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The Knock

David R Miller

    The sounds of the whistles and the high-pitched trills of the ululations had recommenced. It had been almost a fortnight since they had been heard around our neighbourhood. These sounds and that of sticks colliding were heard. The vibrations of feet pounding the earthen road were felt. It was a portent of the strident group of young men that were encroaching, long before they came into view. I peered discreetly from behind our tattered blind as this throng of committed, driven men slowly began to edge past our house.
    They were moving slowly enough to allow me the opportunity to locate Samuel. I soon spotted him, middle of the group, three rows from the front. He blasted his whistle with an enthusiasm that mirrored the conviction of those around him.
    Samuel and I have shared a long history. We were the best of friends through all of our schooling. Even in university we found ourselves studying together in a number of classes. The period of time spent in the education system ran parallel with our country’s surge toward economic ruin. A generation of highly educated youth emerged, only to be confronted by 80% unemployment. As food, medicine and housing became scarce or unaffordable, a pervasive frustration set in.
    It was during our time at university that Samuel’s involvement in politics intensified. It was something that I had always consciously avoided. I would feign disinterest. I knew right from wrong; I didn’t require to be instructed. Besides, being involved in politics in this country had inherent dangers. Samuel gradually became more immersed, almost to the point of zealotry. He was no longer the Samuel that I once knew.
    Three weeks earlier I was startled by a knock at the door. I was now alone in the house with my mother who languished in the back room with a chronic illness. My father who had lost his job while I was at university had crossed the border with my brother in search of employment. He had hoped to send money back home, to obtain medicine for my mother. They were now destitute in another country unable to return. His last words to me were, ‘These are dangerous times. Do not open the door to anyone.’ It was advice that was not easily followed. The message it sent to looters was that no one was home. The police, the military, the gangs, would simply kick the door in.
    Tentatively I walked to the door and opened.
    ‘Ah, Jamon. How are things?’
    It was Samuel.
    ‘Things are ok. How are things with you?’
    ‘Things are good. Very good. How is your mother?’
    ‘She is not so well.’
    ‘Hmmm. I am sorry to hear that.’
    All along I knew where this small talk was heading. It was not long before the purpose of his visit was made clear.
    ‘The election will be coming very soon Jamon.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I am making an offer to you, to join our brigade.’
    I was familiar with the role of the brigades. The rumours and the eye-witness reports of the assaults, the rapes, the looting and the terror inflicted on opposition sympathisers were too strong to ignore, and there had been a number of unexplained disappearances.
    ‘I don’t think I can Samuel. My mother is ill, and I don’t know enough about politics to get mixed up in it,’ I lied.
    ‘Yes, I see. Though I think I could get you some medicine if you were to join the brigade’, Samuel added cunningly.
    ‘I would really have to think on that.’
    ‘You see Jamon, some of the brigade members, they might begin to think, that when a young man does not want to join in with them, that he might be an enemy of the Big Man.’
    ‘That is not me Samuel. My situation, it is difficult.’
    There was a time when elections were influenced by forms of bribery, or voting irregularities, but now, as each month, week and day inches the nation closer to dystopia, and the coffers further contract, coercion has become the preferred model of persuasion.
    ‘So then, I can rely on your vote to go to the Big Man?’
    I knew that it scarcely mattered. Should the opposition somehow emerge victorious, the Government would never concede. There would be bloodshed, a state of emergency, retribution, imprisonment and torture. It was a pointless exercise, a charade.
    ‘Of course. Yes. The Big Man has my vote,’ I replied, not really knowing who I would be voting for, or why.
    ‘That is good Jamon. I can always trust you to do what is right.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Still, I think you should give some more thought to my offer. In the brigades we can find you the things that you need. We are able to get the food, and the medicines. We can get hold of money.’
    ‘I will give it some more thought.’
    ‘That is wise Jamon. I will see you again. Sometime soon perhaps.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Goodbye, Jamon.’
    ‘Goodbye, Samuel.’

***

    It was not to be this day. The brigade continued on past our house, to the end of the street, where it veered to the left and disappeared from view; the din receding into an eerie silence. This time it was to be a show of strength only, no recruitment drive, no intimidation. Though I knew it would not be the last I would see of the brigade, and it was likely that there would be a time in the near future that would be more unsettling. From the back of the house my mother’s coughing persisted. I knew that soon I would need to make a choice. Most likely it would mean having to do things that I did not believe in. Whatever choice I made it would be the wrong one. It was out of my hands.

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