#2 was chatting with me about a Literature assignment which she did well in, and I was surprised to see how progressive the curriculum is.
Fan-fic?
They sure are keeping up with the times!
The students were asked to write a fan fiction based on their reading material “Cry, the Beloved Country” by Alan Paton, a teacher who went on to become the first president of the Liberal Party of South Africa in 1953.
Fan fiction is a work of fiction written by fans for other fans, taking a source text or a prominent character as a point of departure.
Scope:
Fan fiction takes a lot of forms and does a lot of different things. Some fan fiction seeks to close loopholes in a source text or to explore character motivations. Some fan fiction turns minor characters into protagonists of their own stories, or uses minor characters’ eyes to see a different perspective on the major characters.
Assessment criteria:
- Your story must be unique and original.
- Your story must illustrate some form of purpose e.g. explore an issue.
 |
| Cry, the Beloved Country |
The following is what she wrote, which I thought was pretty excellent!
Absalom,
We have come far. The rally at Alexandra was a success. Soon, we will have higher wages, better hours, a greater step towards justice. It all lies with the scripts now. Jarvis will have them ready tomorrow at 9am in Parkwoods. Do me proud.
John Kumalo.
.
Absalom stood over the plantation, the racing pulse in his right temple visible just below the tiny droplets of sweat beading up across his forehead. He had the letter clenched tightly in his left hand; it was the last of the many he’d received from his uncle over the years, yet was far from what predominated his mind. Of greater importance was the revolver he gripped in his other hand and the two empty spaces in its chamber that had been occupied less than an hour ago.
He dropped to his knees and started to dig, the butt of the weapon the shovel for its own grave. Ironic, but absolutely fitting, considering the entire incident had made him feel like doing something just so.
The ordeal had begun the morning of the letter. As dictated by John’s neatly inked instructions, with his partners, Matthew and Johannes, he was to meet Arthur Jarvis under the large Oak tree in Jarvis’ yard to receive the script for John’s final rally. He thought nothing of the task; bearing the secrets upon which the cause was precariously balanced had become a normality for them.
He blamed himself now for his blitheness. He should have noticed something had been amiss from Johannes’ devious eyes, the weapons he’d carried in a dark, lumpy sack over his shoulder, the too-lithe spring in his step as he walked. Johannes was only ever happy when he was in power, and power was something Absalom knew to fear.
They had been passing through the street next to the one of Jarvis’ residence, an hour early for their rendezvous, when Absalom finally built up the courage to inquire into the revolver Johannes held. The older boy had smiled secretively and reassured, “It is for safety.”
“And the bar?” Absalom questioned, looking to the thick iron rod Matthew was armed with, with what was almost nerves, for it was clear whom the superior of the trio was.
Johannes answered for Matthew as they entered Jarvis’ yard through an unlocked gate left slightly ajar for them. “It has been blessed.” His humorless tone and stony eyes told Absalom he had the last word.
Absalom had uneasily accepted his answers as the truth, but nothing could have prepared him for the next moments to come. In a spiraling whirlwind of macabre events, he was made to watch in horror as Matthew knocked an inquiring servant unconscious and Johannes shot Jarvis when he came down the stairs. The image of the fear on the white man’s face a split second before he was murdered haunted Absalom as the revolver was thrust into his shaking hands and he was told to run and meet them in Alexandra in six hours. So he had.
He stood now, surveying his work, his breathing rapid and guilt overwhelming him. His mind sped to trace back to how it all started, how all his little desires had manifested into one big pandemonium in which he was kept prisoner. From the letters his uncle had sent him from Johannesburg throughout his teenage years, detailing the racism and the protests against discrimination which had developed in the big city, he’d grown up exposed and wanting to make a difference in the lives of his people. He’d jumped at the chance of leaving Ndotsheni when the need to find Gertrude arose. His uncle needed someone he could trust to hold goods and run secret errands, and that responsibility soon came to rest on Matthew’s, Johannes’, and his own shoulders.
He shook his head at himself; he had been so naive. John’s letters had depicted their team as genuine, uncorrupted. They were the higher power with the bull voice and the intelligent brain and the pure heart. They were unstoppable. Or so John had said.
Like he had, the natives bought into their act like it was truth itself. They respected John especially, for he was the voice and the face of the movement. What would they do if they discovered that all of John Kumalo’s incredible speeches had been written by a white man, none other than Arthur Jarvis himself?
But as it was to his younger self, Absalom could not blame them for their blind innocence. Beggars could not be choosers, and they had known nothing but empty bellies and broken minds all their lives.
Absalom began the trek out of the plantation slowly. He knew what was waiting for him in Alexandra and was in no hurry to face it. The many similar meetings he’d been to had painted an image in his mind; he could picture the masses of people under Johannes’ leadership that would be gathered in one of the dirty fields out in the countryside, could almost feel the vibration of stomping feet beneath him, almost hear the chanting cries of youths begging for the overthrow of John and Dubula’s names at the top of the cause against racial discrimination. As if they knew better.
They, under Johannes’ and Matthew’s guide, would talk about fear and power. The fear of power, and the power of fear, and fear and power as its own. Absalom had to agree that the fear of power was very real, to himself more than others. He feared the white man’s power, and his own power to do harm and, most of all, Johannes’ immense power to ruin lives, for certainly his poorly thought out strategies to achieve his so-called ‘equalized revolution’ through violence and pure force would cause just that.
Absalom’s steps slowed. John’s twisted portrayal of his team had been a disappointment, but no doubt were they doing something great for the natives of Johannesburg. Principally, never once had he heard John or Dubula say a thing about equality or violence. Higher wages, better hours, a greater step towards justice, had been John’s exact words. Equality through violence? He could almost hear John laughing at the absurdity of the idea. Impracticality was a worse trait for a leader to have than empty boldness.
Yet, in spite of his irrationality, today Johannes had shown he was to be taken seriously. Today he had silenced the real voice of the movement. Today he might have just destroyed John’s chance to succeed.
With this change of thought, Absalom began running, this time towards the vague location of the police station in town that he’d crossed maybe once or twice before. A plan was forming in his mind; he had been given the opportunity to help his people beyond anything he’d ever imagined and was willing to sacrifice himself for it. They would suffer under Johannes’ ridiculous schemes to create what he thought to be equality for them all, and Absalom could only hope that turning himself in for the fatal crime they’d committed together would bring the leaders of the new aggressive resistance down with him.
He could only pray that John’s team would be able to rise above Jarvis’ death and suppress the wild schemes Johannes had left in his wake. Perhaps after he had accompanied Johannes and Matthew to Pretoria, Johannesburg would see a new justice for the natives, after their long fight against white supremacy.
For what better way to fight power, but with more power?
We have come far. The rally at Alexandra was a success. Soon, we will have higher wages, better hours, a greater step towards justice. It all lies with the scripts now. Jarvis will have them ready tomorrow at 9am in Parkwoods. Do me proud.
John Kumalo.
.
Absalom stood over the plantation, the racing pulse in his right temple visible just below the tiny droplets of sweat beading up across his forehead. He had the letter clenched tightly in his left hand; it was the last of the many he’d received from his uncle over the years, yet was far from what predominated his mind. Of greater importance was the revolver he gripped in his other hand and the two empty spaces in its chamber that had been occupied less than an hour ago.
He dropped to his knees and started to dig, the butt of the weapon the shovel for its own grave. Ironic, but absolutely fitting, considering the entire incident had made him feel like doing something just so.
The ordeal had begun the morning of the letter. As dictated by John’s neatly inked instructions, with his partners, Matthew and Johannes, he was to meet Arthur Jarvis under the large Oak tree in Jarvis’ yard to receive the script for John’s final rally. He thought nothing of the task; bearing the secrets upon which the cause was precariously balanced had become a normality for them.
He blamed himself now for his blitheness. He should have noticed something had been amiss from Johannes’ devious eyes, the weapons he’d carried in a dark, lumpy sack over his shoulder, the too-lithe spring in his step as he walked. Johannes was only ever happy when he was in power, and power was something Absalom knew to fear.
They had been passing through the street next to the one of Jarvis’ residence, an hour early for their rendezvous, when Absalom finally built up the courage to inquire into the revolver Johannes held. The older boy had smiled secretively and reassured, “It is for safety.”
“And the bar?” Absalom questioned, looking to the thick iron rod Matthew was armed with, with what was almost nerves, for it was clear whom the superior of the trio was.
Johannes answered for Matthew as they entered Jarvis’ yard through an unlocked gate left slightly ajar for them. “It has been blessed.” His humorless tone and stony eyes told Absalom he had the last word.
Absalom had uneasily accepted his answers as the truth, but nothing could have prepared him for the next moments to come. In a spiraling whirlwind of macabre events, he was made to watch in horror as Matthew knocked an inquiring servant unconscious and Johannes shot Jarvis when he came down the stairs. The image of the fear on the white man’s face a split second before he was murdered haunted Absalom as the revolver was thrust into his shaking hands and he was told to run and meet them in Alexandra in six hours. So he had.
He stood now, surveying his work, his breathing rapid and guilt overwhelming him. His mind sped to trace back to how it all started, how all his little desires had manifested into one big pandemonium in which he was kept prisoner. From the letters his uncle had sent him from Johannesburg throughout his teenage years, detailing the racism and the protests against discrimination which had developed in the big city, he’d grown up exposed and wanting to make a difference in the lives of his people. He’d jumped at the chance of leaving Ndotsheni when the need to find Gertrude arose. His uncle needed someone he could trust to hold goods and run secret errands, and that responsibility soon came to rest on Matthew’s, Johannes’, and his own shoulders.
He shook his head at himself; he had been so naive. John’s letters had depicted their team as genuine, uncorrupted. They were the higher power with the bull voice and the intelligent brain and the pure heart. They were unstoppable. Or so John had said.
Like he had, the natives bought into their act like it was truth itself. They respected John especially, for he was the voice and the face of the movement. What would they do if they discovered that all of John Kumalo’s incredible speeches had been written by a white man, none other than Arthur Jarvis himself?
But as it was to his younger self, Absalom could not blame them for their blind innocence. Beggars could not be choosers, and they had known nothing but empty bellies and broken minds all their lives.
Absalom began the trek out of the plantation slowly. He knew what was waiting for him in Alexandra and was in no hurry to face it. The many similar meetings he’d been to had painted an image in his mind; he could picture the masses of people under Johannes’ leadership that would be gathered in one of the dirty fields out in the countryside, could almost feel the vibration of stomping feet beneath him, almost hear the chanting cries of youths begging for the overthrow of John and Dubula’s names at the top of the cause against racial discrimination. As if they knew better.
They, under Johannes’ and Matthew’s guide, would talk about fear and power. The fear of power, and the power of fear, and fear and power as its own. Absalom had to agree that the fear of power was very real, to himself more than others. He feared the white man’s power, and his own power to do harm and, most of all, Johannes’ immense power to ruin lives, for certainly his poorly thought out strategies to achieve his so-called ‘equalized revolution’ through violence and pure force would cause just that.
Absalom’s steps slowed. John’s twisted portrayal of his team had been a disappointment, but no doubt were they doing something great for the natives of Johannesburg. Principally, never once had he heard John or Dubula say a thing about equality or violence. Higher wages, better hours, a greater step towards justice, had been John’s exact words. Equality through violence? He could almost hear John laughing at the absurdity of the idea. Impracticality was a worse trait for a leader to have than empty boldness.
Yet, in spite of his irrationality, today Johannes had shown he was to be taken seriously. Today he had silenced the real voice of the movement. Today he might have just destroyed John’s chance to succeed.
With this change of thought, Absalom began running, this time towards the vague location of the police station in town that he’d crossed maybe once or twice before. A plan was forming in his mind; he had been given the opportunity to help his people beyond anything he’d ever imagined and was willing to sacrifice himself for it. They would suffer under Johannes’ ridiculous schemes to create what he thought to be equality for them all, and Absalom could only hope that turning himself in for the fatal crime they’d committed together would bring the leaders of the new aggressive resistance down with him.
He could only pray that John’s team would be able to rise above Jarvis’ death and suppress the wild schemes Johannes had left in his wake. Perhaps after he had accompanied Johannes and Matthew to Pretoria, Johannesburg would see a new justice for the natives, after their long fight against white supremacy.
For what better way to fight power, but with more power?
__________
#2 does have a bit of a flair for writing fiction, doesn’t she? But then again, most mums are biased 😉
~ www.mummyweeblog.com – a blog on parenting 6 kids in Singapore ~