Seg - Issue 3: Journey to the Heart

Journey to the Heart

What have I become? Am I a man? I am freak, a mutant, or a god? When I wake up in the morning, my first thought is never my own, but an echo of my fathers, my mothers, neighbours, mailmen and garbage men. Oh God, when will it stop? When it happened the first time, it was exciting. The thrill of controlling someone, the sense of being part of something bigger than me, and then of course, the power; the drug, oh the shame, and how I try to hide it, but each time I enter someone’s world, learn their desires, and potentially alter their perception, I almost have remind myself, “I am not a god!” When Roman Generals Triumphed through the sacred way of Rome, thousands of plebs gathers in celebration of Glory, but the fame was often intoxicating. The Senate ordered a slave to stand in the Chariot behind the conqueror; and with each passing moment, whisper to him, “You are not a god.” But I have no person telling me such things. The Bible reminds me of my mortality and how frail my body really is, but my mind tells me otherwise.

I saw Swartz almost kill a man in cold blood, the thug was defenceless against the supernatural. And Swartz’s mind echoed back a feeling of superiority that no one could challenge. But maybe there are others out there like us; people who can bend light, control minds, or use Telekinetic energy. Of all the things, this troubled me the most. I wanted no equal, no rival, and I wanted everything. And what started as the rejection of my power had quickly become an obsession for more of it. I remembered people’s thoughts and controlled situations around me, but it still wasn’t enough. I decided to leave. I had to know if there were others like me in the world. I made my parents believe I was going somewhere for school, and told my friends nothing. They didn’t need to know; it was better if they didn’t.

The airport was packed. I enjoy being in airports, something about hundreds of people setting off on a journey or coming home to loved ones, gives me a sense of connectedness. I was sipping a drink at the bar, and whatever it was, it was strong, “ha, better not get sloppy, I need a clear mind.” There were beautiful women all over the place; one was two seats down from me, another was waiting in a line by the convenience store. I suppose I could make them interested. But I had more important things to do. Women and fame did not interest me right now; only power, untapped, pure, power.

“Give me another drink.”

The tender granted my request without hesitation or question. I was buzzed. It was time to go, so I approached the Ticket Sales desk.

“You’re going to set me up with one first class ticket to Ethiopia.”

I passed her my driver’s licensee and passport. She took it from me and entered the information.

“Well Mr. Seguin, one round rip ticket to Eithiopia will come to 950 dollars.” But after I gave her a suggestion, that debt no longer existed.

“Thank you Sir. Have a wonderful flight.”

“Thanks Marry I will,” I kindly smiled. There no need to forget the niceties.

The trip was forgetful. I ensured that I sat next to a beautiful woman and indeed used my wit and charm to win affection. I suppose a little time meeting women couldn't hurt. It helped that I knew everything about her. The plane landed and I rushed out as soon as possible. A shame too really; she was a nice girl, sure wish I had the time. I had arranged for an interpreter to meet me at the airport. I guaranteed payment but planned to give none, and who could stop me. He drove a shaddy car, blue and small; I couldn’t even name the make or kind, but I knew nothing about cars. He was eager to appear helpful, but it was clear he had little real connections. He was a delivery boy of sorts, taking orders, and taking you places where shit went down. He was typically hesitant to get involved.

“Hello Sir. My name is Ababa. You requested our services. “Addis’ Speech”, we can take you anywhere you wish, and help guide to ensure your safety.”

“Hello Ababa, you can call me Sir. Take me where I need to go, and I’ll pay you well. Don’t mess with me.”

I couldn’t believe what I was saying. This wasn’t like me, but something was changing. Maybe it was the hot dry air. I looked around in Ababa’s mind. He was actually a decent guy; he had a wife and little daughter, only 9 years old. He worked two jobs, one as an interpreter, and the other as a bell-hop. His daughter was sick. Interesting. He didn’t know why. He blamed the forest spirit; a lot of people blamed forest spirits for their misfortunes. I had told him to call me Sir for reasons I don’t even know. I suppose it was a rash decision, my passport clearly said otherwise. At any rate, the absence of a name gave me discretion and security, just in case things got hairy.

We drove down a street busy with people. Was this truly Africa? It’s funny, and not how you think of it. On the television Africa is dangerous and militant. But being here, driving down an urban block, I see it in whole different light. ‘Wham!’ The door was struck by a soccer ball. “Kids playing in the streets,” I thought.



“I’m sorry Sir. They’re just children.”

“No. Of course, it’s fine. Ababa, take me to your police station. I have business there.”

“Yes Sir. Would you not prefer a Hotel booking first?”

“Not yet. I don’t want to get comfortable until I’ve done some homework.”

Ababa looked baffled. I learned that most foreigners came for the bars, the drugs, and the women; prostitution was something common, and the Hotel was where most spent the majority of their time. Not me. I didn’t come for fun. I’m glad Ababa spoke English well. Reading his thoughts would be useless if had not a firm grasp on the language; it also allowed me time to translate English into Amharic from his head; I had hoped to learn the language in a day or two.

“Is that a picture of your daughter?”

“What’s that Sir?”

I continued, “The picture, dangling from you mirror, is that your daughter?”

“It is Sir. Her name is Mala. She is nine years old.”

“She’s lovely. I’m sure you wish to be home with her and your wife right now. Tell you what, drop me off at the station and we will continue in the morning, do you understand?”

Ababa was unsure. He hoped he would not be short changed for his work, but was too shy to say anything. Although it was customary to pay until the end of business, I felt compelled to award him for his genuine kindness and interest in my safety. We reached the station and I jumped out of the car. A man looking as if he owned the town leaned on a lamp post outside the station. I discovered through a mind sweep that he was a drug dealer, waiting for his drug dealing brother to be released. Perfect. The dealer was kind enough to offer me two-hundred birr. I handed Ababa a hundred.

“Have nice night. Tomorrow morning, at the ‘Sun’ hotel, nine AM. Bring coffee.”

Ababa sped away in his car, eager to return home to his family so early in the evening. It was almost eight o’clock, and before this night was out. I planned on making some progress. I entered the building calmly. Smiling. And looking about anxiously, I noticed the general condition of the station was good. No fade in the paint job, a traditional blue, and the officer’s uniforms were dignified and proper. I found the information desk and without words, ordered the man to page the chief, or whoever was in-charge. A small man walked out from a long hallway to my left. He seemed perturbed. I knew without reading him, he was not the sort who enjoyed being disturbed.

“Yes Sir. I am sorry, but if you have a problem you must first contact your American embassy, I can do nothing further.” George was impatient.

“Oh. I’m not American. I’m from Canada. And there is no problem,” I explained.

“No problem? Then Sir, what is it you want? I have no time for games.”

“I want files. I want stories and witnesses. Tell me about the cases that remain unexplained or unbelievable. Help me. Help me find them.” I had spoke softly, so as not to draw too much attention.

“Why do I feel so strange, what are you doing to me? I can hear you, I can hear you in my head. Who are you? What are you?” He was becoming afraid now, understandably, but I would not be swayed.

“The files. Get me the files George.”

“What is it you want to know?”

I retorted, “Everything. Tell me about the forest.”