they will ridicule you and laugh at you as you draw back to find the good
road. Usually, the way back is lonely because everybody insists on going
forward on the Road of Fasting.”
“Is this really what happens with poor people?”
asked the prosecutor.
“Yes, hundred percent, the Guardians of Poverty
consistently ensure that their situation never improves. They only live to get
by, until they die. Even when opportunities arise in their favour, Plawt
victims turn them down through inexplicable actions solely based on apathy and
self-pity.”
The courthouse was frantic. I was speechless.
“Now, why can’t their lives improve?” asked the
prosecutor.
“Because of attachment; human beings have a
strong natural inclination to become attached to things, whether it be objects
or subjects. Once a human being is attached to something, it is difficult for
them to become detached. Detachment is a concept they equate to death. No
wonder many lovers become attached to their idea of a relationship that should
it come to an end they would rather die. Unfortunately, they don’t want to die
alone, so they normally take their partners with them. This is because human
beings are first attached to their physical bodies and the idea of dying means
they have to be detached from the form, so they seek someone familiar to
accompany them as they become detached from their bodies through death.
“In the same way, people become easily attached
to their road, their way; their poverty. This makes it difficult for them to
create a life that removes them from poverty. To them it’s like dying, and they
still want to live, in their poverty, to guard its tenets and credos,” said Mbuyangwana.
Again, silence.
