POISONOUS WATERS

 

I am but a fly on the wall. I've learned to smile, nod, and remain a picture of indifference, taking jackets and serving tea. 43 years of service. I've stayed for the pension, for it stands to be the only thing I can give to my family as a legacy. I wonder, however, if money is legacy enough. I wonder if my silence will one day become so loud in the cracks of this generation. What if my silence becomes my legacy? What if my great-great-grandchildren learn that I was there, listening to everything, and did nothing about it? What if they fall into the cracks when I'm gone because I never tried to patch them?

My heart suddenly takes on a different rhythm. My knees buckle, too weak to carry me. I calmly exit the room, then lean on the side of the wall, clutching my chest. Breathe, Zachariah. I stay here for a moment, waiting for my heartbeat to settle. When I can no longer hear my heartbeat in my ears, I return to the room. They are still sitting in complete silence, around the largest round table I've ever seen. No head, no tail. They are all equals. At least they appear to be. They are men and women of great influence in this new age.

Like many noble causes, this cabinet once thrived in secrecy. It started with two men who believed they could change the world. And they did. I joined them when I was sixteen. I used to wish I were one of them, smart enough to know what to say, to be liked, revered, and trusted. Trusted I am, for keeping secrets and jackets safe, but not to run the world. They inspired creativity, equality, education, and overall human improvement. They used to inspire me to want to be more than the help, until dark roots began to grow in the bones of this vision. I've seen power corrupt these waters. I watched two heroes become villains almost overnight. I would be lying if I said I knew what turned good men evil.

Now this cabinet is as public as the government, yet no one really knows their true purpose. Every year, new members join as older ones die. They come with lists of all they wish to change in the world, but everyone who sits at the table is never the same as the one who walks in. Conform or die. Nobody wants to die.

There is a new member today, sitting outside the table. I am eager to hear what she has to offer. I have not stopped hoping that one day, someone will arrive, immune to whatever poison is in these waters. All twenty of them have black slim files in front of them, save for the new young woman. They are reading the contents quietly. I do not see a single smile. My heart quickens. This is what I hope for. One, just one exception to the rule.

“This does not hit the mark.” Mrs. Louw says, throwing the file on the table.

She is usually the first to speak. She is the one to please. The young woman stands as the attention turns to her.

“You have a long history of influencing people to try out whatever they see you use, when in fact you only use these products on screen and not in your real life. That is the reason we voted you in,” Mrs. Louw says.

“Perhaps she does not understand the vision,” Abraham says.

He is usually the easiest to please, and if he, too, is not pleased, I might have my angel. That is, if she proves strong enough to withstand the kill switch. As much as I am pleased that she is not dark enough to please them, I fear for her life.

“Revise. If you can’t, we have an assignment in mind for you. Call us back when you are ready to be at this table.” Mrs. Louw says and leaves the table.

One by one, they leave. I help them with their jackets and see them out. When I return, she is sitting on one of their chairs, at the table, alone, quiet, and deep in thought. I do not like this picture. I can almost sense her desire for a seat at the table. I want badly to tell her not to give in, not to conform, but the consequences of failing this table are dire. I wouldn’t wish them on my worst enemy. I avert her gaze. She is about to die, and I think she feels it.

She gets up, finally. Her steps sound steady, bold. I did not expect this. She looks at me and smiles. I help her with her jacket.

“Thank you,” she says.

She stares at me, as if reading something in my eyes.

“Can I buy you coffee?”

I feel a little flushed. I hope it does not show.

“Oh, I am afraid I am not allowed to fraternize with any member of the cabinet, Ma’am.”

“Fraternize?”

“In whatever form, ma’am.”

“Understood.”

She is young, but there is something fierce in her eyes, a boldness I wish I had. I see her to her car and watch her leave. I wonder if she caught it. I wonder what is more important to her. I wait at the door, greeting and helping all who walk through these doors, blind to the truth of this establishment. It poses as a preserver of culture, where ART is encouraged. Where the preservation of roots is praised, and the world loves us.

Later, on my way to the bus, I pass by Joseph. I remember the day he walked through those doors, suited and ready to change the world, only to discover he had got the assignment wrong. He never revised and thought he could return to his life. What he did not know was that he had signed his death warrant the moment he quit on them. Now he lives anywhere where there's a shelter, and he eats anything that no one wants. I gave him shoes, and he sold them. His face is covered with boils, and he has a wound on his right leg that never heals. He has been wearing the same clothes for years. Overnight, he fell. He lost everything, including his family. It has been seven years, and he has not been able to recover his life.

Conform or die. He chose death.

I wonder if he would choose differently today. He is the reason I do not fraternize with any member of the cabinet. I still feel guilty for my part in Joseph’s rebellion. I did not know one could be alive but dead in this world until Joseph. If only I had told him to give them what they asked for, and not tried to clear my conscience through him. Some days, I wonder if my consistent silence and indifference are not a result of my own corruption. I see their corruption, but what if I, too, am corrupt? I put coins in Joseph’s tin and move on. He does not recognize me any longer.

At the bus station, I wait with the same people, prey to the cabinet, responding to their mechanism. Almost everyone is glued to their screen, watching something, or busy with something. No one speaks to anyone. On the bus, I sit next to a young girl. Her ears are covered with large headphones. She does not hear me when I greet her. In a bus full of people, I long for small talk. In a normal world, I should know the names of all the people in this bus after all these years of travelling together, but I don’t.

Isolation. Check.

Weeks go by. I wait for that young woman to fight the battle I remain a coward to fight. There has not been a meeting since that one. I am worried. I wonder if she has met death that is different from Joseph’s. Many have. I feel useless. I do not know her name or how to use the internet to find her. On my way home, as usual, I leave coins for Joseph. He looks sicker every day. In the beginning, he used to talk about his friends, the life he had, his wife, and his children. Where are they? Where is his wife?

There is an unfamiliar character at the station today. One of the few without a gadget in their hands. She turns, and I meet her eyes. It is her. Different, but it is her. She rushes to meet me. My heart sinks. There are tears in her eyes, and she looks like she has not slept in years.

“Excuse me, Zechariah, my name is Andrea. We met...”

“I remember you.”

“I need your help. They are ruining my life. I’ve lost everything.”

Conform or die. The kill switch has been activated.

“We cannot talk here,” I say.

I lead her to a sheltered corner.

“You are my last hope. I’ve been searching for you for days. I’ve lost all my contracts. A debasing video was posted under my profile, and I am losing all my followers.”

“Did you quit the cabinet?”

“Yes. I sent a letter to resign. They didn’t fight it. They accepted my resignation, but 2 days later, my life...Oh, I don’t know what to do. You have to help me.”

“I wouldn’t know how to help you, Miss.”

“You are always in that room, aren’t you? You hear everything. I just need proof of what they are doing. I need you to help me expose them. You cannot be okay with what they are doing. I saw it in your eyes. You don’t agree. Am I wrong?”

“I’m sorry, I cannot help you.”

I walk away from her. Why am I walking away?

“Please. Please, I beg you. If they can do this to me, they can do it to anyone. What if they do it to your daughter?”

I stop, but I don’t turn around. I cannot face her. She goes around me and looks into my eyes.

“They are in everything, Zachariah, and people have no clue. Do you know what they wanted from me?”

“You cannot tell me. I ...I want to help you, but I’ve worked there my whole life, and I only have one year left before my pension. If I am found in any type of conspiracy, I lose everything.”

“I will keep you out of it. I just need proof. Please.”

“I am sorry. I cannot help you. Please don’t come looking for me again.”

I walk away, but it takes all the strength in my bones. This is wrong. I am wrong. What if it were my daughter? What if I lose the chance to leave my daughters an inheritance? What kind of an inheritance is enough?

“They asked me to go against everything I believe in. They gave me a script to justify it, scriptures to manipulate to make it right,” she says, too loud.

I stop. She goes around me again.

“I had 22 million followers who trusted me. Have I promoted products I didn’t believe in for money? Yes. Have I done terrible things? Yes. Will some believers fall with me if I do what they asked of me? Yes. People are looking for validation, to fight, to resist, to join things. People listen to people like me. I could do it, I could pretend, but ...I share Jesus with the world every day. I am not about to be the reason Christianity loses its value. Anything but that.”

She looks straight into my eyes, into my soul, as tears stream down her cheeks. I find myself fighting tears of my own.

“Please. I’ve already started looking for others like me. I just need proof. Please.”

I look at the direction of Joseph’s corner.

“There is one over there,” I say. “Joseph.”

I see a flash of hope in her eyes. Hope the world needs.

“Do you know what happened to him?” she asks.

In the beginning, Joseph used to tell the story to anyone who would listen. Only they had made it so he sounded crazy, no matter what he said. “They told me to cheat on my wife. They told me to divorce her. When I refused, they took everything, including my wife,” he would say.

I find myself telling this young woman this story, and as one in the thick of a similar storm, she puts everything together quicker than I did when I first heard Joseph’s assignment.

“I know him. He was a great businessman. His wife was a professor or something like that, educated and beautiful. It was an attack on marriages. If a woman like that could be cheated on, then men will always cheat. That is the narrative they were driving. If a power couple like that could divorce, why would a nobody stay with a cheating husband? This is what they do, Zachariah. They influence the world.”

She moves closer to me. I can almost feel her breath on my cheek.

“I don’t need to tell you what every person on that table is doing to keep their seat. They introduce contagious ideas so subtly that they feel natural. Their job is to weave ideas into the fabric of existence that it becomes truth. They are taking away free will. I know you are not okay with that.”

With Joseph’s face fresh in my mind, I fail to find grounds to deny her my help. I fail to see how I could ever live with myself knowing I could have changed something and didn’t. I fail to see the good in giving my children and their children a world like this, poisoned by an evil I know. If this young woman could survive those poisonous waters, perhaps I, too, should break free.

“I will help you.”

For the first time in forty-three years, I find myself afraid of tomorrow.