GETHSEMANE

CHAPTER TWO

The sky never turns dark anymore, an excuse to deprive factory workers of their sleep. Night is for sleeping and the body needs only enough rest.

The girl strolls past the factory workers waiting to get in. During the day the sun is unusually hot and at nine a distant golden ball, an eternal sunset and sunrise phase from eight o’clock to five o’clock.

The girl is aware of two men in suits tailing her. They are the same men from the restaurant. There are men in suits everywhere in the capital.

She shoves her hands in her pocket as it aches from so much scratching. Even now she feels itchy and in need of something to get her high.

She has made the last of her supply that day and has enough money to get some more. She joins the queue. It seems forever when the security at the post stamps her entry ticket and ignores her for the next person.

She walks after the person ahead until there is a vast corridor that is endless. On either side is a sigh post of male and of female. She enters to the left, straight for her locker.

There are exactly nine hundred and ten people in the capital. The quarter of the population are landowners and industrialists, a little higher are the civil servants that occupy the government jobs and the rest work in the factory if they are not doing, menial work.

It is hard for any sane teen to run away from home.

She wears her overalls over her casual outfit and zips up the brown jumpsuit. The room is nearly as vast as the main corridor, and it is clean. The white tiles make it hard, but the small squares are large boxes.

Souleymane and co. Inc. is a pharmaceutical company; a forerunner for drugs – legal drugs, women and men multivitamins, placebos, anaesthetics, and illegal drugs as well as the large research laboratories that hold the most important materials.

She works in the garden, for the gardener. It is not much of a job really and she knows she is smart and deserves better – say a major task in the offices: carrying files about and sitting on chairs most of the time.

The managers are the ones to bother with deals, supply matrices, conferences and meeting stakeholders.

She looks at the phoenix logo and Souleymane & co. Inc. printed beneath. She brushes her suit, gathers her hair into a hairnet, and then covers her face with the face cap. She adjusts her nametag: FANTA S. M.

Fanta barely glances at the large glass by the entrance, where two women are checking themselves out. Fanta smirks too aware of the cameras installed behind the glass.

There is work in the factory – endless labour. She grabs a green waste box and pushes, maintaining her pace on the walkway.

The environmental department consists of sophisticated workers; scientists or data analysts that work side by side with the lab technicians and lab scientists.

The simple tasks were a lot and gritty, involving being under the sun. Fanta worked quietly and saved her strength avoiding the heavy boxes.

The factory was very neat, following safety measures that highlighted many disinfecting techniques.

As soon as Fanta completed her shift, which was well over eight hours she peeled off the gloves from her palms and washed her hands as instructed.

Hand washing here was almost like preparing for surgery. They were working with drugs that were to fight diseases in the body. She patted her pockets and returned to the changing room.

‘You have somewhere to be?’ asked the security.

‘My shift is done for the day.’ She replied.

‘Okay, you can go. Clock out.’ He instructed.

She edged to the machine and clocked out, showing the number of hours she used at work. The clocking card was a labour sensing card depending on where the worker was walking.

An office staff would exert their brains more as well as their hands. Everybody’s clocking card was updated, especially when there was a promotion.

She pushed the card back into her pocket and stepped out. The sun was at a full blast.

A ragged kid was lurking around when he suddenly brushed past her. His hands dipped into her pockets and he was clasping something in his palm as he hurried away.

Fanta unconsciously tapped her pocket, seeing that he did not take more than the portion he should.

She went to stand at the bus stop, waiting for the bus. As the bus was approaching, she stopped to retie the strings of her sneakers and then stepped in with the passengers waiting alongside her.

In the bus, Fanta sat beside the window at the front. The bus made another stop at the next bus stop. Two passengers enter and no one alights.

An old man in his sixties, cheery eyed seats at the empty seat beside her. After two stops, Fanta alights. On the seat where she sits is a brown package with a petal logo.

The man picks it and stuffs it into his pocket. Fanta counts the money satisfied her cash is complete. She stuffs it into the other pocket, where she keeps her cash. She is very aware of that pocket. Nothing gets past her.

As she is going by an alley, the hat man steps out. He has been waiting for her for a while.

‘Boss wants to see you.’ He says, putting his hands on his hips so that his jacket brushed aside to reveal the firearm in its hold, on his belt.

‘That won’t be necessary.’ She speaks softly. ‘Lead the way. I have four hours till my next shift.’ She points out.

‘I will escort you to your apartment.’ He does not say anything afterwards. She listens to their feet crunching soft stones on the pavement.

He does not follow her as soon as they reach the apartment buildings. He rests against the wall outside. Fanta waves at the guard downstairs and makes her way up.

On her floor, there are just two apartments. Her neighbour is always out. She finds that the door to her bedroom is open just a hint. The intrusion is obvious, more an invitation.

There is a man sitting on the sofa. ‘You think you can boycott me, Fanta.’

***

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