School of Death

By Worku Gizaw

, it was amazing to hear conspiracy against survivors by a group of evils. Even, intellectuals of the nation were wondering how Al Muna and garbage trainers trained and converted Levils mind. Despite the shocking incidents and public clamor, Levil did not hesitate to work on human massacre. In a different occasions, he uttered, I have received and observed the blue print of Rwandas genocide. When I compare it with our School of Death project, it was a mini incident. True, intermingled ethnic origins are segregated and the process of learning and teaching has already begun in the capital city. In the same token, in remote districts and provinces, ethnic cleansing has commenced and people are congested in their ethnic lines. Once the cleansing is completed, the ultimate goal of the School of Death will manifest the maximum capacity of death production.

, all residents of Kakuma refugee camp, including the dead are hereby informed that there will be a meeting on Sunday morning regarding the cloned, Mr. Levil, in the Horn of Africa.
, there is a rumor that kidney market is flourishing as refugee population augmented. Brokers from Asia and Middle East are negotiating for a kidney at a price of $30,000

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Feb 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490755410

Worku Gizaw

Worku Gizaw is a graduate with MBA—BA degree in Business Management, associate degree in accounting, and certificate in training, design, and development program. Living in despicable and horrendous situations, he was endeavoring to earn living by tutoring and teaching business class in a remote African desert. It was January 1997 that events and issues struck his mind and started writing obscure incidents. Eventually, the title “School of Death” emerged as a novel, but a future track that pinpoints catastrophe clouds against humanity in the Horn of Africa.

Book preview

School of Death

WORKU GIZAW

© Copyright 2015 Worku Gizaw.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-5539-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-5540-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-5541-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015902354

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Contents

Acknowledgment

Preface

August 1991

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

Day 4

Day 5

Day 6

Day 7

Day 8

Day 9

Day 10

Day 11

Day 12

Day 13

Day 14

Day 15

Day 16

Day 17

Day 18

Day 19

Day 20

Day 21

Day 22

This book is designed to entertain readers by manifesting and questioning pseudo sorts of incidents in School of Death and elsewhere. Names, characters, places, and/or issues are the author’s imagination. Any resemblance or similarities to existing or nonexisting events, organizations, places, or persons alive or dead are entirely coincidental.

Acknowledgment

Recognition is hereby given to Solomon Desta, a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.

Preface

This is a condensed type of fiction and reflects my imagination and intentions to have you the reader agree on the issue presented. You will uncover how fictitious human beings stand against humanity and mimic real beings. Precisely, this novel is focused on incidents in a survival jungle and where, primarily, death acts as the headmaster in an arid site called Kakuma. It is a place where momentous and secretive deeds are played out under the cover of a black curtain.

The write-ups merely focus on fugitives of Africa, arriving and registering beneath a huge oak tree sited for protection and solution. In the plantation of death and its leadership at the School of Death, survivors become the first consignees to confront the kingdom of death, and portentous contribution that orchestrates the cycle plays the major part to this novel. With Mr. Levil’s role as genocide commissioner, the movement of freedom fighters to take the upper hand from bellies that snatch everything from graveyard dwellers is briefly elaborated upon and serves as the nucleus of this work. A form of commodity game play, the indigenous society’s extraordinary feature and culture, and the mystery of suicide and disappearance are also among the broadly elucidated parts of this of fiction.

The School of Death is a school premeditated to manufacture death in the Horn of Africa by an evil guerrilla leader. A nation that embraces more than eighty-one ethnicities is demarcated or encircled in a concentration camp in a form where each tribe is organized against the other tribe. So far, a minimum of two million people have been killed, and the conflict was perpetuated by the same regime. Of course, the project was planned by ancient enemies of the nation who made a failed attempt in the fifteenth century. Now, they are riding with the donkey guerrilla and implementing their radical ideology.

August 1991

As night is falling and converts the day’s light into darkness, evil does arise out of jungle life to frighten and invade the nation. They were trained and cultivated at School of Death located at Damo, Arbi, Kiro, Ysup, and synonymous sites in proximity. Waving an unidentified flag, the guerillas march to the city to calm the public as protectors from violence and resistance. Soon, the mission commenced in a hidden motion by tagging numbers to regions followed by ethnic identity. Jinka, a prudent man, is uttering to his colleagues and neighbors that the self-empowered guerrillas have no vision other than implementing the ongoing world problems in the Horn of Africa.

Jinka, rushing to meet his girlfriend at a national theater, wants to know the time. What time is it? Jinka asks a woman sitting in a bus station.

It reads zero.

What do you mean?

The woman further replies, You don’t know that we have started using the calendar of the dead and dead-alive persons.

Didn’t get you, Jinka retorts.

Don’t nag me anymore. Go and question the guerrilla monkeys in the palace.

Within a couple of months, assassination, detention, and human rights abuses run rampant in the city. Looting of gold reserve and hard currency and dismantling and transporting of factories and military installations to guerrilla-owned regions become the prime order of business. Any resistances to such action bring on massacre and take innocent lives. Though Jinka and his friends survive the random killings, they languish in prison for years and are released with a surprise pardon.

Sooner, secret meetings of mistreated, tortured, and persecuted persons undertake behind a cliff.

Enough is enough, we are not supposed to live under the shadow of death, Jinka announces.

All give their consent by a nod and determine to evacuate their homes.

Jinka goes back to his family. He is wet and shivering from cold. His sister gets up from bed and inquires where he has been and what problems he has encountered.

I came to this planet to live freely with no subversion and denial of rights. Nonetheless, armed gangs detained me for the entire one year. I narrowly escaped with my life. Many of my colleagues were taken from the detention center in the dead of night, and where they are remain a mystery. I hope you do not want to see my corpse. Simply, keep all this things confidential, and I will inform you my new status, Jinka whispers.

Then he packs his bags, blankets, and little food for consumption and leaves for good. In similar fashion, his colleagues depart their parents and resume the unknown journey using trucks, buses, motorcycles, their feet, and other means of transportation to reach Moyale, a border town of a neighboring country.

Where are these people heading? a border-patrol officer asks the man at the gate.

The front-runner answers, Seeking a place to be shielded.

The officer then asks, From whom exactly are you escaping?

"Brutal dictators, cannibals, yes, merciless killers—armed ghosts who resort to washing their hands with human blood are the source and cause, sir. You do not observe the rotation of earth in the evils’ territory: there is no sunrise or sunset, mere dead night, stagnant. In such fertile ground and favorable environment of darkness, animal hunting is facile. Colleagues are executed before they can run from their village. Their relatives and friends are put in danger too.

When one slow domestic animal, like goat or sheep, there are steps—steps of cutting, slicing, segregating organs, and cleaning the butcher site. Yet the corpse of man is devalued and treated worse than animals. The carcass of man is valued less than his excrement. The slogan ‘Man is created equal, man has the right to express his opinion, man has the right to live, etc.’ is quixotic in the demons’ kingdom. So we are escaping and traveling to the new world—world with light, free of gun threats, and free of perplexing unknowns, the front-runner says.

The officer asks, What slogan are you carrying? struggling to perceive the image drawn on a piece of cloth, Dictators Fighting for Human Flesh.

It is an answer to the question why we fled home, one among the immigrants replied.

The officer asks, Are they fighting for bones? Is that of human or what?

Yes, officer, they are done with flesh and may uncover graves too.

The officer asks, Which African countries are you from?

The immigrants reply, Horn of Africa.

The officer says, Yes, your slogan describes the true picture. Are these leaders really home born or fabricated elsewhere?

A representative of immigrants says, Most are cloned terrorists but mimic a leader beloved by their nation.

The officer says, If you guys are speaking your mind, I tell you all African countries will be flooded with terrorist ideology. It would be hard to get away from it. For sure we are in danger too!

Officer, may I ask you a personal question?

Go ahead, the officer says.

Do you know anything about the brain of dictators? I mean, does a skull with a dead brain exist?

The officer scans the refugees and then says, "Friends, do you want me to accompany you? Whom do you think I am serving? Do you think I am from the moon? Anyway, let me tell you about evil dictators’ makeup and malfunctioning brains. They once thought like humans before they took power. When crowned a king, a prime minister, or a president, and when they were visited by foreign delegates, the deterioration of their mental caliber began to emerge. A fracture in the skull pierced their brain and hindered their ability to perceive objective realities.

Consequently, their part of the brain that makes fair judgment eventually diminishes at accelerating level, and their heads are filled with nothing, nothing indeed. This disease is common in the Horn of Africa. Leaders have had their original brain drained and replaced by a terrorist’s mind. The terrorist-brain holders are less than chimpanzees. Though they walk and speak like man, they are worse than chimpanzees. Chimpanzees feel, but these brain-dead rulers have no regrets or worries of the past, nor do they anticipate the future. They keep destroying heritages, entice conflicts, lynch the weak, and do anything possible to maintain their administration.

The representative triggers the officer for more remarks. When they kill innocent people, do they not know that they too are mortal?

The officer answers, Did I utter anything vague? I told you, they carry a dead brain and consider themselves lasting emissaries of immortality. They will exercise primitive and savage rule of law like the chopping off of heads and hands and stoning to death. It is easy to infer what they are doing right now.

Thank you, officer, thank you for your time. Officer, can you give us directions that lead to the humanitarian organization that protects and secures our lives? the representative asks while departing.

The officer answers, Be safe. Go this way, go until you get to the right destination. When you reach a small town, get lighters and fuel and carry a bundle of dry wood. Last week, more than eight refugees were smashed and eaten by a lion. You know, fire is a threat and an enemy of lions. Be careful, guys.

Fire is a threat! Does the officer implicate to take arm and fight back? another immigrant asks.

Yes, the ultimate solution to removing dictators or evils is by armed struggle. Democracy and peaceful transition applies only to real human beings in leadership. These brain-dead rulers are sown weeds. They can be abolished in battle, Jinka says confidently.

Hoping for a better future, the immigrants resume their journey after spending three hours at Kocho.

Later Jinka cries out loudly, We are approaching the humanitarian organization. Be prepared to elaborate your situation. We will make our cases known.

Day 1

Born and raised in a small village with the help of parents whose income depended on tilling the land, Azenech commenced schooling at a place named Areka, located in the southern part of the country. As she continued with her learning at secondary high school, a political influenza spread throughout the nation. It required blood tests to differentiate ethnic belongings. Forms were dispatched in schools, to organizations, throughout counties and districts, and they insisted that all residents complete the form by identifying their ethnic origins. The public became confused and asked why the regime needed such roster. People lived together in peace for many years, coexisting in harmony and solidarity with no antagonistic contradictions. Did these armed rulers want to impose policy against the will of the public? Questions, opinions, and arguments ensued for months with no answer from the leaders.

Azenech assists her parents every day by fetching water from a river distanced about three miles away from their home. In the early evening, she harvests crops from the farm and studies late at night using a candle. She is a hardworking girl who aspires to change her abject situation, and that of her parents, after completing school.

Before she sits for her final examination in June, the director announces, The school will be closed beginning tomorrow and for an unknown period of time. No reason is given, but the headmaster cautions that everyone should be vigilant when leaving the school and at their own residences.

Sporadic shooting and killing was a common phenomenon in the past few years. But this year, events have moved to a second phase.

The time now reads eleven fifteen in the morning. Heavy gunfire is heard near the market center. Azenech abruptly collects her books and rushes to her family, who live by the side of Areka market. Did my mother or father go to the market today? Why did the director close the school? Azenech inquires and worries about possible dangers until she crosses the market square.

Azenech argues to herself, It is clear that these armed militia doesn’t have rational thinking. What is right is wrong and vice versa. Since their arrival here in the south, lives of human beings have been altered. We are like animals or voiceless plants. We are nothing. We are objects to be eliminated. A unique devil that sips and enjoys human blood is in power. What can any of us do?

Azenech opens her eyes and stares at Areka market. The market looks different. The usual noisy and busy market—where buyers and sellers are bargaining on price and mothers, children, and elders carry goods to and out of the market—is covered in a black curtain. Everything is calm. There is no motion. Dead persons are lined up row by row. Animals brought to sale—which include oxen, cows, and goats—are unattended and stiff and run over the dead bodies.

Azenech drops her schoolbag and screams. She searches for relatives but finds it hard to identify everybody. Unarmed children, men, and women have all been massacred. She says to herself, What a cruel, savage, and inhuman deed it is! What do these cannibals gain from killing needy and innocent people in the market? Why? Why exactly? More than a hundred dead are lying on bare