Journey to Africa

During the vacation, a day in the life of Song Ya went like this.

After waking up in the morning, he would warm up his voice, preparing for his future singing career. Just as Daniel had said, the ones who made the big money were always the singers. Two apocalyptic songs had made three people famous, and seeing Old Joe, Little Lowry, and even Mira becoming increasingly successful, it would be self-deception to say he didn't have any thoughts about it. This body had good vocal conditions; it would be a waste not to use them.

After practicing his vocals, he would play the guitar or blow the trumpet for an hour or so after breakfast to maintain his musical sense.

Then he would read some professional books on tuning or audio processing. The deeper he learned, the more he felt that this industry was nothing more than minor details. Currently, what constrained all electronic products was nothing more than hardware and software performance; without these two things, everything else was out of the question. The image clarity and quality of the music videos for his two apocalyptic songs were far superior to all music videos of this era. Even if a hundred Song Yas traveled back, they couldn't replicate them; this required an overall technological improvement in the software and hardware industries. From this, Song Ya also realized a truth: since the apocalypse hinted at the direction of future progress, perhaps he could also ride the east wind and make an investment. Of course, he was still incapable of doing so right now.

After lunch, he would exercise a little. He now had a well-proportioned figure, and his height was still shooting up. He absolutely must not develop horizontally like Aunt Susie, Tony, or Connie. The recipes he specifically gave to Aunt Susie also excluded junk food.

Then he would go out and wander around the North Side of Chicago, seeing if he could get lucky and receive a third apocalypse, and he would also buy things he liked to take home.

For example, the brand-new Nissan Bluebird in the apartment's underground parking lot, which cost just over ten thousand. Aunt Susie would drive it back to the South Side to see Connie, or go to the church she was accustomed to. In the future, when school started, picking up and dropping off Song Ya and Emily would also rely on it. That frequently broken used Ford pickup truck was left to Connie.

Or, for instance, the 386 computer that Compaq launched last year sitting on his desk. Song Ya happened to run into a sale while browsing an electronics store, so he bought it on a whim. After the Compaq engineer came over to install it, he stared at the pitch-black DOS interface for a few minutes, then shut it down and never opened it again. However, with this item in the bedroom, the inexplicably empty feeling he had after moving in disappeared, as if this thing was an essential prop for the bedroom; with it, his mind found peace. As for whether it was useful, that was not important.

If he stayed out late, he would go to a nearby Italian restaurant to eat his new favorite, spaghetti and meatballs. Chinese food in the USA didn't suit his palate; he actually preferred Italian food, even though he heard it was also "improved."

Returning home at night, he would sit in front of the television to watch the news and flip through magazines to understand the situation in domestic and foreign politics and the music industry. The hottest news right now was the Iraqi army entering Kuwait, and the USA President announcing the launch of Operation Desert Shield. "To de Klerk" was still fluctuating at a high position on the Billboard, while the studio version of "Thrift Shop" failed to be accepted by the market; after a slight rebound, it fell again and had now been squeezed out of the top fifty.

Mira would usually call at this time to tell him about all sorts of troubles, like "I miss you so much," "promoting every day is so tiring," or "some fans are too enthusiastic," and that her mother was strict about this and that. The worries of a fifteen-year-old girl were nothing more than those things. Mira would talk on the phone endlessly, making Song Ya feel quite listless. He felt that this was a waste of time, far less enjoyable than the times they were together, where they would always satisfy their physical needs first and then find something to do to pass the time; he felt that was more comfortable.

Then, it was time for diligent study.

In short, according to the "small goals" he set after traveling through time, Song Ya moved his entire family out of the South Side, saying goodbye to the poor public security and educational environment. He used his apocalyptic cheat to make big money, improved the lives of himself and his relatives, hooked up with the girl he wanted to hook up with, and could afford the things he wanted to buy, and then...

He discovered that after his "low desire" was satisfied, what remained was the emptiness of losing the motivation to strive.

Living in a daze for more than half a month, finally, the reward from Dr. Michelle was issued.

"To de Klerk" was originally just an essay for an exam. With the song becoming a hit across the USA, Michelle would naturally fulfill the South African youth project she had promised long ago.

Boarding the plane, traveling abroad for the first time, Song Ya's destination was South Africa.

"I heard that the sales of that song have exceeded one million?" As the flight entered a steady state, Dr. Michelle sitting beside him started the conversation.

Song Ya nodded, "I said it before, change your thinking to stand out."

Michelle smiled knowingly, "Indeed, I was surprised when I heard you sing those swear words, but I have to admit it felt refreshing."

"Do they—I mean the South African government—know that I am the songwriter of that song?" Song Ya asked.

"Don't worry, even if they knew, they would show their magnanimity. It's almost the 21st century, and they are still playing that apartheid game; no one in the world will support them." Michelle knew he was worried about safety, so she comforted him a few times, then turned her head to look at the noisy teenagers in the back rows, "Can you help me maintain order?" she asked.

There were quite a few participants in this youth activity, all teenagers from all over the USA who seemed to have some background, and Michelle, who was leading the team, was having a hard time.

"Alright." Song Ya knew this was because he looked mature. "Quiet!" He stood up and shouted to stabilize the situation, then walked around from front to back, pressing a few troublemakers back into their seats.

"Task completed perfectly..." He sat back down and claimed credit from Michelle. However, with the cabin quiet, the noise from the first-class section in the front became even more prominent. The laughter of men was occasionally mixed with the coquettishness of a flight attendant. "I can't control that side," Song Ya joked.

Michelle let out a long sigh, looking at the flight attendants who were smiling and constantly serving drinks to first class, "People from Wall Street never forget to enjoy themselves at any time."

"What are they doing in South Africa?" Song Ya asked.

"De Klerk's reforms have begun. If nothing goes wrong, South Africa will change its appearance within a few years. The political turmoil of such a large economy must contain countless opportunities. Those vultures..." Michelle pursed her lips toward first class; she was very disdainful of Wall Street, "won't let this opportunity go."

As the two were chatting, a white woman in her thirties with short, light-gold hair and an extraordinary temperament walked out of first class, "Hi... Michelle, would you like to come over and chat?" She found Michelle and issued an invitation.

"Forget it, Mrs. Underwood, I don't really like that kind of occasion." Michelle politely declined.

"Just call me Claire." The two exchanged a few pleasantries, but Claire couldn't persuade Michelle and had to return to first class.

Song Ya felt that Michelle's attitude toward her was very cold. "Mrs. Underwood?" he asked, "Is it the Underwood whose surname belongs to the congressman we met at school last time?"

"Yes, Ms. Claire runs a charity." Michelle paused, then whispered, "She is a broker. You should try to stay away from such people in the future."

"A broker?"

"Yes, a broker. Money and power, power and money—it's nothing more than those dirty dealings."