A Collection of Creative Writing by Students of Ladysmith High School in Kwa-Zulu Natal, South Africa

Friday 21 December 2018

The Final Hours ~ Vuyani Ntshingila

Everything happened so quickly. It was two months ago that I transferred from the CIA to the FBI New York office as deputy director of the FBI. My unpopular move had left many people unhappy at the CIA, but it was just something they had to accept I was tired of that life. I almost lost my life three times in one year alone; it was time for me to move on to greener pastures. This high-level office job in intelligence was the perfect thing for me.

I had been at my new job for only a month when I got a visit from OPR. They were investigating a breach of security from my office. I was aware that files were being leaked from my office so I had initiated a complete file lock down and had one of my senior officers investigate. The director sending in OPR meant that the leaked information was now endangering national security.

The OPR investigation took two weeks and no evidence was found. They ordered a lift of the file lock down that was initiated by me, claiming that I had no grounds to keep the office under lock down anymore and that I was halting progress of important and pending investigations.

A week after I lifted the lock down six new files on impending cases were leaked. These were high level cases that were going to expose the CIA for operating outside of their jurisdiction. That’s when I became suspicious of OPR. A low-level trainee could have figured out that there was a breach in this very office that I was in charge off.

I decided to do an investigation as to were these files were being sent. The IP address turned up at an old CIA drop site that only a few people knew about. (In hindsight I should have informed Kurt Weller, a friend from the CIA about this, but I was unsure about whom I could or could not trust.)

My decision to investigate the drop site alone is what eventually led to the unfortunate events that followed. At the drop site I found an old laptop. It was a decoy there was no way that this could have been what was receiving the files the software on this was ancient. My gut was right: it was a setup. I discovered that the CIA had been using the New York office for illegal operations for years and my move there threatened their operation.

I was here for one thing only. I’d seen this a thousand times before but now I wasn’t the one sent to eliminate the target. There was no confrontation, only shots from an automated sniper rifle. After all my service to my country I had been setup to die a villain but they’ll have to find me first. It will take more than a laptop scam to kill this assassin.


© Vuyani Ntshingila

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Grade 12
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There Was No Possibility Of Taking a Walk ~ Banele Kubheka

It was as if the chosen people had left and the earth had formed part of hell. The sun, perched high up in the sky, was beyond relentless. The roads flowed down the mountain side, shimmering and shining, and fell over the hill into an estuary called, Town.

The wind howled in the distance, calling its brethren from the four corners of the world to join it as it feasted on the emptiness of the valley. The trees rolled from side to side, bending with the remover but were not removed. Enjoying their own company, the tumbleweed cruised rapidly across the streets, stopping to knock on bolted doors.

The water itself had joined the environmental revolt and was in exile, nowhere to be seen; dark clouds stained the sky. The river slithered across the landscape. Its scaly skin yet to be shed with the arrival of the rains.

From my window, I pondered the likelihood of becoming food for the gnats and I marveled at their ability to brave this heat.

Darting across the scales of the river were the growing shadows of storm clouds. Each carrying its own army of water drops, ready to pelt old life to death and bring about new life. Carried by the wind, these dark, sinister wings glided effortlessly over everything. The lightning flashed and the thunder clapped: the marching band of the environmental army.

The wind grew stronger but the trees did not. The sun was hidden but its fury was not. The army was attacking. The soil sizzled and drowned. The gnats were plucked from the sky one by one. The trees bent, rolled over and were uprooted.

Through my window, in the safety of my house, amidst the watery massacre, I smelt new life and creation. I also smelt imprisonment: there was no possibility of taking a walk that day.



© Banele Kubheka

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Grade 12
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Sunday 7 January 2018

The Hustle And Bustle: Are You the Man for the Job? ~ Lulama Msomi

  “Beep! Beep! Move man move!” an annoyed taxi driver yells as the traffic lights change from red to green. It’s scorching hot and the sun’s heat punishes the city of the power hungry: Jozi. Women pulling their children furiously across the road respond to the taxi man with irritated smirks. The air is hot and moist. Everything here is bigger and moves as fast as quicksilver.
It’s been months since my mother died in our matchbox of a house and it feels as if it’s been centuries since I escaped the foster care system that used many of my siblings and I for grant money. The escape, however, was short lived as the crime and violence I’d tried to avoid in Thembisa was in abundance when I landed upon Jozi.
  The city is riddled with an immense number of thieves that vary such that some are quick and obvious in their daily grind whilst others are patient and disguise themselves in suits. The “quick” gain little for a short while, whilst the “suits” garner large amounts of money that is enough to last an eternity. They have one goal in common: survival, which begs the question “Are you the man for the job?”
  “Alright, alright Jabu I’m impressed with your recent piece of work you’ve done well, I think you are ready to work with big boys now,” my Pakistani employer, Mr Malik, applauds me. He is a “suit” and believes himself an honest man. He is in fact corrupt and ironically the same man I stole from in an attempt to save my dying mother. He nearly killed me for the parcels I stole from his pharmacy. The pharmacy itself is a façade for his gun and drug smuggling cartel. I never wanted this wanted this life but I had to be the “man for the job to survive.”
  Gunfire thundered through the stale air of an abandoned warehouse. “Where are the firearms boy!” the infuriated drug lord, from whom Mr Malik stole his merchandise, demanded. Hiding behind wooden boxes I fire back hesitantly since it was my first time firing a gun. I shoot blanks but it’s enough to scare off one of the shooters in balaclavas. I don’t know how I got myself into this situation. A situation that could reunite me, six feet under, with my brother and mother but, unfortunately, there was no turning back.
  Mr Malik constantly reminded me that working for him was payment of an infinite amount of debt. His version of sympathy was allowing me to live since I had lost my mother. I was entrapped with as many chances to escape as a man alone at sea on a lifeboat. I had survived many tempests prior to this but this one was sure to drown me…but I wanted to survive, so I must have been the man for the job.


©  Nolulama Msomi

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Matriculant 2017
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