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The African Gentleman

…and The Plot to Re-establish The New World Order

A Novel by Fred Beauford

Chapters 24-25


And wow, what a work in progress it was, as I slowly made my way through it.

Gladys was up to her old tricks again, only this time “The Person” not only had no name, but also wasn’t identified as either male or female, which took considerable writing skills on her part to successfully pull off.

It seemed that this person had spent an entire life overwhelmingly consumed with a single concern: what happens to us when we die, if anything.

The person, whose age it was difficult to discern, had studied all the belief systems we human beings have thus far invented, both major and obscure, including many that I had never heard of.

Gladys had done her homework.

Finally, the person, after much contemplation and many encounters -- erotic, bizarre, obtuse, scary and downright silly -- comes to a profound conclusion, acts accordingly, and then finds itself more desperate than before.

I will let Gladys lay it out for you:

“When I began this story, believe me, I was fully flesh and blood. You could touch me, slap me, fuck me, I could fuck you, and do all the things that the world can do to the living. But not now.

I now float aimlessly, endlessly, trying desperately, but to no avail, to complete my journey, the journey that was pre-ordained for me by the creators of all things (Yes, I used the right word -- do you really think that one being, no matter what you call it, could have brought all of this into being, especially once you see it in all of its true glory, as I have had the honor of briefly witnessing?).

I even once spoke to one of them, at least I think I did. There wasn’t a voice, or what we call language, just an overwhelming feeling of being totally connected, something I never knew existed.

I asked: “Why didn’t one of you come to us and say something?”

The feeling, that low, vague something, came slowly, in time that seemed to pass in eons, and finally caused me to understand that “It turned out bigger than we expected. As it spread, you, and all that we created, are now on your own journey, to where we have no knowledge, recombining over and over again, as the basics of your existence never removes itself from what your world called the universe. We now have no control over that which we created.”

     The feeling, or quiet, barely discernable voice, or whatever it was, slowly faded away, never to be heard from again. It, whatever it was, I could discern knew of my suffering, and suffered with me. I vaguely felt a disappointment in it, so profound that I could never, ever, if I floated around for the eons until time itself ceased to exist -- fully understand.

   One thing I thought I heard very clearly was that things didn’t quite turn out as they had hoped. I understood that this spiritual contact was an emissary, traveling the endless spirit world, trying to help those who could not move on.

   This thing, this feeling, sometimes vague, sometime bold, sometimes with great clarity -- wanted nothing more than to give me the answers that would allow me to let go, and to fully embrace this new form of existence.

    A welcoming committee, if you will.

    And I had been correct. The insight I had been searching for was finally revealed: We don’t remember that we have done this many times over. Those beings we call exceptional, with their great discoveries, are so because a part of them remembers.

    Hearing this from one of the persons, or things, that created all of this, should have brought me contentment, but things became worse.

   And, I will continue to suffer, forever.

   The great desire, which animated my life among the living, now continues to consume me even more, but now in a terrifying, perverse way. I can never complete my journey because the same deep desire that caused me to do what I did, now wanted more than anything else, for my own salvation, to go back and tell the world I came from what I now know.

   They would be as amazed as I.

    Oh, if only they could see it. If only they knew the truth. And if only they knew how much they had been lied to, and everything they had been taught was nonsense.

     Well, not quite all of it. The notion of hell was nearly correct. Those of us who can’t move on into this incredible new state of being, like me, have created a hell of our own creation.

     I could sometimes make out cries of anguish, from others like me. Some unresolved obsession still haunted them; some crying, wailing, moaning for the heaven they had prayed so hard for: “This can’t be it…I eat the right food…I wore my hair in the correct way I grew a beard...I covered myself...I shaved myself...  But this was not what was promised…It must be somewhere…Where is my heaven, where, where...?”

   The voices, more like feelings caught on a soft breeze, surrounded me, coming at unsuspected times, times when I often felt that I was on the verge of finding my way back.

    This cacophony of sadness, loneliness and deep regret, translated in billions of languages, from billions of worlds, and that somehow I understood -- conveyed a sense of true betrayal, and would all at once envelop me. After eons, I finally realized they were the true believers of whatever world they came from, in the countless worlds I now know exist. And now they had only found misery.

      I wished, perhaps to allay my aloneness, to see them, or even hear them clearly, and not just a snatch of profound despair.

      But I understood. I was one with them and I suppose they could vaguely hear my own cries of anguish. I wanted so badly to know what it was all about, so badly that I came to the only logical conclusion I could reach. I killed myself.

     So here I am, still tortured, because now that I know, I want everyone else to know.

    I still see them, even in the awesome majesty I now have within my grasp. I can still hear the lies. I still feel for them, and know why in life I was so determined to know what it was all about. I know now that it wasn’t a selfish, vain obsession. I wanted, and still want, to free them from their prisons of deep fears, and allow them to live freely and not fill their lives with myths and fairy tales. It is far greater than anyone born on Earth could have ever imagined.

And I desperately wanted them to know that.


I can’t wait to read what she comes up with next. 


I went to see my friend Assai one last time before he was to be sent to the country is father and mother immigrated from years ago. It was a strange feeling as I sat across from him, the heavy glass partition separating us. It was at a moment like this, and thank God I have had only had a few in my life, that I didn’t know whether to feel blessed about the fact that I am one of those people with my head always in a cloud, thinking only about my own personal, inner needs as the world around me slowly spins out of control; or to be deeply ashamed of myself for being so shallow.

As I sat down, I suddenly imagined that I was an African American, or a WASP, and had joined his revolution, or whatever he calls it. If I had been caught, like Assai, with not enough evidence to send me to jail, but just enough to deport me, where would they send me? I’m African, and I have the DNA tests, which is all the rage now that people have to defend who they think they are—to prove it.

Because Africa is so huge, and my parent’s DNA is all over the place, maybe they would send me to an Indian reservation. Given how much money some Native people have these days, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

I chuckled to myself at the thought.

“Well, you seem to be in good humor, sir,” Assai said to me. He clearly must have noticed the little smile I could barely suppress.

Shame on me! I shouldn’t be making quiet jokes to myself at such a serious moment.

“I suppose the appeal was turned down?” I asked.

We never talked about the substance of the charges, and only occasionally brought up some legal aspect of it.

To be truthful, I really didn’t know if he was guilty or not. No one at the office talked about it, and he was the only one out of the hundreds that worked there, who was arrested. It seemed strange to me that if he was indeed the head of such a large, world-wide organization; it would seem that at least some of the people he worked with would have been in on it, as well.

But apparently he had a highly compartmental mind, and business was business, and revolution, revolution.

“It’s done, my friend,” he answered. “But that’s okay. I have my health, and there are things unseen that will help guide me through all this, and perhaps will cause those who are committing this unspeakable act, to repent.”

He spoke in a low, thoughtful voice, and I felt not hate, nor anger, nor a voice longing for revenge, but only his deeply felt spiritual beliefs. I felt a growing sense of awe of him, and a growing sense of my own inadequacies.

“I wish I could believe the way you do. It must be a good feeling to wake up every morning and feel that you know what it is all about. I wish you could tell me how it feels, so I could feel what you feel.”

Assai just smiled, now perhaps becoming used to my pouring out irrelevant statements and questions at the most inappropriate time.

When it came time to leave, I placed my hand to the glass. He also placed his hand to the same glass.

“Goodbye, friend,” I said.

“Goodbye, sir. And I hope you find what you are looking for. I am just sorry I didn’t have the answers for you.”

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