“Blood Blonds”
Vuyokazi Ngemntu
Art of Creative Unity Award 2021 | Honorable Mention
Day. Ext.
Two figures are seen walking along a winding road. One is a man with an afro, about 1.75 m in height. There is a bludgeoned wound on the side of his face and dried blood stains. He wears an orange prison jumpsuit. With him is a boy, clad in a black hoodie. On his chest are multiple bullet holes, wounds gaping through them. His black hoodie is stained red and torn where the bullets appear to have gone through. He appears to be in his early teens.
Man: *Pats boy on the shoulder, gives him a look of concern and shrugs*
Boy: *Wipes tears off his eyes*
Man: *Envelopes boy in an awkward hug* It’s okay, little brother. What you’re feeling is a phantom pain. It goes away with time.
Boy: *Pulls away from the hug, kicks a rock on the gravel path dejectedly* But why?
Man: *Looks at boy askance*
Boy: Why kill us?
Man: Would it make better sense if I told you that It’s because our blood contains a secret chemical element which helps diamonds oxidize faster, so the more of us they kill, the richer they become, faster?
Boy: Don’t mess with me!
Man: Then learn to listen, kid.
Boy: You speak too much gibberish.
Man: Let me try again.
Boy: Make it shorter, I’m hungry! Wait, phantom…?
Man: Could do with some magwinya too, but alas!
Boy: Ma-what-now?
Man: Oh, you call it fried dough, I think…It’s a…
Boy: Easy, pops, my mom used to make that, now and again…*wistful gaze, adverts eyes away from man*
Man: I know It’s messed up.
Boy: But we’ve never done anything to them!
Man: Precisely!
Boy: I don’t follow.
Man: That’s why they’re afraid of us: deep down, they know we’ve never done anything to them.
Boy: Sounds like a crappy reason to me!
Man: Yep, It’s their guilt that makes them determined to eliminate us. And their fear!
Boy: What are they afraid of? I was unarmed when that cop shot me.
Man: Touchè! I died in handcuffs! But they feared us nonetheless.
Boy: What’s there to fear?
Man: That we might retaliate, of course. That after centuries and centuries of living with our heads under their boots, we might suddenly break free and avenge every drop of blood ever spilled!
Boy: Sounds like a plan!
Man: You’re still angry. It’s understandable. Your eyes are still as red as they were when you first landed here, young blood.
Boy: I’ve always wondered why their women love wearing red.
Man: Simple: to kindle their men’s lust for power.
Boy: You say the oddest things, man.
Man: Red reminds them of the power they’ve taken from us. Rouses our anger in turn then emasculates us with the realisation of our helplessness.
Boy: You’re starting to make sense.
Man: Imagine a bullfighter waving a flag at a steer. Naturally, the bull wants to attack. Yet because It’s been castrated, It’s rage boils and boils, taunted by both the red flag- constantly waved in its face- and by its frustration , until it’s pacified and dejected.
Boy: This is some bullshit! I wanna fight these motherf…
Man: You curse now?
Boy: We’re cursed, so…
Man: Do you really believe that? You, young, gifted and black?
Boy: And here we are! Unless you see some kind of blessing in this…this place!
Man: Spoken like a foolish child.
Boy: Kiss my foolish, childish ass! Being in this place is no different to hiding out in the trenches like you lot did.
Man: Is that what we did?
Boy: Did you take up arms?
Man: In a fashion.
Boy: Stop prevaricating!
Man: Ha! I was starting to think you unteachable!
Boy: Don’t deflect either.
Man: We took up books.
Boy: What passive bullshit is that?
Man: We studied Egyptology, relearned our ancient sciences, unlearned their propaganda and even wrote poetry!
Boy: Sounds like some escapist kumbaya shit to me!
Man: You figure?
Boy: Damn right, I figure! I figure you hid behind fantasies while our kind were being exterminated.
Man: Bullshit! Our bodies were always on the line; always gonna die. So we fortified our minds, galvanised our spirits and reconnected ourselves with our essence. That is immortality!
Boy: You sound like an aging chakra hun. Miss me with the snake oil sales pitch!
Man: You’re full of shit!
Boy: My only crime was walking down the street black. And guess what, poetry wouldn’t have protected me any better than it would you, if you were to be back in that prison cell! So keep that shit.
Man: Granted, it wouldn’t have made you bulletproof, yet…
Boy: So again I ask you: What’s the point?
Man: Collective memory.
Boy: Forget I ever asked!
Man: Freedom then!
Boy: Freedom is fought for.
Man: The mind is a powerful weapon. We loaded ours and took them out of the hands if the oppressor.
Boy: You’re starting to really annoy me, Steven.
Man: And you, Tamir, remind me so much of myself.
Boy: Nah, man, I’m nothing like you.
Man: We both died unjustly and are memorialized by our people.
Boy: I Don’t wanna be a slogan t-shirt.
Man: Nor I a hashtag!
Boy: That hurts.
Man: Black pain does.
Boy: I was too young. I didn’t have to die.
Man: I know, I definitely wanted more for you.
Boy: You couldn’t have known me. You died 36 years before I did, in Africa!
Man: Ah, but you are descendant of people stolen from my continent.
Boy: Your point?
Man: I died fighting for you to be born your own.
Boy: Yet I died as soon as I was born.
Man: Dearest boy, it breaks my heart.
Boy: Let’s go back and break their bones instead.
Man: We have to figure out a strategy.
Boy: Sure! Resurrect as a collage professor and teach poetry and black history then.
Man: Sounds like my kind of justice.
Boy: I’m almost grateful I never aged!
Man: 30 isn’t aged!
Boy: All that academic stuff makes you sound ancient.
Man: What would you have become if you had grown up?
Boy: If America had it’s way, a deadbeat dad in prison. But if I had my way, an architectural mogul!
Man: Nice! Why?
Boy: Buy a peace of land somewhere, build houses and move our people out the projects.
Man: Very noble. You’re a true son of the soil.
Boy: What about you?
Man: What about me?
Boy: What was the plan?
Man: The first black president.
Boy: South Africa got Mandela instead.
Man: Don’t remind me! *Rolls eyes*
Boy: Oh snap! All that black love talk and you despise the one black man the rest of the world loves?
Hilarious!
Man: I Don’t despise him. They love him…uhm…
Boy: Ah…m’kaaay.
Man: You still haven’t told me what you’ll be this time around…
Boy: Uhm…someone whose strength isn’t easily detectable. That way, they’ll always underestimate me! They won’t see me coming until it’s time to attack!
Man: I like!
Boy: Just don’t go claiming you wrote it!
Man: *chuckles* Sleek!
Boy: I’m sayin’…
Man: Tell!
Boy: I’ll go back as…a black girl!
Man: Brilliant! Make sure you speak a strong name. A name that packs machetes, Kalashnikov, juju and poetry!
*They both langh*
Boy: I think I’ll be born in Africa this time.
Man: Terrific! In that case, your name will be Amandla!
Boy: Isn’t that what your people still shout with their clenched fists in the air?
Man: Yes, kid. The struggle continues.
Boy: *Raises a clenched fist in the air* Amaaaandlaaaa!
Man: *His own fist held up similarly* Ngawethu!
A bus arrives and the man hails it. Both board and sit in the front. The Man takes out a note book and starts writing. The boy puts on a pair of headphones and pulls his hoodie over his head. The bus leaves. Lights fade.