Devolution (15 page)

Every government dealt with these changes differently, but they all had the same goal: maintain power over the prosperous.

The FLEC struggled for more autonomy, but with only a fraction of the nation’s population, they were outnumbered.

The irregular skirmishes between the classes soon became daily occurrences as the state’s poorer residents sought refuge in Cabina.  The exchange of words quickly escalated into an exchange of fists; then bottles; then bullets.  The country was on the brink of civil war when the FLEC defiantly defended the way of life it had worked so hard to create.

Despite the situation, Kabul believed an all-out war could be avoided.  Then the British government secretly stepped in and convinced Kabul that with their help, a decisive military victory was attainable.  Kabul brokered a deal: in exchange for clandestine assistance in the civil war, they would guarantee future oil exploration rights to the Crown.

“We want to be free,” Kabul would tell the British ambassadors.  “And I do fear this is the only way.”

The nation fell into a terrible civil war.

Eighteen months into the fighting and it was obvious they had underestimated the preparedness of the Angolan government.  In fact, it was apparent the FLEC would eventually lose.  The state simply had too many willing bodies to sacrifice.  The countryside was littered with millions of Angola’s sons and daughters that lay in various stages of decomposition.  The air reeked of rotting flesh. The nation’s greatest rivers ran red with the blood of its people. 

Kabul attempted to broker a deal with the Angolan government, but in the middle of negotiations, the British government pulled their support.  Kabul could no longer supply his armies.  His ability to arbitrate a peace crumbled with his capacity to maintain a resistance.  As a result, hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children were massacred in their own homes, schools, and businesses.  The international community stood by as the Angolan government extracted revenge on the defenseless FLEC.  Once the government captured the oil fields, the war was over.

In a scene resembling the fall of Saigon, the FLEC frantically tried to escape their capital as the government closed in from all directions.  If they could get out before the military arrived, they could escape into the hills and blend in with the commoners.  If not, they would be killed. As leader of the resistance movement, Kabul was a wanted man.  The Angolan government purposely refused to declare victory in the war until he was captured, dead or alive.  This delay also allowed them to further crush the resistance and keep the international peacekeepers at bay. For days helicopter loads of refugees, mostly high ranking officials in the FLEC, fled the nation and sought exile. The final helicopter out of the capital carried Kabul and a few of his closest and most loyal followers.  Their families had lifted off minutes prior.  His final act as head of the FLEC was to broker one last deal with the British government.  In exchange for his silence concerning the Crown’s involvement, he would be allowed to live as a protected man in the UK.  That decision, to leave his homeland, was his most painful.  He vowed to his people he would defend the motherland until his own blood nourished its fields.  He broke his promise. He would never forgive himself.

As his helicopter took off, he watched below his people valiantly fighting to the end.  Though he had to abandon them in favor of protecting his own family, it was obvious by their unwillingness to surrender that his followers had not abandoned him.  The guilt was all-consuming.

When there was no one left to carry on the resistance, the Angolan government declared victory.  The international community converged on the country to offer support.  It was assumed Kabul had perished somewhere in the killing fields.

Their war was now over. But a new battle emerged—one with a different objective and target.  This time around, he would learn from his mistake.  He would be more patient. He would be more opportunistic.  He would follow his better judgment.  He would wait for the right time to strike his new enemy. The enemy he blamed for the guilt that kept him awake every night; the enemy he blamed for the heinous scene involving his family seconds after takeoff that remained etched into his psyche; the enemy that promised their support only to strip it away when it mattered most; the enemy that was now vulnerable.

*

“Get down there, NOW!” Chris Nash yelled to one of his reporters. He rose abruptly from his desk, pointing towards the door. “GO!”

The young reporter strode out the door, halfheartedly calling for his photographer.

“He better not miss this story.” Nash, cheeks flushed red, turned to his assistant.  “The biggest protest in years and he is worried about—UGH!”  With his arms hanging freely at his side and shoulders lurched forward he flung his head back, staring at the tiled ceiling.

“Sir?” One of his producers poked her head into his office. “You have a call.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know. He said it’s important.”

Nash flopped back into his ratty leather chair. “Send it in.”

The phone rang.

“Chris Nash here.”

“Mr. Nash.”  The newsman sat up.  A chill ran through his erect spine. The man didn’t even wait for Nash to reply. “Do you still have the literature I provided you back in April?”

Nash was careful with his words.  “I do.” He waved for his assistant to close the door on his way out.

“Why haven’t I seen it reported?”

“This is not the type of information you just publish,” Nash said honestly.

“The outgoing Prime Minster didn’t help you, and the current one has no idea, does he?”

Nash was stunned by his accuracy.
Who is this guy?

“What if I help you prove it?” The man knew if a respected journalist, such as Nash, published this material, the public would lend it viability.
 
“Will you run it?”

“Why do you want this material to get out so badly?”

“Our people have the right to know what their government has done,
 
the man snapped back.  “If you do not want to break this story, I will find someone who will.”

Nash was in no position to call his bluff.  Plus, he would not miss this opportunity, even if it meant damaging the country he loved.  Most journalists believed their right to inform trumped any greater good.

“What do you say, Mr. Nash?”

Nash tried to slow his racing heart.  “Where do we start?”

*

With great social unrest comes the need for greater education,
John Nolan thought as he approached the door to his Society and Power class on the afternoon of the protest.  He crossed the threshold of the room, hiding behind a colossal cardboard box bursting its contents.  His legs wobbling and spine arched backwards, he desperately tried to balance the weight of the box with his rapidly failing sternum. The students leaned out of the way, praying the box wouldn’t burst as he waddled past.  He eventually reached the front of the room. With a grunt, he hoisted the mammoth square on the metal desk. He emerged from behind the hulking box to find that, to his surprise, the class was full.

He was shocked at the day’s attendance.  “It is nice to see you guys chose to come here rather than participate in the protest. I figured I was killing myself getting this here for nothing.”  He patted the box.  Its sides were stretched to their final threads.

“It is not safe down there,” one of the girls in the front row said earnestly.  “It is actually getting pretty bad.”

The others wholeheartedly agreed.  John could sense they were greatly troubled by what the nation had become.

“I went for a while,” admitted one of his male students.  “But I got the feeling something bad was going to happen.”  He appeared a bit frightened.

John looked at his students and proudly nodded. “Then you made the right choice.”

Content, Professor Nolan dropped his focus to his desk to arrange the day’s materials. “Okay.”

He turned his attention to the very colossus that caused every muscle in his narrow body to ache.  Brandishing a small cutting device from his pocket, he intently studied the box in search of its most vulnerable point. The flaps on the top and bottom had been secured with a thick layer of clear packing tape.

The following showdown of man vs. box served to provide the class with some much needed levity.  The box won the first few rounds, but man eventually got the better of it.

“Class,” a winded Professor Nolan proclaimed as if he had just slain the dragon and saved the village, “this is a proud day for me.”  He finished tearing at the top until all four flaps hung wide open.

From the box he brandished a hardcover book that was obviously new but looked almost ancient.  The coloring appeared a faded-manuscript yellow, as though it had been aged for centuries in some dark cellar.  Fractures that looked to have developed in the same fashion wove their way around its facade like a spidering crack in a windshield.  Old English cursive writing in varying fonts and sizes spread out horizontally on both sides.

A copy of the Magna Carta?
 
thought the students at first.

A closer inspection of the cover art spelled it out. Bold letters that appeared impressed into the manuscript itself read:
Constitutional Correctness
.  Inscribed in the same crude fashion as the title, the bottom right corner revealed the author, John Nolan.

“Class.” The professor held the book above his head as if it were the head of the dragon. “I am pleased to present you with the initial copies of my first published book.”

“This is a big deal for me,” John announced.  “How about some applause?”

Seeking refuge from the day’s turmoil in his jocularity, John’s students began to applaud enthusiastically. As if their energy were a rejuvenating fuel, their teacher’s weary body sprang to life.  He plunged into the box, grabbing an armful of books to pass out.

“This is a book I wrote when I was a graduate student at Cambridge.” He handed them out as he walked down the aisles. “I was obsessed with this paper.”  The students eagerly accepted his offering.

“Throughout the next few weeks, we will read this book, analyze it, and augment it with class discussions. I want you guys to understand past power structures and their current relevance.  All of the research in this book culminates with me drafting a Constitution, which we will read and analyze.”

He stopped for a second to assure the class.  “I will
never,”
he greatly emphasized the word, “judge you on how you judge my work.” He now stood in front of the class. “It is the greatest achievement of my life, but that does not mean it’s perfect.  I welcome any suggestions or constructive criticism.  And there is one more thing. This is not ideological. This book is a direct result of research. Some of these measures I don’t even necessarily agree with. But, it’s not about what we feel, it’s about what has proven to work. And what has proven to fail.” He looked down at his notes and arranged them in the proper order. “Now let’s continue with today’s lesson.”

For the rest of the class period, Professor Nolan and his students discussed and analyzed the prior night’s readings, forgetting largely about the deteriorating situation not far away.

For 90 minutes they weren’t Brits.  They weren’t the sons and daughters of the unemployed or the hungry.  They weren’t young people who soon would be forced to make critical decisions about the future of a nation they barely knew.  They were just freshman and sophomore students who wished to enlighten themselves on a path towards something better.

After class, Professor Nolan sat at his desk next to the cardboard box, writing down notes for the following day.

“Professor?” a young woman said, approaching him.

John looked up and gave her a welcoming smile.

She held out his book. “Can you sign it for me?”

John was slightly taken aback, but very proud. “I would be honored.” Little did she know how much her simple request meant. 

He wrote:

“TO KELLY, MY FIRST EVER SIGNING.  THANK YOU FOR APPRECIATING MY WORK - JOHN NOLAN.”

*

It would be one week before the Westminster protests dwindled down. The angry masses had made their voices heard, but they wouldn’t give their elected officials much time to act.

To the credit of those who demonstrated, the week was generally non-violent.

The streets around Westminster calmed as winter approached. The roads and back alleys that split the city were quiet as the recession hit urban areas the hardest.  The proof was left in the boarded-up windows.

Vacancy.

For Rent.

Closed.

What little commerce remained struggled to hang on. Despite the protests ending, a lonely few refused to abandon the cause. They sat quietly on the sidewalk outside of Westminster, unshaven and unshowered, in torn, raggedy clothing. Their signs from the prior week were propped up on the fence behind them.  Occasionally a pedestrian would stroll by, most barely acknowledging their “sacrifice.”
  Every half day, a fresh batch of like-minded persons would relieve the old.  They hoped
their
action would encourage more official action.  In reality, however, they achieved little more than filling a void in their own lives, a desire to matter.

While the incessant protesters favored the passive approach, others were more proactive in fulfilling their ambitions for the country.

“Does everybody have their assignment?” roared Aasir Abdulah Kabul.  He stood tall in a pressed, dark blue, pinstriped suit, perched on a chair casting a broad shadow over his followers.  They had gathered in his waiting room decorated with original abstract artwork, stained oak furniture, and imported Indian rugs—a peculiar location in which to rally the troops for a revolution.

“This is your last chance to back out,” he warned. “Neither I, nor anyone else in this room will look down upon you if you choose not to participate.”