Leaving the Underground - by Joshua Omoijiade

I’ve been thinking a lot about freedom lately—the nature of it, the way it defines humanity, and how it seems to elude some even from birth. If a man is to be free, what does that look like? Can freedom exist in isolation, or does it require something collective and who defines this? This is a two-part essay on that very topic. The first part is a story. --- Once, deep in the tunnels of an imagined country, a boy was born to a woman held captive. The boy, named Geleck, grew up in the darkness and carved out a life with as much joy as his world allowed. He had friends in the trenches, he had neighbours, and the spirit of the imprisoned was, for the most part, as warm as the air of the pits. Two things troubled him, however. The first was the guards—two men who came and went, keeping the rosters, maintaining order, and paying wages in cigarettes, clothing, bread, and medicine. They were indifferent, distant, yet always there. The second was a question he could never quite push away; He was the only child in the trenches without a father “what happened to my own papa”, he wondered. One day, as always, he asked his mother: “Mother, what was my father like? Did I not have one?” She sighed. “Turn your mind from such things. It is not yet important.”  “Not yet”, he thought. Time passed. On his twelfth birthday, the prison stirred with unusual energy. A crowd gathered around a man from the mining cells. Geleck squeezed his way forward for a better look. The man was nearly thirty, dressed in clean, pressed clothes, a rucksack slung over his back. He was grinning, almost glowing as much as the yellow and red lamps above their heads. Then, the two guards arrived - officers Ben and Baron, their tags read. They went away with him through the door, and that was the last anyone saw of him. That evening, Geleck’s mother called him close. “You’re too young to remember the last liberation,” she said softly. “But the man you saw today—Gurney, his name—he’s done his time here. He’s been lifted to the surface.” He blinked. “So he gets to see the sky? The birds and everything?” “Yes,” she giggled. Then, after a pause, she continued. “You know how I told you your father’s not important yet?” “Yes, Mama. Is he free? Is he up there, in the world above?” “When you turn eighteen, your father will come for you. And you might get to see the birds and the sky—just like Gurney.” His chest swelled with hope. “And you’ll be there too? We’ll be a family?” She stiffened. Her smile was forced when she answered. “Of course we will.” --- Sure as time, the boy Geleck became a young man. And then the day came—earlier for him than for Gurney, he remembered. The guards approached him in the crowd. One reached out a hand for a shake, and Geleck took it. He followed them out. Behind him, his mother sobbed. He knew now, resisting the urge to look back—she would not be coming with him. The moment he stepped outside, the world consumed him. The air was thick, alive, pressing against his skin. Light flooded his eyes, colour exploding in every direction. The wind moved around him—swift, heavy, kind. I never knew air could move like this. “Alright,” Officer Ben said, stretching his words lazily, “straight to business.” He grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Because of your father’s station, we’re offering you the terms early. You’ve stayed out of trouble, done your duties well. Now, you have the chance to become an upper statesman.” Geleck’s mouth was dry. “What do you mean?” Officer Baron, the second guard, took a step forward. “Here are your options, Mr. Geleck.” His voice was smooth; measured. “You can return to your mother in the tunnels and live out your days there. You can be shot dead at the end of tomorrow. Or…” He let the words hang between them. “…you can become like us.” Geleck’s stomach twisted. “I… I don’t understand.” “The world runs on balance,” Baron continued. “Resources, crime, production, progress—they all have to be managed. Men like us oversee that balance. We control the tunnels, decide who moves up, who stays behind. It’s serious business. A role for only the finest.” Geleck swallowed. “So I’d be… a guard? Above the others?” “More or less, you could even become a warden,” Ben said with a shrug. Baron tilted his head. “You’d have the finest freedom. A life of some luxury. You could even make things easier for your mother—take her from the depths, get her an apartment if you like.” An apartment. He had never heard the word before, but he understood. It was something greater. Something better. He didn’t ask for more details. Silence settled between them, the wind rustling their clothes. “What does the finest freedom look like?” Geleck wondered “You must decide before tomorrow,” Baron said. “A life of freedom—for yourself, maybe even one or two of your loved ones. No one has ever chosen to return to the underbelly voluntarily.” Ben’s voice was quieter when he added, “Some have.” --- The second part of this essay is a reflection on this story—and an argument for the indivisibility of freedom. In the finding of our freedoms, do we do it alone or in step with others? These questions, Geleck’s choice, and their implications are the subject of the next part of this essay.

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