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terramythos · 3 years

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TerraMythos 2021 Reading Challenge - Book 2 of 26

Title: Authority (The Southern Reach #2) (2014) - REREAD

Author: Jeff VanderMeer

Genre/Tags: Horror, Science Fiction, Ecological Horror, Cosmic Horror, Mystery, Weird, Third-Person, Unreliable Narrator

Rating: 8/10

Date Began: 1/05/2021

Date Finished: 1/10/2021

John "Control" Rodriguez, a disgraced former spy, is given an opportunity to redeem himself at the Southern Reach, the clandestine organization that oversees the mysterious and horrifying Area X. The director has gone missing following the disastrous "twelfth" expedition in Annihilation. Control is brought in to take over her job and fix the Southern Reach... and perhaps find a way to combat the insidious, paranormal effects of Area X.

But Control soon discovers just how deep Area X's corruption infects the place. Even worse, failures of the past-- both his own and those of the Southern Reach-- return to haunt him in disturbing ways. Badly outmatched within and without, Control will need to do everything he can to save not only the organization, but himself.

The last fragment of video remained in its own category: "Unassigned." Everyone was dead by then, except for an injured Lowry, already halfway back to the border.

Yet for a good twenty seconds the camera flew above the glimmering marsh reeds, the deep blue lakes, the ragged white cusp of the sea, toward the lighthouse.

Dipped and rose, fell again and soared again.

With what seemed like a horrifying enthusiasm.

An all-consuming joy.

Full review, some spoilers, and content warning(s) under the cut.

Content warnings for the book: some body horror but way toned down compared to Annihilation. Mind control/hypnotic suggestion is still a thing. Non graphic sexual content. Disturbing images. Without spoiling the entire book, there are several scenes that come off as gaslighting, but do have an alternate explanation. As before, a pervasive sense of unreality.

While Annihilation is a deep dive into the horrors of Area X, Authority takes a step back. It examines the situation from the perspective of the Southern Reach, the organization that oversees the expeditions we got to know so intimately in the last book. Control is a newcomer, so he functions as a natural outsider perspective. However, he's far from naïve due to his past experience in what I have to assume is the CIA (just called "Central" in the book). It's clear from the get-go that the Southern Reach is falling apart with its ancient buildings, circular and helpless theories, dwindling funding, and bizarre office politics. While Annihilation frames the Southern Reach as shady and possibly complicit in Area X's existence, Authority demonstrates the government would be predictably bad at handling an unknowable cosmic horror zone over any length of time.

Though I noted in my Annihilation review that most of the mystery surrounding Area X remains just that, Authority casually drops two major revelations in the first few chapters. First is... it's definitely aliens, right? Like, that's the only explanation that tracks-- why everything about the place is anathema to humanity, why it's impossible for characters to fully understand it, why mimicry is such a major aspect, etc. If you didn't suspect this already, it explains a lot. In particular, the "colonization" terminology and imagery in Annihilation hits different in that context. I have a lot of feelings about how this series approaches the extraterrestrial, but I'll save that for my Acceptance review.

The second reveal is that Control is taking over for the former director of the Southern Reach, who is MIA following Annihilation's "twelfth" expedition. Who is the director? The psychologist-- the pseudo antagonist of the last book, who we know got Super Killed Off. Turns out she's important and probably not actually evil? The biologist is also inexplicably back, but something is off about her, and she insists on being called Ghost Bird now. Did the biologist truly return (counter to the ending of the last book) or is this one of the shells Area X sometimes spits back out into the real world? If she's the latter, Ghost Bird seems to have much more personality and self awareness than the others. It is interesting to consider an entity of Area X would willingly name herself.

So, Authority is a weird book. The horror element is still present, but toned down. Instead, there's a lot of focus on the new character Control, his past, and the workings of the Southern Reach. In some ways this is refreshing. Annihilation (and the finale Acceptance) are so deeply entwined with Area X it's hard to see what "normal" looks like, and Authority brings that perspective. Relatively speaking. Second, and this is a spoiler, much of that normalcy is a facade. Control is basically mind controlled (heh) by a faction in Central, and is unaware of it for most of the book. It comes across in little ways, like the anachronistic storytelling and Control's confusion/disorientation at times.

We also learn that Area X doesn't just contaminate things inside it, but things outside it as well... and it's been doing this for some time. As a result, there's always a sense of Area X lurking in the periphery, manifesting in strange and unexpected ways. Something I like is the background chatter Control overhears being lines from Annihilation, which he isn't aware of, but the reader sure is.

I've read this book a few times, and while there are things I really like about it, it's probably my least favorite of the trilogy. I think the slower pacing and different narrative approach have merits, but just aren't as interesting to me as the rest of the series. It's noteworthy that my favorite bits in Authority are the disturbing video of the first expedition and the sudden End of Evangelion-esque return of Area X near the end-- not the espionage and philosophical tangents that comprise most of the book. There are several ideas that seem interesting but don't go anywhere, and those feel like a waste of space. I think Authority could be pared down to half its page count and still get across the same feelings and general concept.

Control is also not the most interesting protagonist, especially compared to previous and later characters. He's not terrible, but he spends most of his time just thinking in circles and observing mundane office politics. While this is fine at first it starts to drag as the story goes on. As I said, a lot of tangents go nowhere, and there's not much going on beyond those until well over halfway into the book. Control does have a hidden tragic backstory, and it's interesting enough, but it barely factors into the overarching Area X storyline outside some symbolic comparisons. He feels out of place, perhaps intentionally.

I do like the dry humor and observations Control brings and how they contrast with the intense tone of Annihilation. I can also see the appeal of having a more ordinary character, if only to bring context to the extraordinary. But the problem is Control isn't ordinary. He's the youngest member of a dynasty of professional spies! Yet somehow I just don't find him exciting compared to an antisocial biologist. I dunno. Ultimately Control is a pawn in the story, used and manipulated by other people, and (spoilers) this doesn't change in Acceptance.

I had similar dilemmas with VanderMeer's Ambergris books, particularly book two, so perhaps it's a fact about his writing. When it's good it's GOOD, but sometimes the things I like get lost in rambling narrative fluff. The question is whether getting through the less interesting parts is worth it for the really good parts. With The Southern Reach trilogy, I'd argue the latter. I have no issues with the style or pacing in Annihilation or Acceptance, and the overarching story is fascinating.

I've mentioned many times before that I usually struggle with book twos in trilogies, and this one isn't an exception. However, I do appreciate what Authority is going for on a meta and lore level when viewing the series as a whole. It does establish a lot of things that either explain earlier stuff or pay off later; it just takes a while to get to them. The context of everything else bumps this to an 8.

#taylor reads #8/10 #2021 reading challenge #google why was this image so crisp yet i couldn't find anything good for annihilation. biphobia at its finest #i like how this review turned out :>

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edmund-valks · 3 years

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Ilandreline - Just One Cookie

(( Part I: The Call ))

(( Part II: A Compound Beginning ))

If you listened closely enough, you could hear the emptiness breathing.

It was fascinating to consider, or would have been if it weren't also slightly terrifying. There was no reason for this space to sound like the lungs of some unutterable beast, yet it did. Everything she knew about the Shadowed Path said it was empty, that nothing dwelt here and nothing could. Perhaps nothing did. What if the very substance of the Path was alive in some fashion? The implications were-

Not important right now. That was her mother's voice, reminding her that there would only be time for later speculation if she lived to do it. Smart folk did not dally on these roads, even those who knew how to walk them. They were treacherous, and Ilandreline did not mean their terrain. She'd lost a distant cousin to them more than a century earlier, and supposedly even the one who'd known enough to open the First Tree to the darkness at its roots hadn't known enough to come back.

But they were fast. She'd used them to get to Kalimdor in a few days, or to get from Tirisfal to her family's lands in an hour. Time and distance worked differently here, or perhaps they worked exactly the same and locationality was the odd one. There were multiple frames of reference to choose from, but they all boiled down to the same result: travel here was vastly more efficient than on Azeroth. Which is why you need to get moving instead of standing around!

Her feet started moving again, picking their way over what she assumed counted as "the ground". It was definitely dirt-like, and there were… grassish things… to either side, but it didn't smell quite right. Not for nature, at least. Most plants didn't smell so strongly of iron. No, not iron. She sniffed again, trying to place it. Ah, right. Blood. Fresh blood, at that, before it dulled to a brown stain on the stones. She wondered what this place would look like in sunlight. Would its appearance match the sharp scents? Could it even exist under such harsh light?

Despite carrying no torch, Ila was grateful for the sun's absence. Her sensitive eyes could remain free of the goggles for a little longer, taking in all the subtle variations of shadow that were lost in the harshness of day. She hadn't noticed how much she'd missed living with naked eyes until she'd started visiting with Granny Laine. The Respite was a lot of things, but even Silverpine gloom didn't compare to the tranquil shade of their forest. When she’d left the Ghostlands a few years ago, she’d felt like she had no home; now it seemed she’d found two. Ilandreline smiled at that, letting her mind wander as much as her body.

Time definitely didn’t function normally in the space. The pocket watch she’d made in her early days with the Fence told her it had been an hour, but her legs said it was much longer than that despite only feeling like fifteen minutes had passed. She pushed on, digging into her snack bag to put some energy back into her muscles. An hour later by internal reckoning -- and half that by the watch -- she stumbled out of sheer exhaustion and decided maybe it wasn’t time to get back up just yet. Had it been two hours or twelve? How far had she gone? Why were her first days’ meals gone already and how was she still hungry?

Her eyelids were heavy, far heavier than they should’ve been. “Fuck it, nap time.” The words came out slurred. It was a struggle just to move her pack beneath her head, to use it as a pillow. Before she drifted off, Ila stuffed one of her grandmother’s cookies into her mouth, figuring there was no better time for some homemade coziness than immediately before passing out to sleep entirely unprotected in the nightmarish wilderness-phase running tangent to her plane of origin. Aurelaine often joked she’d baked quite a few dishes with a lot of love in her younger days, where love was a euphemism for any number of exciting poisons. As she swallowed the last of the cookie and drifted into the deeper darkness of sleep, Ilandreline was quite positive she could taste some of that same love now.

***

Waking up felt surprisingly pleasant and not at all terrifying. Granny Laine was there, looking amused, and a vine had grown over her, but otherwise everything seemed… fine. Good, even. Ila stood and stretched, yawning, considering the last time sleep had left her so refreshed. Never? That sounded right.

"Couldn't help sneaking a treat before bed, eh?" Her grandmother's voice was mock-chiding, the only good kind of chiding to receive from her. "I should've known."

The vine tried to slither back around her leg, so she kicked it. "You didn't give me cookies to not eat them. It was lonely and I thought a taste of home would be nice. Didn't expect it to, I dunno, summon you or whatever."

"Is that what you think they did?"

The young elf shrugged, gathering her gear and preparing to get back on the road. "You're here, aren't you? Shall we?"

Her grandmother made an indeterminate noise in her throat but began walking beside her nonetheless. It was nice, really. They'd gone for a few strolls back home, but there were always people around to cause trouble. Not here. It was just the two of them and an entire ecology built on what sure seemed to be carnivorous plants.

They walked in silence for some time, only pausing for Ilandreline to sip the water she'd brought, trying to get the leftover tastes from the night out of her mouth. Everything, even the air, had an unusual taste; not of decay as she'd expected. Instead it was something remembered from childhood, one of those memories that hid if you looked straight at it. She'd have to sneak up on it by pretending to be interested in something else.

"So is this one of those things where we walk and you point out little things I need to know to survive or grow or whatever?"

She saw the cryptic smile from the corner of her eye. "Something like that, perhaps. Do you still need me holding your hand?"

"What? No! I just… not all of this comes easy, you know that. I'm fine with making things up as I go, but that's really dangerous with… this stuff." Ila gestured broadly, encompassing their entire surroundings. "I like to have the numbers on my side. There aren't any numbers here, no science. It's all, I don't know, epistemological gradients or something."

Aurelaine laughed, a gravelly sound bordering on coughing. A chortle! That's what one sounds like. "You're not wrong, child. I'm only along to observe. Maybe I can point something out that helps; maybe I even will. This is your journey, though, not mine. I've had my share already, paid the prices."

That made sense. They continued, once more quiet, moving too fast and too slow at once, causing everything around them to be in perfect detail as it warped under the effects of tunnel vision. The metallic taste remained in the back of her throat, tickling the corners of recollection. She refused to focus on it, knowing that to do so would ensure she never remembered the answer.

Everything changed from one blink to the next. The landscape was even darker now, near blinding to her gifted sight. Her nostrils flared, the distinct aroma of blood foremost in the air, enough to make one hungry. Or perhaps that was unrelated; journeys required food. As she went for her trail mix, something caught her wrist, stopped it entirely. Frowning, she glanced down to find a rubbery tendril wrapped around her arm. "Fuck off," she said, getting no reaction. The next best idea would be to cut it, but the only knife she had at the moment was not one she was willing to risk on a simple tentacle. She looked over to her grandmother instead. "Any chance you can do something about this?"

Grey eyebrows arched as eyes flicked from Ilandreline’s face to the appendage and back. “Of course I can.” She paused then deliberately added, “I won’t.”

Should’ve expected as much. “This one of those ‘your journey, your problem’ moments?” When Aurelaine nodded, she sighed. Time to figure it out then. There was a way; she was supposed to find it. Trial by fire and all that.

“If I go solving your problems,” the predictable lecture began, “you’ll keep expecting me to give you the answers. We both know that’s not how you learn. You want to see the whole process, derived from first principles. That way you can extend the logic as far as it goes, come up with your own hypotheses. It also ensures you aren’t limited by the pace of your teacher, doesn’t it?”

The fraction of her consciousness paying attention laughed. “Sure does. Saves them the trouble of trying to answer all my ‘why’ questions, too, so it’s really a service when you think about it. Don’t have to ask why if I’ve already done the math.”

“Yes, yes, I’m well aware that you’re infuriating, Lina, you don’t have to remind me.” Dry humour ran in the family even if it skipped a generation. “Getting back to the matter at hand, I’d simply remind that little pest about the order of things. It’s a remnant, a cast-off, a weak afterthought of a failed god’s stray thoughts. A pale imitation of the majesty to be found in the Great Dark, yearning to be more than it ever could. I’d simply banish it and move on.”

That was one possibility then, banishment. And how did banishing work? Ila tried to dredge up the memories of mostly futile arcane schooling, seeking the bits that had remained. Summoning circles… banishing circles? An inversion of process, though the commanding nature remained constant. How did that work for her, though? She knew how to draw the runes, but had never been able to power them independently. Blood would work, of course, had she prepared the circle already. There had to be another way.

She rolled back through the words, sifting through them more by “feel” than analysis. Hunches were the backbone of discovery; you felt something would be the answer, so you thought through the possibility. What else had been hinted at? Remnant. Afterthought. Failed. Imitation. Yearning. Afterthought-Imitation-Yearning. Was there something there? She ran her tongue along the backs of her teeth, tasting iron and arsenic and something more as her mind kicked into gear.

The order of things. These paths were bored through the near-realms of Azeroth by the so-called Old Gods, the entrapped dwellers-between-stars her grandmother held in such low esteem. A trapped god was no god at all, for a proper god could not be limited. That meant any of their leftovers were inherently inferior to the powers receiving her family’s offerings. Not that creatures spawned from the lesser entities recognized Glimmerbow authority, but they should have. There was that connection, like distant cousins where one is heir to a throne and the other is a cast-off from some hedge knight.

Oh, is that it? Connectivity? Like to like? The tendril tightened, squeezing her bones. It was starting to hurt. If she waited too much longer, she might have to finish her trip with a shattered wrist. Time to see if I learned anything.

Ilandreline focused the entirety of her consciousness on the wriggling mass, willing her vision to bore through the layers to see down to where it was no longer a physical appendage. Deep down, it was a thoughtform, a psychic remnant, a projection, and she needed to see that. How long it took to finally happen, she didn’t know. She was drenched in sweat, and shaking from the effort, but she could see it clearly.

Banishment would require antithesis, but… that’s not what this is. We’re the same, aren’t we, cousins from the same blood? I can’t banish myself. So what if… She turned most of her attention inward, leaving only enough out to keep firm mental grasp on the essence of her assailant. There was this dead-end creature left behind by one of the Four… and then there was her. They were different, except where they weren’t. Similarity was what she needed now.

She burrowed into herself, pushing through the layers of supposed sophistication. On the lowest level she was not an elf, or even something shaped. She was an extension of the universe’s primal forces, a conduit of the Eternal Dark. At that point, she was what the tentacle thought itself to be. Letting herself dwell entirely in that space, she lost her self and called out to this distant cousin. See me, her mind cried, know me for what I am!

Their sameness was her focus, to establish communion. Something resonated -- somehow -- drawing the psychic echo toward her. She could feel its alienness, the oil-slick of fractal madness in its relict consciousness, just as surely as she knew her own essence was vastly more potent. What others would call the taint of her heritage was a strength here; she formed a pseudopod of self, vibrating midnight purple, and whipped outward. The sensation of startlement rippled across her mind, followed immediately by the primal panic of something being drawn to its inexorable demise.

The tendril was swallowed within her, its corrupt form dissolving within her purity of faith. A priest of the Glimmerbows was an architect of dissolution, a bringer of endings to foster the chaos of the new. What she hadn’t expected was the way it became a part of her.

Ila had never been at war in her own mind before. This severed piece of a dead un-god struggled with all its might to avoid being broken down, flailing every which way. For a moment she worried she might lose and end up a prisoner in her own flesh. Then reason reasserted itself, and the flexibility of mind her grandmother had praised made clear its value. She bent without breaking, absorbed the harshest assaults, returned to form without permanent deformation. And then she swallowed it whole, allowing the thing to be torn apart and joined with her essence.

Shaking so hard she couldn’t have written a single legible letter, the elf opened her eyes. Her grandmother faded from sight, though her approving gaze lingered. The overlapping flavours of multiple poisons lingered, dancing over her taste buds and scratching at her throat. She had no idea where she was, though she knew she had been walking all this time. The ligature marks of the tentacle remained on her forearm, though, proof that something had happened, that she had conquered the smallest challenge.

Several deep breaths later, the shivering stopped. Her whole body still tingled, the aftereffects of an adrenaline overdose, but that was manageable. She took a swig of water to put moisture back into her body, then pulled the “map” from her inside jacket pocket. It was more algorithmical than cartographical, but she read it as easily as Thalassian. There was… a place to be, and she was much closer now than when she had started.

Through an act of will, Ilandreline set her legs in motion again. There would be others, she knew. This realm was made from the dreams of god-corpses, an afterimage of what they’d tried to make real. But she had proof they paled before the strength Aurelaine had cultivated in her. Let the dead gods try their worst.

Stretching out through the mental channels her hallucinations had opened, she tasted the planar gradient and turned toward her destination. Plum was home and nightmare was the enemy, but blood and bone and leaf and light showed the way. Not entirely certain the poisons had actually left her system, Ila climbed toward her destination unaware of the horrific grin on her face.

#ilandreline #ilandreline glimmerbow #fence macabre #wow rp #warcraft rp

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matsitle · 7 years

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ONE MUFFIN LEFT

Those damn CRC white devils again! 😡

But I had to get those muffins. I had to! I knew I had to get them soon as I started considering lesser taxing alternatives for my craving and coffee - like Romany Creams from the service station three minutes away. You see, I’m a serial victim of my laziness, something my mother always warned me about - ‘ga gona kgomo ya boroko’. My father too - 'o tla ja masepa a thaka tsa gago.’ (And ke a jele goed for a year-and-a-half). I always went for the low hanging fruit; and true to form it’s always the tholaborethe ee babang kha teng. Like with lovers - I always lie and say I don’t have a type. But I do: “disciplined intellectual beauty” as Immo Tech outlines. And I have a right to this, since I can also bring that to the table. But for my laziness. Or maybe like Kundera’s Mirek I suffer from a “weakness, that deprivation” of deeming myself “unworthy of anyone better than a Zdena.” A Zdena, in my case, would be anyone who doesn’t meet that Immo Tech rubric. I learnt through heartbreak that gwababa is dangerous. O tla feletsa o sunne masutlha! As such, I dared not give into gwababa once more, I wanted muffins. And muffins I would get! Come hell or high water. Or Bible thumping (never reading) devils.

So I finally convinced my body that we could get to the Engen garage in Brandwag no problem – some three or so kilometres away from my staff quarters. And besides, I stroked its arm gently, if we get tired we can always call a cab. It relented. But the tricky fuck I am, I “forgot” my phone on the charger. 😂 Cab se voet! You think money grows on trees ka bona. And it aint like there are women just waiting to drive a nigger. Haai! 😥 Chivalry is dead. Women these days; dikopa! I mean if a nigger is chilling in his shack, coffee brewing, mesmerised by its aroma, and suddenly he craves muffins – you would think (as any straight-thinking person would) that a girl will just drop by and say ‘hey, lemme take you for those muffins’. Mara kae? Kga!

So on foot we trekked. My body and I. Generally a useless gullible bag of healthy bones and sweet odour, but now and then redeems itself. Being cognisant of our fated-when as blacks, we took all necessary precautions to not fall victim of gratuitous violence, we took the safest path available. That is the roads littered with noble daughters of the streets. Because where there are prostitutes there are cops. Reducing crime. Prostitutes are keeping our streets safe. That is generally my use for them; and I compensate them for it too. When they ask “Rasta mphe two-rand,” I give them – there was one, ‘Lineo’, who was almost my friend, she walked with me once trying to avoid a rapey cop. And owing to my super-hero fantasies I revelled in being the Rape Walker. And ever since then she never missed a chance to shout “Rasturr” whenever she saw me. They’re an important part of the ecology of the city.

Now enter these arrogant do-gooder fucks! Tjhessis!😠

I knew something was amiss when I turned the corner and did not see my people. I panicked even. In the far corner I saw a group of people. My eyes are not any more useful than the rest of my body but they did manage to discern that the people in that group were bulkier than the tiny frames that usually run these streets at night. They seemed to just be loitering. As I got closer I could draw up a clearer picture, a paler one. More disgusting than the black bodies that are up for sale day (male) and night (female) on these streets. I walked up to them with great pace – I might have even been angry, but they flashed that testicle chewing smile that disabled me. So I only got to ask them a banal, moot question. “Excuse me,” look at me being nice when I’m supposed to be raving mad *smh* “Which church are you from.” They answered. We left. I romanticised that encounter by thinking ‘at least this time I went to them, not the other way around’. See, I might be black but I have some agency. But I knew I had been castrated.

Now, I have no beef with prostitution per se. But I do have a problem with these women left with no option but to be on the streets. In as much as I have a problem with the men forced on the same street during the day. Prostitution is just a service just like any other – no different to a barber. You have your friend who can cut your hair for free, but there is also a professional whose labour and skill you have to pay for. Same with sex – it can be a billable service. But living in a capitalist patriarchal society, I know that (all) women’s bodies have already been codified as sex commodities. They have all been marked as available to the highest bidder. Which makes prostitution (as with all labour) unethical. That being said, I do not believe anyone has any right to deny women their freedom of forced choice to whore out their bodies to the bidder that will have them – be it mofeti-ka-tsela, moreki, mohlonolofatsi or mogatse. Even less so, the beneficiaries and perpetrators of this system that forces such choices down our throats.

This is what I meant to bring to light to these landthieves – with all the rage I could muster. But I only managed to ask them where do they wash their dirty hands off the blood of black people. Nicely le teng. My body was kind enough to carry me away from my shame. I had failed dismally to exercise the greatest power of them all – the power to pose the question. “If you want to save them, instead of disrupting their livelihoods, #BringBackOurLand you fucks!” ~ I didn’t say that. They were so white. So pure. So innocent. Smiling. They even offered to help me. With what I dunno. “Which church are you from,” is all I could mutter in the face of such provocation.

The woke kids are onto something; black men aint shit! “Make me numb Nelson”, I don’t want to feel this rage that just never boils over to anything. Fuck I am not even a fuckboy. I don’t turn to the bottle. Kgosietsile said this is where all failed revolutionaries end up – ‘tween warm thighs and/or the bottle. Dostoyevsky did say everyone must have somewhere to turn to. Maybe, (I smile – my feet pick up the pace. Away from the corner of castration they take me. Away!), maybe that I have no escape means that I am still a revolutionary. Or maybe (my heart sinks, feet still in pace. Away! Away!), maybe I was never one; hence I suffer no vertigo, no litost.

But fuck that! Positive thinking. I am a revolutionary. I am not Mdu. I can’t be. Dostoyevsky a re Mdu’s lies prevent him from loving – and I can’t live without loving, giving “way to passions and course pleasures” or sinking to the bestiality of my vices. “Ndiyakholwa kuyw’ ihambo yam, ndizoy’mela nangamax’ anzima.” My credentials speak for me. This is my third encounter with these unsettlers. And on the other two occasions, I had clarified them. Goed nie bietjie!

The first time I was with Neo, we were walking at great pace from the theatre. High on intellectual banter octane. So when we saw these people usurping our sisters’ corner, their land, their real estate (location! location! location!), we got angry. The proper patriarchs we are, we took it upon ourselves to protect ‘our women’. We didn’t even care to ask the one lady a few meters away carrying on with her business besides this white inconvenience if she needed any advocacy from us, we assumed it. What do women know about fighting whiteness anyway? After the thirty to forty-five minute lecture, I reasoned away my knight-in-shining-armour fuckery by telling Neo that at least we took away time from these devils that they would’ve otherwise used to disturb the women’s business (probably done on behalf of some man – be it pimp or husband or son). Kanye kana what do the ancient Nigerians say? Every man can defend his fuckyness?

In the second encounter too I was not as cowardly as with this latest one. I was with my BAF, whom the know-it-all toenails of Satan mistook for a whore and me her John (well…🤔…but a re tlogele ditshele). That time too, although somewhat restrained by vodka and the pressure not to embarrass ‘the missus’ by launching a full-frontal attack on religion (something she subscribed to), I let them have it. So all in all I have a good record against these arrogant ignorant irritants. Tonight was just a bad day in the office. I still have no need for the bottle or warm thighs!😪

Buoyed by this warped reasoning I reached Woolworths in no time. Its doors wide open on the stroke of midnight. Oh god how I love open things at night! I went in and was welcomed by various bouquets of flowers. I have been meaning to get myself one. But I don’t have a vase. And R240 is a lot of money. I can’t justify that spend when I am not willing to spend R40 to give my rapidly numbing feet respite. This line of reasoning also prevents me from buying a tiramisu cake and the Mail & Guardian newspaper – my feet are not any less important than my taste buds or toilet reading.

There’s only one tray of muffins left. I grab it lest these usurpers of land invading the store barefooted do. My feet could do with the coolness of these tiles actually – but I decide against taking off my shoes. Anyway the aisles are too narrow, I can’t exactly sit on the floor and read the newspaper for free. Why aren’t there any libraries open at night? I really feel like reading up about something I don’t know. Maybe anthropology.

My feet feel like they’re swelling up inside my shoes; all these unavailable options I’m considering seem to be making my body snobby. The last tray of muffins are chocolate muffins. No lemon poppy-seed. I walked all the way here to not get lemon poppy-seed muffins. I’m glad for the ginger biscuits though. I look around a bit, even in the toiletries, to check what else I will not be getting. My feet send though an order; but a cab is also one of the many things I will not be getting. I have already denied myself so much on its account. If I don’t respect my own decisions who will? Besides if we take a cab how will I exact my revenge on those crackers? I can’t backtrack now.

I must trek back now. Hopefully those Be Good’s will still be there. Then I will surely give them a piece of my mind. Raw black rage. Got the speech all mapped out and shit. So I commission my body to do the work of shame; walk (a man who walks is shameful, carless women don’t tire saying. 👀 Go figure!). It does not have much of say. That is until we get to Westend – it slows down and lets me know that it knew about my little secret all along 😯; leaving the phone behind so that we would have no option for a cab. But here are cabs lined up next to the club, it pleads, surely we can take up one. I am always open to be convinced, so I hear it out. It continues with its passionate plea. I also hear something else. Or rather I eavesdrop on a conversation of a diva and her friend. I know that she’s a diva because that’s what the story I hear is about.

“Yoh friend I just had the most amazing orgasm ever,” that’s what piques my interest, the horny pervert I am. And also how I got to know that the other girl was her friend, see? I don’t just assume relations between people without evidence.

“Tlo ka tsona mati,” the other girl eggs her on. Again proving my suspicion that they are friends.

“So this guy stands next to me at the bar as I was trying to get drinks, and I have been struggling to get the barman’s attention. But he manages to. Men! But anyway after he orders he asks me what would I like. I brush him off and order my own drinks. Then he says “you can have whatever you like.” Sings it actually. Quietly in my ear. I mean boundaries! But he’s got the sweetest singing voice. I dunno what comes over me but I say “you.” We’ve already paid for the drinks that are still being prepared. He just walks away. Then turns back and asks me what am I waiting for. I roll my eyes but he stretches out his hand almost irritated, his eyes smiling. Girl I just lose it and he leads me out of the club. We go to his place. He tells me he saw me perform, actually gives me a raving review as he undresses. His voice is so so calm. He’s completely naked and flaccid. I can’t take my eyes off his thing. You never really get to see flaccid ones as often. He just goes on to describe my performance in great detail. Comes closer and starts undressing me. I’m totally naked. Wet and sad. Sad coz I thought performing was the best feeling ever, but this guy makes me realise that seeing me perform is way better. I’m just standing there perplexed. He sits flat on the floor. Then scoots on under me. Like he’s eye level with my dingese. Then starts kissing it all over. He tilts his head back and starts tonguing me. I grind on his nose. But I figure his neck must be getting tired. I mean you can see the veins popping out and all. So I pull away and kneel to kiss him. I taste so good on him! I get up and he gets up with me. Leads me to the bedroom, all the while continuing his appraisal. He tells me I’d be great with just a talented pianist doing the blues. I push him to the bed, he’s still flaccid. I don’t care. My tongue will resurrect him. I am about to teabag him when he says “sing for me.” I lay my head on his chest, his heart is racing, I listen to it to find a melody. I start singing. He starts humming along. In pauses. A deep throatily baritone. Soon we are in sync. I’m in another world completely. On stage. With a bass player. Just the two of us. No audience. He plays and I sing. Completely independent of each other. But in sync. Then suddenly there’s an audience of one. Me. I see myself perform. I am so happy. I sing my heart out. On stage. And I scream my lungs out. In the audience. I don’t see the bassist anymore. But there’s a subtle baseline that is a canvass to my melodic painting. As I reach the crescendo on stage I cannot hold myself in the audience and just let rip my ecstasy. Suddenly the private performance has filled up the dome. The stage is a full orchestra. But it’s all me. On stage and in the multitudes in audience. On stage I am in all black. Every bit of me. In the audience I am wearing all sorts of things. All the things I own, wish to own and have never imagined. Same as with the hairstyles. The crowd is screaming, tears all over our faces, up on our feet, clapping wildly. On stage we sigh as we bow. My head is down. And heavy. Eyes closed as the screams fade away into the far distance. I slowly open my eyes and a familiar scent hits me. Its sex. I find his face contorted and beads of sweat providing it a disturbing sheen. He is quite ugly. His chest is bruised and on the verge of bleeding, my nails are to blame. My palms are rested on either side of his chest. His still firm upright bass still buzzing inside me. I want it out but I’m too spent to lift myself off. So I just give my shivering hands a break and drop dead on him. At least this way I don’t have to look at his ugly face. He continues to slowly stroke, massage my insides basically, still humming. I dozed off.”

Personally I think she’s lying. Probably disappeared with the group’s drinks budget to go get a fix. Hence her ridiculous tale – ditiro tsa dithetefatsi fela tse! Orchestra orgasm se voet! But this little fib distracted my body enough to walk past the taxis without any more complaints. Naïve little thing😝. Of course now spotting a hard-on. Surely is going to be hard convincing those pseudo-Christian Calvinists of my convictions on prostitution with an erection.

The eye at the back of my head – a prized possession of anyone who’s ever been subjected to the violence that is the township – informs me that there are people behind me. Men. Black men. I know the woke ones with their Olympics of suffering don’t like it when we say we understand that they’re afraid of black men because we too are afraid of black men. Apparently we black men are all the same. Violence on a black cis-het male body by another black cis-het male body goes unaudited. It is not an event worthy of a hashtag. I am a black man. I am on my own. Against the four black men behind me. Whom I inflict violence on their person by casting them as criminals with no evidence whatsoever. There is a safe distance between us – but that’s what I thought the last time black men pulled me down by my hair and brandished their makeshift knives in my blind face (my glasses having long abandoned me in my fall. Sellouts!). So I commission my body to carry me quicker to my prostitutes, or the white bullet-repelling bodies disturbing their trade. I did not change the gears smoothly. My left knee gives in 🤕. I can barely keep the pace I started with before the failed acceleration.

I have a soccer injury on that knee from high school. I tsamayad a friend with a tennis ball, tripped on his outstretched leg, spun in the air, and landed on the knee on the concrete floor. I didn’t have medical aid so nothing was ever done in its honour. I was not even allowed to cry. I had to live with the “harde dawg.” Black cis-het male tears – boring! It acts up from time to time. The other time I was at the physicist attempting to commit fraud in an effort to endear myself to my BAF (futile, futile exercise!), being a healthy idiot who has regular check-ups I really had no reason for my visit to there, and I couldn’t come out directly as to what exactly is it I wanted, so I told him about the knee. He put it under the scanner and found nothing. That convinced me that it was a phantom injury. A phantom injury that now threatened my escape from the knife. I struggled to keep my pace.

But it turned out that it was indeed a safe distance between me and the men who unsettled me, sans the balaclavas. I reached the safe bosom of the prostitutes with a block still separating us beastly trashy black men. The white missionaries were gone. Darn! I guess they had clocked enough hours to earn their brownie points to heaven. All that preparation for nothing. My speech gone to waste. All that walking for nothing. I could’ve taken a cab and avoided all this impotent drama. I risked knife and knee for forty-fucken-rands!? For four muffins I can’t even eat. Fuck. Bayadika abelungu shwem!😩

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