Graves. Too many of them. There wasn’t meant to even be one. They claimed that there were only 50 casualties.
Liars. All of them.
Over 300 people were killed in one night. Some of their bodies were cremated. Others dumped in quarries and swamps. Others are still missing, no one sure if they are still living or not. They tried their hardest to hide the fact that they had killed a whole village. The people know. But they grow weary of the fight. It drains them physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.
Continuing the fight meant there was a possibility of death. Giving up guaranteed a life in hell once the dictator decided to completely shed his cheap sheepskin. But the current moment was reserved for mourning. Even the sun had refused to come out.
Amid the mounds of earth (some with bodies of the deceased, some symbolically empty), beneath the moody gray sky, they stood. People called them Gen Z, citing a certain demographic. How wrong they were. Gen Z is the name of a new era: The Genesis of Z. The beginning of the end.
“You can’t kill an idea whose time has come.”
The lad and lass standing somberly in the cold were the physical manifestation of an idea. The crazy idea of a country with systems that worked for them. The thieves, frauds, liars and rapists at the top were trying their hardest to suppress this idea. It failed greatly. First, they killed Rex. And now there are more than 50 others, including innocent children.
Spirits were broken. Hope was needed. Healing was needed. Guidance was needed. Strength was needed. Rex was needed. Beasley was needed. The mother and child stuffed into a sack and dumped into an abandoned quarry were needed. Love was needed. Most importantly, God was needed.
But the majority of the spiritual guides who were meant to guide us towards God have been silent, their lives and souls sold for a few pennies. More than ever, the people (the youthful especially) needed each other.
“Have you seen Goblin Slayer?”
She frowns. Her face looked weak, beaten down by grief and the psychological weight of the fight. Even though they were puffy, one could still easily make out the quizzical look in her eyes.
“Well?” he pushes. “Have you?”
“No, I haven’t,” she spits. “Why are you asking me about some damn anime at this time? Don’t you think people will find it weird?”
“What people? We’re the only ones here,” he gestures around them. The wind responds with a sorrowful whistle.
“You know what I mean,”
“We haven’t talked to anyone but each other,” he says colourlessly.
A heavy silence befalls them. Reality was daunting. She asks the question that they were both thinking.
“If we can’t talk to anyone but each other, why does it hurt so much that they are dead?” Her voice carried something they instinctively knew.
“Because they are…”
“Yeah, I know,” she cuts him off. “They are our purpose.”
How he wished he could cry as well. His eyes and temples ached from the strain of wanting to cry but not being able to. His throat hurt from all the heavy emotions he couldn’t find words for. It wasn’t easy on her either, but at least she was able to perform some form of release.
“What about it?” she asks. He stares into the distance. She snaps her fingers in front of him. “Gen! What about it? What’s up with Goblin’s Layer?”
Gen blinks loudly at her. “It’s Goblin Slayer. Not Goblin’s Layer.”
She rolls her eyes. “Just get to the point. And yes, I’ve seen it. Oooh, ngoja. No, I haven’t. I read the manga.”
“Do you remember the set-up of a team of adventurers?”
She shrugs.
“There was the front row, also called the vanguard, and the back row. The front row consists of warriors. Like the ballsy scouts who’d go peeking inside enemy territory, the tanks who’d bulldoze their way through enemies and the fighters who were efficient with whatever weapon they held. Sometimes, if the scout was an archer, they would form a solo middle row from where they would give the fighters and tanks cover.
The back row consisted of priests or priestesses and wizards. Their main jobs are to heal any injuries the vanguard might get and provide support with their spells. The front row would provide them with cover as they do so, it takes a while for them to do their thing. Sometimes there would be an extra individual in the back row to help with food, item and potion management,” he explains.
“Okay,” she nods slowly. He waits for her to blow her nose and put away her handkerchief before he asks the question he was building up to.
“If we were to borrow this structure and apply it to the current revolution, which part do you think you’d play?”
She raises her eyebrows and stares into the distance as she thinks. “Wuueh… I, I am not sure.”
“Neither am I,” Gen says.
They stand in the chilly weather, letting the profound moment of silence run its course.
“Why don’t you ever call me by my name, Gen?” she asks.
“What name?” he asks as he raises an eyebrow at her. She gives him a wry look. “Aah! Weh bana. That isn’t your name. And stop calling me Gen.”
“Then what is your name?” she demands.
“I have no name. Neither do you,” he says.
“Maybe we’re supposed to give each other names,”
“It doesn’t matter what names we give each other. They will still continue calling us Gen Z,”
“Then why don’t you want me to call you Gen? You can be Gen and I will be Z! Ama you want to be called Z?” She asks sarcastically.
“Zii! I don’t want to be called anything by anyone,”
“And you won’t be calling me ‘anyone’ either. It’s been weeks and you’re the only one I can communicate with. I have to call you something,”
He studies the names of one of the makeshift tombstones. “Rex. You can call me Rex Maasai,” he proudly states.
“Msee, hapana. We are meant to honour them. Let’s not do that,” she swiftly retorts, shaking her head vigorously. The thick dreads on her head dance around gleefully.
She stares needles at him as he sighs deeply.
“Sawa basi. I am Gen and you are Z,” he says and rolls his eyes. The smile brings back warmth into her face.
“Come on, let’s go!” she says. “We have priests, priestesses and wizards to awaken!”
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