A flash fiction piece revealing of how post-colonialism is actually neo-colonialism and that our young getting are intrinsically mixed up in these dealings that sometimes go under the guise of social enterprises. There are alternatives, than going back to the Heart of Darkness and to the terror, and repeating our mistakes in an even worse way than before, but we need to actively explore them--as Einstein said, "we can't solve problems by using the same kind of thinking we used when we created them."
It was hot with Jungle all around. There were men dressed in dark blue suits that were making their way deliberately into a white building. No older than 17 and eager to give my advice, I jumped into the Cherokee jeep that was parked outside the morphemic white building parked near the undergrowth. "We need to go for that deal". I encouraged Jack enthusiastically. Jack looked at me sideways in a deliberately cautious way, his mouth slightly down-turned. “Why not”? I encouraged. I was turned fully towards him my arm propping me up from my seat. Jack was silently looking ahead out into the jungle; my breath could be heard, restless and ready-to-go, Jack`s hands rested heavy on the steering wheel, his body like stone.
I turned back to where the blue suits were entering and re-entering the symposium building with cups of coffee in their hands and chatting to each other, looking casually full of purpose over to the vehicle. Watching them carefully flicking their hair, adjusting their ties and cufflinks or whatever else was superfluous to their attire, I realised this kind of grooming was an essential ritual before going back into negotiations. Since we were all apes wondering round these jungles, with nothing more than palms for protection, a boost of self-esteem was intrinsically entwined with our grooming and demonstrable habits, no doubt, I pondered momentarily.
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