International Court of Justice verdict, GDP per capita for Africa, International migration imposed sanctions – Taraji checks her files. And, swiftly picking them up with a twirl of her office, chair turns to her filing cabinet and advances towards it and adds to the row of files her most recently revised documents. In the course of filing according to order of events, Taraji’s fingers brush across the spotless chestnut shelf that holds the documents the country owes its peace and order to. And her hand stops on one peculiarly familiar file.
An eye-catching red file obvious among the green ones; one that ought to have been attended to a while ago. But Taraji’s fading conscience seems to be making cameo appearances every time either the Board speaks of the matter or select government individuals or delegates mention the matter like a secret weapon in heated arguments. Or, like in this case, every time she spots the red glaring at her in the field of green, signaling the terror it holds.
Taraji Bekhri lives a markedly arduous life. Born into the solitude and dereliction of the life the twenty-first century had to offer her, in this crumbling and cunning world, destruction has been her companion. The world which seemed to promise her a future but held it selfishly in the hands of corrupt and hypocritical individuals who swore artificial allegiance and empty truths on bibles. Who only saw children of the future as a symbol of a promise of the making, equally corrupt people with pockets that bulge with unjust money promising them luxury in exchange for the anonymity of their identity.
Taraji was never one to socialise or to conform either – she considered this more of a hindrance than a help which was undeniably true. Every time she thought or rather was inclined to think that conformity had some truth and family and friends held courage, she was woken up by the harsh reality of this world. The colours of the world are changing fast in its greed and misery and judging by the looks of world affairs of the year two thousand and forty-four, there was no future to even dream about.
All through elementary school Taraji was the school’s common trouble.
Growing up in Zimbabwe assured a particularly challenging life for anyone who dared challenge the norms, which was quite ironic considering the document of world peace destruction constructed and filed in a certain red folder. Taraji, in her secondary years, often initiated fights and instigated disagreements. And being an originator developed, unlike most subjective people, into an objective character. Her motto was and is, ‘For The Greater Good’.
Taraji learnt a great deal about people and the world’s predispositions. She took a great interest in History and Literature as subjects, justifying and supporting what the League of Nations would label, ‘the aggressor’, and inevitably the continuous unavoidable collapse of International Peace. And it is that which she understands most today. All the continents have and never will be at peace – the war between countries, ideologies and doctrines is inevitable.
The forty-four years of the twenty-first century bred only destruction and it is all the world has. Everything has a purpose and this much Taraji has accepted and adopted – only in destruction can there only be construction. Dating back to the end of the Second World War, there has never been much peace in the world. The cold war has been running its course to this very day – but now it’s slowly thawing. Gender inequality, violation of human rights, of nations’
laws, have always been present and not a day has gone by that a problem has not intensified.
Feminism is at its highest, and if that is not already an extreme, individuals like Taraji for example, have personified feminism, divorcing the idea of improving the well-being of all women form the aim. It is no longer a matter of #AllLivesMatter but a matter of #BlackLivesMatter versus #GayLivesMatter versus #YoungLivesMatter versus any other life fighting for a chance to be the victor. Each individual is for oneself and to hell with their surroundings.
Taraji holds the file that took months to draft simply because the future depends on the file’s contents. As if unsure, she looks down at the documents, the symbol of tomorrow, the future. The future, at this rate is a blur – if existent at all. In this state of Zimbabwe, although it has been and always will be her home, she has learnt and experienced the darkest times. At the start of the century it was a revolution versus a norm. Now it is a revolutionary versus whosoever for power; the idea of equality was dead long before it could be fought for. This is a world of dominance – and that fact is no longer cryptic. The world is plagued by the greed, ignorance and like a disease the world’s troubles are intensifying, are breeding ideas, formalities and inevitabilities through characters like Taraji Bekhri.
Taraji is a learned judge. She is the artificial fortification of a bias playing a goddess. Taraji learnt to be objective. To live in this world and the world drafted by Taraji one needs to be objective. The third world war is not happening anytime soon because everyone is too cautious to take the first step. But Taraji is not. She won’t start a war. Taraji will lead a revolution and a generation into the future. Poverty is the breeding ground of all struggles, a Pandora’s Box containing all possible maladies and it is governing this world. And Taraji loathes that system.
The revolution’s main aim is the extraction, elimination and evasion of any and all forms of opposition to the ‘Red File Draft’’, the opposition’s products and, if need be, its victims. Taraji will give Africa an iron clad fist to fight her way through, and to the world will give muscles like iron to withstand power. Taraji tosses the file on her desk and slowly makes her way to the window, admiring the discreet developments she has made so far. Her investments in building funds and estates were not a ticket into the financial world but an obvious gradual grasp on the country itself. Taraji is growing her empire and is working on her flawless plan to improve it – and the ‘Red File Draft’ enables that.
The sound of knocking echoes across the room.
“The Board is waiting ma’am,” a voice immediately follows, muffled by the wooden barrier but confident all the same.
“Step in Rita. I have something I need you to do for me.” Taraji replies in a loud, clear monotonous voice.
The wooden door is pushed open and a short figure in a simple black pencil skirt and white shirt enters and inquires, “Yes ma’am?”
Motioning to her desk Taraji instructs. “The file on the desk, take it to Dolores and tell her to register it into HQ. Tell her to implement the plans. I second them.”
Rita’s mouth opens and closes as if in disbelief. Eyebrows furrowed and confused she asks, “But ma’am, is this not what you’re holding this meeting for? To verify? The Women are waiting for this moment… the Board, the Senators, the Ministers,” and in a low foreboding voice, almost like a whisper, “the people?”
A silent breath like a laugh escapes Taraji’s throat. Pointing at the file Rita continues.
“That file, those plans – you Ms Taraji Bekhri ma’am will destroy a nation, and for what? For technology, skyscrapers – sustainable development?” she finishes, almost hysterically.
“Rita,” Taraji begins, “Do you know who I am?”
Rita swallows, and, nervously replies, “Yes ma’am.”
In that same formidable tone Taraji asks again, “And do you know what I do, what I represent?”
Rita stifles a sigh and replies, “Yes ma’am.”
“Right,” Taraji breathes, turning on her heel towards Rita and towering over her. “Then you will take these documents to the Minister of International Affairs, Dolores Chide,” Taraji commands. “She will see my signature,” she states as if daring Rita to let her do otherwise. Glaring at her she continues, “And you will tell her to implement the plans.”
And, like a doctrine, Taraji adds in a low voice almost intended to be a growl, “I drafted those plans. I second this plans. If that’s not enough for you, you then second the plans. Dolores seconds the developments and the world will second the developments.” She spits the statements like venom and goes on to clarify with a now tense, “Is that clear?”
Swallowing the lump in her throat, not daring to object she replies, “Yes, Ms President.”