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(ambush in reverse)
FICTIONAL COMPONENT
This is a story that doesn't take place in the slums, but in the heartbeat of the Johannesburg city, in the metropolis that houses MNU labs. It is about a boy who finds himself with more than he bargained for, about developing friendship in the most unexpected way, and about an ambush in reverse.
This is how it goes.
Mosegi didn't even like the prawns all that much to begin with.
Not because of everything you hear about from the television, to the radio, and even the stuff you read on the internet, all the way to word of mouth, but because he has a bone to pick with them, a sore spot, if you will. His older brother got caught up with one of their antics—the stuff they thought was fun, like blowing up a car, or a street, making a mess of things—and died as a result of it. They weren't even allowed to see the body, closed casket and all; he wasn't allowed a proper goodbye. No apologies included.
Ever since then, he understood the hate, the disgust, and every other negative emotions you could think of to associate with them. His mother would always say, give them another chance, they aren't so different from us, even before the accident, like nothing had changed her tune. Mosegi would lash out at her, painfully confused. Did she already forget what they did to her other son, his older brother? Sometimes, he couldn't believe what he was hearing from her.
As for him, he knows he could never forgive them. Not after what they did.
Things were perfect before they came into the picture: his brother was the heir, no doubt about that, he was going to inherit their father and uncle's company and move on to do great things. But ever since his death, all the responsibilities were shoved onto him, onto tiny shoulders no older than sixteen, rough around the edges, and still a boy who didn't know much about how the world works. How they expected him to understand that this was his calling now was beyond him, but they never listened to reason, never listened to the way he'd always say no, no, this isn't what I want. This isn't who I should be. It doesn't help that the other kids have started to make fun of him, bully him whenever they could, all because they think he couldn't do it, and he spells doom for everything he'll come to own.
But none of that really matters. What matters is that his life isn't quite what it used to be anymore, and he knows there's nothing he could do but live with it. Top it all off with his incoming encounters with a prawn, and he might as well consider it a field day, something to be (un)happy about.
It's all part of a routine, that's how it starts, when his father, the CEO of a pretty influential company in Johannesburg, takes Mosegi along to meet the with the board of directors, his future colleagues and advisors. He's way too young for this, they all know it, but it's always been a firm belief that you can never start too early. It's building character, his father says. It's the same thing we did with your brother, right when he was your age. Mosegi couldn't help but frown, couldn't help but look away. He wonders when his father will stop doing that, comparing the two of you like this, but deep down, he knows that it'll take some time.
Blueprints for a new structure and hushed secrets (too enigmatic and top-secret for his ears) are on the menu for today, complacent old men and dangerous greed on the side, but Dino doesn't want any of it. The minute he's in the same room with everyone he doesn't care to know, he grasps for an excuse to leave right away, because this isn't the sort of atmosphere he wants to be in. Too dangerous and suffocating, full of pain and broken promises. So when he finds an opening, he clings to it and never lets go, shying away from the adults and suits, from everything they stood for. They won't even notice he's gone, he reasons with himself, having already been silenced from the beginning, smiled only when he had to—trapped in his own world.
Adults were almost like an anomaly, he thinks, something he can't quite wrap his head around. It's hard to guess what they're thinking most of the time, but none of that matters now. He's away from them, he's free, he doesn't have to think about who they are and what they want from him anymore. It's never been his sort of thing, after all, this whole deal of inheriting the family company and living to tell the tale about it—maybe his father will get the idea this time.
And that's a thought that makes him laugh.
( Wishful thinking.
—I know, I know. )
He looks like he doesn't know where he's going, wandering around like this, aimless, without a thought in his mind aside from walking. The company's main building is much bigger compared to their house, and it has an eccentric quality to it, one Mosegi can't really identify. No pictures, no portraits, just a medical and methodical display—cold, it's almost empty. It's almost like they don't want anyone taking a peek at how they worked their days away, like they had something horrible to hide.
He shakes his head and forces himself to stay focused, remember what you're looking for—the way out of this place, just for a moment to breathe. The elevator ride down the numerous of floors is punctuated by men and women in business suits, coming in and going without even giving him one look in the face. When he tries to take a peek at their eyes, all he sees are expressions set in stone, and he wonders, asks himself, is this what I'm going to inherit one day? He doesn't want it if it's going to be like this.
The elevator reaches the ground floor, and he's stumbling out. He ignores the calls from someone coming from behind, goes all the way to pushed the double-glass doors open and breathe in the sunlight, the fresh, warm day. It's a stark contrast to what's inside that building, and he doesn't feel like going back, not for a few hours, at least. Maybe even more than that.
But here comes the feeling of being watched, observed; it sends chills down his spine like they always do with everyone else. He takes one look to the left, another to the right, but sees nothing, no one, that's staring right back at him.
And then he sees it (coincidence at its finest), a splash of red and black and bulging eyes, feelers, four arms, and all. It's looking at him with the saddest expression in the world, like it wants to say something, but all that comes out are clicks, mechanical ones that Mosegi can't decipher, not that he even wants to. He remains rooted in place for who knows how long, and it's only when the prawn started to advance towards him that his flight-or-fight mechanism kicks in and makes him run back inside.
What he doesn't see is that as soon as the commotion starts—with everyone on high alert and calling for MNU to fix this, get rid of that thing right away—the prawn takes off, just as scared as he is.
The second time around is during a miserable, rainy day. It rains like it never wants to end, like it has something to say. Pitter-pat, patter, morse code and its hidden messages that are meant for you, and you alone. Heavy raindrops paint a picture on bleak sidewalks, but the constant disruption of Mosegi fleeing from the skies, hopelessly trying to find shelter, makes it hard to decipher the words that are left behind.
He's soaking wet, completely (from head to toe), with cold temperature and frozen fingers creeping up on him from behind. Every now and then, he finds little comfort in pulling his hood down even more, but it does little to shield him from the rain, useless as it is. Mosegi thinks this is already pointless, a lost cause, and yet, he can't explain why he continues to try.
He can't explain why he refuses to duck under nearby awnings, the one belonging to the café on the left, or the one from the bookshop right next to it. No. His legs continue to move, run, run as fast as they'll let him because he has no idea what else to do, where he's really going. He closes his eyes for a mere fraction of a second, just to blink the raindrops away from tips of his lashes, but that works against since it doesn't give him enough time to react to the looming figure up ahead.
And then he sees it.
Just standing there, completely soaked from head to toe much like he is. It's one of them again, one of those prawns the media won't shut up about these days, those bottom-feeders his father always told him to stay away from. The questions start to pile up: what is it doing here? Why did it come? He's heard all the stories, after all, how they'll take one look at you and decide whether or not it's worth it to keep you alive, whether it's better off that you're dead just so you won't fight back to take what they've stolen from you. That left no room for doubt—they're bad news, no matter what, stay far, far away; treat them with fear and disgust, but right here and now, its presence is something to be terrified of.
Mosegi comes to an immediate stop and begins to backpedal, ready to run away at any given moment. But the prawn is too fast for him, because in a blink of an eye, it's directly in front of him, too close for comfort while leaving no room for escape. He could only shut his eyes again, bracing himself for the inevitable pain—except it never comes. Instead, he can feel the noticeable absence of cold raindrops falling all around him and the weight of a heavy fabric tossed on his shoulders.
When he opens his eyes again, the prawn is already gone, and all that's left is the memory of being this close to it and a tattered-looking jacket thrown over him.
Mosegi doesn't get it.
What just happened?
The third, fourth, and fifth times go something like this.
A sharp jab to the chest, and the wind's knocked right off him. He stumbles, almost topples backward, but someone grabs him from behind and keeps him upright. That person hooks their arms underneath his and holds him like that, no escape, no backing out. And he braces himself, because he knows what comes next. A rain of punches, all aimed to make him bruise and bleed, a kick here and there, and even someone clawing at his skin, tearing at his flesh. People are jeering, laughing, pointing at him.
Just look at him! All the cuts and bruises and blood in between. Tears are threatening to spring from his eyes, and he's already trembling. Nearing the point of passing out, but someone keeps slapping him awake. Maybe it's Josia's voice, or Josia's foul breath on his face—he can't tell which. Then there are the sounds of people gasping, oooh'ing and aaah'ing, and then silence, the kind you associate when certain doom (your doom, no less) is approaching. Did he make a face? Scrunch up his nose in disgust, because he's sick of breathing in that stench?
"What was that look for, Mosegi?"
He freezes. It seems even his very own body betrays him now.
There's an easy smile on his lips. It's almost disarming, but it doesn't stop the punches from coming. It might have made their intensity even worse. But he takes every single one of them, barely making a sound save for the few incoherent ones. He knows he looks pathetic right now, and he can already hear his father chiding him in his head. No good, no good. You're the future heir of our company, now. Now that your brother's gone. This is unacceptable. And Mosegi laughs, mentally, because to laugh out loud now is suicide, right?, and he laughs and laughs and laughs.
Because he can hear the tone and knows how the words will flow out of his father's mouth. It's ridiculous, the man will say in disapproval. This is ridiculous, Mosegi thinks, it's ridiculous that he has to hear it from a man old enough to know everything there is about the world, how it works, and what Mosegi's part is in this whole thing more than he does. Maybe that's why he's laughing. Maybe that's why he stops and flashes a rueful smile instead.
There's something sad about this, he reasons, but whatever thought follows that is cut short when Josia's voice floats back to his ears, along with the reminder of how much pain he's in right now. He cringes.
"Hey, Mosegi," comes the drawn-out growl, low and threatening. He opens his eyes the moment chubby fingers grab at his shirt's collar, and he blinks. A twisted grin is on Josia's face, and Mosegi doesn't really know why it's there. Doesn't dare to ask.
"H-hey, Josia." It comes out a little airy. Maybe a bit dizzy. The smell of blood is right under his nose, his eyes, his face, his shirt (ah—his father will give him that look again, reproachful, but soft, never judgmental), everywhere. It's a little funny that all Mosegi could think of is how will he explain this to his father, to his uncle, to all the people he's letting down by allowing himself to get tangled up in such a mess. I'm sorry, maybe that's how he'll start it, they caught me from behind, didn't see their hands—it's fine, it doesn't hurt as much anymore—
But there's a series of gasps, followed by a collective silence. Mosegi can't see what they're all looking at, but whatever it is, they look absolutely frightened, like they've just seen a ghost or something much worse. Even Josia is looking like he's just about to make a mess of his pants, his fingers shaky enough to finally let go of Mosegi's shirt, allowing him to stumble, to fall back where someone grabs him again—but it's not the familiar feel of human muscle.
It's rock-solid, stiff, something decidedly foreign but unmistakable. When Mosegi gathers the courage to look up and see, everyone else had already run off, tail tucked between their legs like the cowards they really are. Mosegi thinks he's never been more scared in his entire life than right here, right at the very moment, but he braces himself, tells himself to be strong, and just look. Look and see.
It's the same prawn from before. He's sure of it, by now, and its random acts of kindness (do they even know the meaning of the word?) does nothing but aggravate Mosegi's mood.
It isn't like this is the first time something like this had happened, either. The beatings started not too long after the announcement of his inheritance, and almost immediately, that was when he began to notice a trend. Every time Josia would try to pilfer money off him, the same, lone prawn would keep appearing—sometimes, it threw rocks at them, but when it was feeling more bold, it would stand up to them much like this. By now, this is the third time, maybe even more, he's lost count already.
What does it want from you?!
Mosegi confronts it about that at one point, when he finds it following him home again like a lost puppy he just fed. He's shaking with something he can't quite describe—anger, most likely, with a hint of confusion, apprehension—fingers curled into small fists, even if the rest of his body wants to run away. The prawn is trying its very best to appear small, but that's a failed attempt even before it can blossom. Compared to Mosegi, it towers over him, makes him wish the floor would just swallow him up and hide him.
"You—" his voice is incredibly shaky, frightened to the point that he's stumbling over his words, "—what do you want from me?"
It's the same question he's been asking himself, but the answer always eludes him, barely breeches the surface.
The prawn could only look at him, then down at its hands, as if fiddling with fingers it didn't really have. Mosegi swears it seems sheepish in a way, almost ashamed. When it speaks, he couldn't really decipher what it's trying to say.
This isn't something I could say with words.
"—I don't understand what you're saying," and Mosegi's trying, he's really trying to make out the phrases, separate it from the clicks and find coherence amidst it all.
So I've been trying to show you instead. It looks back at him, puppy-dog eyes narrowed in a way that just looks sad. I know it's been an annoyance, having to deal with this almost daily, but it's the only way I know. I don't know how else I could put it.
"This is so stupid."
I just want to show you how sorry I am. Even its shoulders are slumped, head tilted downwards because it refuses to look at Mosegi any longer. It doesn't want to see what kind of face he'll make should he ever understand what it's been conveying all along. But as soon as it picks up on the turn of footsteps, followed by a grumbled, frustrated, "I'm leaving," it looks up again in a hurry and tries to reach for Mosegi's wrist.
Except something seems to stop it, something keeps it fixated on Mosegi's withdrawing form, rooted in place.
I'm sorry he had to die.
For one reason or another, that stops Mosegi in his own tracks. There's something about the way it's said, the way the clicks seem slower, more apologetic (he doesn't believe it himself), and it's enough to make him wonder, look over his shoulder. The prawn is still standing where he's left him, leveling its gaze, and it couldn't have looked any sadder. Mosegi tears his eyes away right there and then, unable to linger any longer than he already did, walking away as fast he could.
When he hears the telltale signs of the prawn following him, he neither slows down or speeds up, keeping his pace as it is. He doesn't feel like allowing it to get any closer, but somehow, he doesn't seem to mind having it fall into step behind him as long as it keeps its distance.
It's not much, but it's a start at least. One step at a time.
CRITICAL COMPONENT
Given the way that the film, District 9, begins with the introduction of the aliens as refugees that came to Earth looking for solace and a quiet co-existence, thus immediately placing them in a vulnerable position for exploitation, the reactions of the populace of Johannesburg—all of which are laced by xenophobia and extreme marginalization—already appear to be unfair and uncalled for, but at the same time, completely unexpected. People have never reacted to wide gaps of differences in any other way, and this is something that dates back to historical instances, historical atrocities where the sense of xenophobia is so strong that it is often the culprit behind genocides and mass slaughter. Here, in District 9, the audience is given a visual taste of the fear and racial tension between the two opposing sides . Here, in District 9, the audience is reminded of just how low humanity can go when it comes to the treatment of the 'other,' the ones who are not 'one of us'. However, this particular message of the film soon finds itself forsaken once the plot moves its focus away from the marginalization of the prawns and into the struggle against the oppressive forces of the MNU labs and the quest to find the way back home. This fictional piece, then, is an attempt to bring back the focus on the message of marginalization in order to emphasize another important notion: despite the physical differences, the prawns are really no different from us humans, capable of displaying some semblance of emotions and qualities that are akin to humanity's own (District 9).
One of these is a human's notorious persistence, stubborn to the point of being unshakable in every sense of the word, never backing down despite the impossible task placed in front of him. This is showcased by the only prawn given a name (a common, human name, at that) in the film, Christopher, where he has diligently worked on fixing their mothership, gathering the fuel necessary for twenty years (District 9). Not only that, but the twenty years have been spent in the unlivable conditions of the slums, piled on top of the ongoing xenophobia of the neighbouring humans—circumstances that surely can kill any person's motivations, but not Christopher's, never Christopher's (District 9). Instead, he persists and succeeds in creating the necessary amount of fuel to power the mothership that will take him, along with his son, back home (District 9). Similarly, the prawn in the fictional piece exhibits the same kind of persistence, given that he is not deterred by the obvious hatred that Mosegi harbours towards him from accomplishing what he has set out to do—to make amends for the mistake he has caused. Time and time again, the prawn appears in various points of Mosegi's life, comforting him, shielding him from daily threats in place of the brother he killed.
Most of the liberties taken in this fictional piece are meant to reflect a sense of commonality and normality, aiming to invoke the notion that it can happen to anyone at any given time and place. While some of its elements have been defined, either by names or descriptions (such as Mosegi's name, and the fact that this takes place in the city of Johannesburg), most is left ambiguous and subtle since the main focus should be on the emotions and not entirely on what is going on. One of the film's main issues is that it had way too many explosions and needless amount of gore which contributed to the loss of its original message. Attention, then, must be paid to the lack of outstanding circumstances—despite the exceptional situation of Mosegi being the heir of a powerful company, a factoid that is merely thrown in as a random whim—because any of these scenes can readily happen in any person's life. It is meant to emphasize that this is a story that could take place anywhere, that this kind of interaction between two opposing sides can blossom regardless of temporal specifications and the persons involved. This is to reflect the same attempt made by the film to be as realistic and believable as possible, because the events shown in the movie, if taken out of its futuristic context and placed within the boundaries of what is possible in society, are events that have already happened, and are still happening right now. That said, fiction is chosen and purposefully left vague and disjointed to emphasize the focus on the emotions presented by the two characters, since the scenes were one can relate to the prawns are few and far in between, caught up in the middle of Wikus van der Merwe's struggle to fight against his inevitable transformation from human to alien (District 9). In addition to that, doing it this way also shines the spotlight on interactions between the two characters, further emphasizing the fact that there are no other notable differences between the two species aside from superficial qualities, not when both can equally express emotions any audience can identify with.
This is a story that doesn't take place in the slums, but in the heartbeat of the Johannesburg city, in the metropolis that houses MNU labs. It is about a boy who finds himself with more than he bargained for, about developing friendship in the most unexpected way, and about an ambush in reverse.
This is how it goes.
Mosegi didn't even like the prawns all that much to begin with.
Not because of everything you hear about from the television, to the radio, and even the stuff you read on the internet, all the way to word of mouth, but because he has a bone to pick with them, a sore spot, if you will. His older brother got caught up with one of their antics—the stuff they thought was fun, like blowing up a car, or a street, making a mess of things—and died as a result of it. They weren't even allowed to see the body, closed casket and all; he wasn't allowed a proper goodbye. No apologies included.
Ever since then, he understood the hate, the disgust, and every other negative emotions you could think of to associate with them. His mother would always say, give them another chance, they aren't so different from us, even before the accident, like nothing had changed her tune. Mosegi would lash out at her, painfully confused. Did she already forget what they did to her other son, his older brother? Sometimes, he couldn't believe what he was hearing from her.
As for him, he knows he could never forgive them. Not after what they did.
Things were perfect before they came into the picture: his brother was the heir, no doubt about that, he was going to inherit their father and uncle's company and move on to do great things. But ever since his death, all the responsibilities were shoved onto him, onto tiny shoulders no older than sixteen, rough around the edges, and still a boy who didn't know much about how the world works. How they expected him to understand that this was his calling now was beyond him, but they never listened to reason, never listened to the way he'd always say no, no, this isn't what I want. This isn't who I should be. It doesn't help that the other kids have started to make fun of him, bully him whenever they could, all because they think he couldn't do it, and he spells doom for everything he'll come to own.
But none of that really matters. What matters is that his life isn't quite what it used to be anymore, and he knows there's nothing he could do but live with it. Top it all off with his incoming encounters with a prawn, and he might as well consider it a field day, something to be (un)happy about.
It's all part of a routine, that's how it starts, when his father, the CEO of a pretty influential company in Johannesburg, takes Mosegi along to meet the with the board of directors, his future colleagues and advisors. He's way too young for this, they all know it, but it's always been a firm belief that you can never start too early. It's building character, his father says. It's the same thing we did with your brother, right when he was your age. Mosegi couldn't help but frown, couldn't help but look away. He wonders when his father will stop doing that, comparing the two of you like this, but deep down, he knows that it'll take some time.
Blueprints for a new structure and hushed secrets (too enigmatic and top-secret for his ears) are on the menu for today, complacent old men and dangerous greed on the side, but Dino doesn't want any of it. The minute he's in the same room with everyone he doesn't care to know, he grasps for an excuse to leave right away, because this isn't the sort of atmosphere he wants to be in. Too dangerous and suffocating, full of pain and broken promises. So when he finds an opening, he clings to it and never lets go, shying away from the adults and suits, from everything they stood for. They won't even notice he's gone, he reasons with himself, having already been silenced from the beginning, smiled only when he had to—trapped in his own world.
Adults were almost like an anomaly, he thinks, something he can't quite wrap his head around. It's hard to guess what they're thinking most of the time, but none of that matters now. He's away from them, he's free, he doesn't have to think about who they are and what they want from him anymore. It's never been his sort of thing, after all, this whole deal of inheriting the family company and living to tell the tale about it—maybe his father will get the idea this time.
And that's a thought that makes him laugh.
( Wishful thinking.
—I know, I know. )
He looks like he doesn't know where he's going, wandering around like this, aimless, without a thought in his mind aside from walking. The company's main building is much bigger compared to their house, and it has an eccentric quality to it, one Mosegi can't really identify. No pictures, no portraits, just a medical and methodical display—cold, it's almost empty. It's almost like they don't want anyone taking a peek at how they worked their days away, like they had something horrible to hide.
He shakes his head and forces himself to stay focused, remember what you're looking for—the way out of this place, just for a moment to breathe. The elevator ride down the numerous of floors is punctuated by men and women in business suits, coming in and going without even giving him one look in the face. When he tries to take a peek at their eyes, all he sees are expressions set in stone, and he wonders, asks himself, is this what I'm going to inherit one day? He doesn't want it if it's going to be like this.
The elevator reaches the ground floor, and he's stumbling out. He ignores the calls from someone coming from behind, goes all the way to pushed the double-glass doors open and breathe in the sunlight, the fresh, warm day. It's a stark contrast to what's inside that building, and he doesn't feel like going back, not for a few hours, at least. Maybe even more than that.
But here comes the feeling of being watched, observed; it sends chills down his spine like they always do with everyone else. He takes one look to the left, another to the right, but sees nothing, no one, that's staring right back at him.
And then he sees it (coincidence at its finest), a splash of red and black and bulging eyes, feelers, four arms, and all. It's looking at him with the saddest expression in the world, like it wants to say something, but all that comes out are clicks, mechanical ones that Mosegi can't decipher, not that he even wants to. He remains rooted in place for who knows how long, and it's only when the prawn started to advance towards him that his flight-or-fight mechanism kicks in and makes him run back inside.
What he doesn't see is that as soon as the commotion starts—with everyone on high alert and calling for MNU to fix this, get rid of that thing right away—the prawn takes off, just as scared as he is.
The second time around is during a miserable, rainy day. It rains like it never wants to end, like it has something to say. Pitter-pat, patter, morse code and its hidden messages that are meant for you, and you alone. Heavy raindrops paint a picture on bleak sidewalks, but the constant disruption of Mosegi fleeing from the skies, hopelessly trying to find shelter, makes it hard to decipher the words that are left behind.
He's soaking wet, completely (from head to toe), with cold temperature and frozen fingers creeping up on him from behind. Every now and then, he finds little comfort in pulling his hood down even more, but it does little to shield him from the rain, useless as it is. Mosegi thinks this is already pointless, a lost cause, and yet, he can't explain why he continues to try.
He can't explain why he refuses to duck under nearby awnings, the one belonging to the café on the left, or the one from the bookshop right next to it. No. His legs continue to move, run, run as fast as they'll let him because he has no idea what else to do, where he's really going. He closes his eyes for a mere fraction of a second, just to blink the raindrops away from tips of his lashes, but that works against since it doesn't give him enough time to react to the looming figure up ahead.
And then he sees it.
Just standing there, completely soaked from head to toe much like he is. It's one of them again, one of those prawns the media won't shut up about these days, those bottom-feeders his father always told him to stay away from. The questions start to pile up: what is it doing here? Why did it come? He's heard all the stories, after all, how they'll take one look at you and decide whether or not it's worth it to keep you alive, whether it's better off that you're dead just so you won't fight back to take what they've stolen from you. That left no room for doubt—they're bad news, no matter what, stay far, far away; treat them with fear and disgust, but right here and now, its presence is something to be terrified of.
Mosegi comes to an immediate stop and begins to backpedal, ready to run away at any given moment. But the prawn is too fast for him, because in a blink of an eye, it's directly in front of him, too close for comfort while leaving no room for escape. He could only shut his eyes again, bracing himself for the inevitable pain—except it never comes. Instead, he can feel the noticeable absence of cold raindrops falling all around him and the weight of a heavy fabric tossed on his shoulders.
When he opens his eyes again, the prawn is already gone, and all that's left is the memory of being this close to it and a tattered-looking jacket thrown over him.
Mosegi doesn't get it.
What just happened?
The third, fourth, and fifth times go something like this.
A sharp jab to the chest, and the wind's knocked right off him. He stumbles, almost topples backward, but someone grabs him from behind and keeps him upright. That person hooks their arms underneath his and holds him like that, no escape, no backing out. And he braces himself, because he knows what comes next. A rain of punches, all aimed to make him bruise and bleed, a kick here and there, and even someone clawing at his skin, tearing at his flesh. People are jeering, laughing, pointing at him.
Just look at him! All the cuts and bruises and blood in between. Tears are threatening to spring from his eyes, and he's already trembling. Nearing the point of passing out, but someone keeps slapping him awake. Maybe it's Josia's voice, or Josia's foul breath on his face—he can't tell which. Then there are the sounds of people gasping, oooh'ing and aaah'ing, and then silence, the kind you associate when certain doom (your doom, no less) is approaching. Did he make a face? Scrunch up his nose in disgust, because he's sick of breathing in that stench?
"What was that look for, Mosegi?"
He freezes. It seems even his very own body betrays him now.
There's an easy smile on his lips. It's almost disarming, but it doesn't stop the punches from coming. It might have made their intensity even worse. But he takes every single one of them, barely making a sound save for the few incoherent ones. He knows he looks pathetic right now, and he can already hear his father chiding him in his head. No good, no good. You're the future heir of our company, now. Now that your brother's gone. This is unacceptable. And Mosegi laughs, mentally, because to laugh out loud now is suicide, right?, and he laughs and laughs and laughs.
Because he can hear the tone and knows how the words will flow out of his father's mouth. It's ridiculous, the man will say in disapproval. This is ridiculous, Mosegi thinks, it's ridiculous that he has to hear it from a man old enough to know everything there is about the world, how it works, and what Mosegi's part is in this whole thing more than he does. Maybe that's why he's laughing. Maybe that's why he stops and flashes a rueful smile instead.
There's something sad about this, he reasons, but whatever thought follows that is cut short when Josia's voice floats back to his ears, along with the reminder of how much pain he's in right now. He cringes.
"Hey, Mosegi," comes the drawn-out growl, low and threatening. He opens his eyes the moment chubby fingers grab at his shirt's collar, and he blinks. A twisted grin is on Josia's face, and Mosegi doesn't really know why it's there. Doesn't dare to ask.
"H-hey, Josia." It comes out a little airy. Maybe a bit dizzy. The smell of blood is right under his nose, his eyes, his face, his shirt (ah—his father will give him that look again, reproachful, but soft, never judgmental), everywhere. It's a little funny that all Mosegi could think of is how will he explain this to his father, to his uncle, to all the people he's letting down by allowing himself to get tangled up in such a mess. I'm sorry, maybe that's how he'll start it, they caught me from behind, didn't see their hands—it's fine, it doesn't hurt as much anymore—
But there's a series of gasps, followed by a collective silence. Mosegi can't see what they're all looking at, but whatever it is, they look absolutely frightened, like they've just seen a ghost or something much worse. Even Josia is looking like he's just about to make a mess of his pants, his fingers shaky enough to finally let go of Mosegi's shirt, allowing him to stumble, to fall back where someone grabs him again—but it's not the familiar feel of human muscle.
It's rock-solid, stiff, something decidedly foreign but unmistakable. When Mosegi gathers the courage to look up and see, everyone else had already run off, tail tucked between their legs like the cowards they really are. Mosegi thinks he's never been more scared in his entire life than right here, right at the very moment, but he braces himself, tells himself to be strong, and just look. Look and see.
It's the same prawn from before. He's sure of it, by now, and its random acts of kindness (do they even know the meaning of the word?) does nothing but aggravate Mosegi's mood.
It isn't like this is the first time something like this had happened, either. The beatings started not too long after the announcement of his inheritance, and almost immediately, that was when he began to notice a trend. Every time Josia would try to pilfer money off him, the same, lone prawn would keep appearing—sometimes, it threw rocks at them, but when it was feeling more bold, it would stand up to them much like this. By now, this is the third time, maybe even more, he's lost count already.
What does it want from you?!
Mosegi confronts it about that at one point, when he finds it following him home again like a lost puppy he just fed. He's shaking with something he can't quite describe—anger, most likely, with a hint of confusion, apprehension—fingers curled into small fists, even if the rest of his body wants to run away. The prawn is trying its very best to appear small, but that's a failed attempt even before it can blossom. Compared to Mosegi, it towers over him, makes him wish the floor would just swallow him up and hide him.
"You—" his voice is incredibly shaky, frightened to the point that he's stumbling over his words, "—what do you want from me?"
It's the same question he's been asking himself, but the answer always eludes him, barely breeches the surface.
The prawn could only look at him, then down at its hands, as if fiddling with fingers it didn't really have. Mosegi swears it seems sheepish in a way, almost ashamed. When it speaks, he couldn't really decipher what it's trying to say.
This isn't something I could say with words.
"—I don't understand what you're saying," and Mosegi's trying, he's really trying to make out the phrases, separate it from the clicks and find coherence amidst it all.
So I've been trying to show you instead. It looks back at him, puppy-dog eyes narrowed in a way that just looks sad. I know it's been an annoyance, having to deal with this almost daily, but it's the only way I know. I don't know how else I could put it.
"This is so stupid."
I just want to show you how sorry I am. Even its shoulders are slumped, head tilted downwards because it refuses to look at Mosegi any longer. It doesn't want to see what kind of face he'll make should he ever understand what it's been conveying all along. But as soon as it picks up on the turn of footsteps, followed by a grumbled, frustrated, "I'm leaving," it looks up again in a hurry and tries to reach for Mosegi's wrist.
Except something seems to stop it, something keeps it fixated on Mosegi's withdrawing form, rooted in place.
I'm sorry he had to die.
For one reason or another, that stops Mosegi in his own tracks. There's something about the way it's said, the way the clicks seem slower, more apologetic (he doesn't believe it himself), and it's enough to make him wonder, look over his shoulder. The prawn is still standing where he's left him, leveling its gaze, and it couldn't have looked any sadder. Mosegi tears his eyes away right there and then, unable to linger any longer than he already did, walking away as fast he could.
When he hears the telltale signs of the prawn following him, he neither slows down or speeds up, keeping his pace as it is. He doesn't feel like allowing it to get any closer, but somehow, he doesn't seem to mind having it fall into step behind him as long as it keeps its distance.
It's not much, but it's a start at least. One step at a time.
CRITICAL COMPONENT
Given the way that the film, District 9, begins with the introduction of the aliens as refugees that came to Earth looking for solace and a quiet co-existence, thus immediately placing them in a vulnerable position for exploitation, the reactions of the populace of Johannesburg—all of which are laced by xenophobia and extreme marginalization—already appear to be unfair and uncalled for, but at the same time, completely unexpected. People have never reacted to wide gaps of differences in any other way, and this is something that dates back to historical instances, historical atrocities where the sense of xenophobia is so strong that it is often the culprit behind genocides and mass slaughter. Here, in District 9, the audience is given a visual taste of the fear and racial tension between the two opposing sides . Here, in District 9, the audience is reminded of just how low humanity can go when it comes to the treatment of the 'other,' the ones who are not 'one of us'. However, this particular message of the film soon finds itself forsaken once the plot moves its focus away from the marginalization of the prawns and into the struggle against the oppressive forces of the MNU labs and the quest to find the way back home. This fictional piece, then, is an attempt to bring back the focus on the message of marginalization in order to emphasize another important notion: despite the physical differences, the prawns are really no different from us humans, capable of displaying some semblance of emotions and qualities that are akin to humanity's own (District 9).
One of these is a human's notorious persistence, stubborn to the point of being unshakable in every sense of the word, never backing down despite the impossible task placed in front of him. This is showcased by the only prawn given a name (a common, human name, at that) in the film, Christopher, where he has diligently worked on fixing their mothership, gathering the fuel necessary for twenty years (District 9). Not only that, but the twenty years have been spent in the unlivable conditions of the slums, piled on top of the ongoing xenophobia of the neighbouring humans—circumstances that surely can kill any person's motivations, but not Christopher's, never Christopher's (District 9). Instead, he persists and succeeds in creating the necessary amount of fuel to power the mothership that will take him, along with his son, back home (District 9). Similarly, the prawn in the fictional piece exhibits the same kind of persistence, given that he is not deterred by the obvious hatred that Mosegi harbours towards him from accomplishing what he has set out to do—to make amends for the mistake he has caused. Time and time again, the prawn appears in various points of Mosegi's life, comforting him, shielding him from daily threats in place of the brother he killed.
Most of the liberties taken in this fictional piece are meant to reflect a sense of commonality and normality, aiming to invoke the notion that it can happen to anyone at any given time and place. While some of its elements have been defined, either by names or descriptions (such as Mosegi's name, and the fact that this takes place in the city of Johannesburg), most is left ambiguous and subtle since the main focus should be on the emotions and not entirely on what is going on. One of the film's main issues is that it had way too many explosions and needless amount of gore which contributed to the loss of its original message. Attention, then, must be paid to the lack of outstanding circumstances—despite the exceptional situation of Mosegi being the heir of a powerful company, a factoid that is merely thrown in as a random whim—because any of these scenes can readily happen in any person's life. It is meant to emphasize that this is a story that could take place anywhere, that this kind of interaction between two opposing sides can blossom regardless of temporal specifications and the persons involved. This is to reflect the same attempt made by the film to be as realistic and believable as possible, because the events shown in the movie, if taken out of its futuristic context and placed within the boundaries of what is possible in society, are events that have already happened, and are still happening right now. That said, fiction is chosen and purposefully left vague and disjointed to emphasize the focus on the emotions presented by the two characters, since the scenes were one can relate to the prawns are few and far in between, caught up in the middle of Wikus van der Merwe's struggle to fight against his inevitable transformation from human to alien (District 9). In addition to that, doing it this way also shines the spotlight on interactions between the two characters, further emphasizing the fact that there are no other notable differences between the two species aside from superficial qualities, not when both can equally express emotions any audience can identify with.