Moxyland - Lauren Beukes [12]
I sent the hombres a real nasty email afterwards, telling them exactly what neo-colonial cocks they were, coming in here, raping our resources and fucking off again. I thought Ash would appreciate it, but he got in a real mood about him being the money guy, the business manager, and I should stick to being the passionate poster boy, and besides, 'hombres' is Spanish. Whatever. And if he could have handled it, then he should have fucking done it. Pricks. I hate it when people fake being on the level, all global village-ing when they're the ones raking in fat salaries, and we're the ones living hand-to-mouth with a soccer club and Emmie's baby on the way.
Now Ash has this big plan all laid out with some corporate sell-out buddy, who says he can get the project into his company's CSI program, no problem. Like getting some big dick to sponsor the whole thing isn't a total violation of everything we do.
We have no choice but to head up to the taxi rank, cos the minibuses aren't as regulated as the trains. You don't get the corporates taking taxis, putting up with shoving in among twenty-four people packed into a space officially licensed for sixteen, or dealing with the strikes or the gun fights when the taxi wars get too heated. And some of the gamchees are willing to look the other way for a small fee, purely administrative. The trick is to do it out in the open, as if it's a normal transaction. My wallet is locked out along with all the other functions on my phone, so Ashraf transfers five times the going rate to the gamchee manning the taxi at the head of the Khayelitsha line.
We cram in next to a mama with a week's worth of groceries and a two year-old spilling out of her lap and a guy who is too beat down to be gangster – probably just some poor asshole riding the job-hunt bus to nowhere. Not likely he's going to get anything with what's clearly a knife scar striped through his hair above his ear, which pegs him as loxion. Could be worse though, he could be disconnect. He could be living Rural or in Zim, that other suburb of China.
'Yey! Diskonneksie. Geen moeilikheid nie, ne?' The gamchee waggles a finger at me. At five times the fare, he knows full well I'm not gonna be any trouble at all.
I feel like shit. I'm still not breathing 100% and the muscle in my eyelid keeps spasming. It's driving me crazy, although Ash says he can't see it.
'That's one of the things I'm talking about. The shit we can't see. The tech was only approved, what, eighteen months ago? How do they know what the long-term effects are going to be? And here they are dishing out defusings like it's a party game. It's like shock therapy, you know, dampening down excitable behaviour, frying our brains, flattening us out, so we're all unquestioning, unresisting obedient model fucking zombie puppydog citizens.'
The mama rearranges the child on her lap uncomfortably, and Ash beckons for me to lower it a decibel. He always gets embarrassed when I talk too loud in public. It's not like anyone can hear me above the driver's bhangra rock blaring from the speakers or our greedy gamchee friend hoping to pick up a couple more fares, screeching 'Kaaaaai-ee-leetsha!' out the window in case there's any uncertainty about our route.
'Ten. If it was about brainwashing, they'd just dose the water supply. Don't you think? Chill out, baby.'
I lower my voice slightly.
'I'm not talking brainwashing. I'm saying it's electroshock lobotomy. Government endorsed. And the whole water supply thing? Please. Too easy to test for. The international