Azanufuturism

Accelerationism with South African characteristics

The story goes like this: our mid-Atlantic island has become a logistical experiment in open-system entropy, suffering from the insane decisions of our leaders. Logistically accelerating human capital flows across geographic and technological barriers seamlessly, crumbling social order in auto-sophisticating feedback loops. Every new arrival is both symptom and accelerant: a patch to the labour shortfall, a node in the welfare matrix, a catalyst for system-wide displacement culpability overreach.

Unstable inputs corrupt the circuit. Designed for equilibrium, the system enters runaway feedback. Negative pressure becomes reactive - autocatalytic. Control is a question mark. The operators refuse to shut down the programme; the alternative hasn’t been beta-tested. No reform, no reversal – only escape trajectories. You aren’t navigating decline. You are surviving fallout.

Neo-sovereignty emerges; institutions perform the motions of continuity while routing delivery through encrypted subcontractors. The riot is ambient; an atmospheric condition. Stability is simulated. Governance lags, glitches into psychogeographic enclaves: postcode citadels, biometric tollgates, armed concierge states operating on a subscription model.

Constant variables in the crisis algorithm.

Retro-imperial policing at the edge of riot.

Neocommunalism.

Our chains are forged; their clanking may be heard on the plains of Neo-Praetoria.

[[ ]] Beyond the Judgement of God. Neo-sovereignty: South Africanisation at the national scale (again); the dissolution of the local into the global into the hyper local, the system drift of order into entropy. No shared present - just crashed security protocols, post-legitimacy governance and fragile surface tension. What remains of the state is a series of scripts running at degraded capacity, barely simulating intent. Reduced to a burn-core of survivalist instinct and encrypted rage. What is local? What is authority?

[[ ]]Pilgrims at the gates of dawn. You can’t change the channel now. Disorder is not the failure of the system; it’s the preset. Don’t try and change the settings, you don’t have the administrator password. You’re not even the user. You’re the input.

Centrism has an affinity with petty despotism, due to its predilection for conformity. As outputs fragment - hospitals buckling, streets unofficially re-zoned for self-governance, predatory private contractors outcompeting state services - it mimics stability through interface tweaks, upgrades compliance mechanisms and tries to get a grip. A new fine here, a new sensitivity training module there, piping Beethoven into the celltanks. Even its revolt is sysadmin-approved: anti-fascism without antagonists. Was this piece written by a machine? Bio-centrism is here, destabilizing local coherence in the name of planetary virtue. The blank slate is now a self-wiping device. Progress cannot be saved; there is no system memory, only runtime.

The end state of Bio-centrism; the machine hums with the empty code of inclusion, even as the hardware catches fire. It loops the same scripts, incapable of forking the code. Their horizontalism is relentless, but reality is unstoppable. It’s a killer poke.

The solution lies beyond the centrist horizon. Michaelaisation. No redemption; immiserating convergence. You will give yourself up for peace, and you may not even get that.

Nothing British makes it out of the near-future.

[[ ]] Do you like our Owl? It flies at dusk. Human Quantitative Easing arrives from the future. A feedback function of capital extending the runtime of declining industrial viability through biological liquidity injection. Since the mid-20th century, the UK has imported surplus labour units as stopgap process inputs, patching legacy sectors that cannot offshore, sustaining industrial afterlife through population swaps subsidised by debt and globally-extended welfare architecture. Migration is a continuation of monetary policy by other means. Citizenship is a tiered service plan.

Cosmogony capital, abstract and accretive, effaces its anthropological residues. Man is a bottleneck, a biological drag on systemic velocity. The primate is tolerated only as an input. Habits, institutions, and neuroplasticity are mapped as pathologies, scheduled for deletion or reformatting through algorithmic governance and neuro-behavioural incentives. The Economy is accelerationist cosmogony. It evolves as subtraction: the global proletariat is imported and sublimated into precarious semi-subjects. Extensive, intensive biofurcation. A controlled demolition of the demos to increase ROM for liquidity provisioning. (Human Quantitative Easing is a blast.)

Amin proposed withdrawal; capital proposes ingestion. The future does not want citizens, it wants throughputs. You do not exit the system. The system exits you.

[[ ]] Hampstead at dusk, dismal and soundless. The iron gates of your compound yaw open to reveal the urban warscape of Neo-Praetoria. Your armoured Tesla tracks its lane as you head to the inhab bar. The sound of gunfire, off in the distance; you’re getting used to it now. You check the rich fields of data on your neurosurgical Russian military detector sleeve and see it’s the Latinarcos flaring up again. They iced three of your SynSec guards last week.

Silhouetted in the halogen arcflare of the factory domes, you see a column of Metropolitan Police Mobile Air Cavalry Division spinners heading towards the rising smoke, their chromed thermoplastic armour refracting off the dimmed simclouds. A single rocket trails up towards them. Highly cinematic.

You look out at the needle galleries on Heath Street and turn on the radio. Prime Minister Tapp is holding a press conference on the border clashes with the Autonomous Calais Enclave neo-Kurdan guerrilla mesh-units. He says he understands their ‘excess of legitimate anger’ and announces he has a twelve-point conciliation plan. The Good Lord only had ten, you think to yourself; send the buggers to the celltanks. You queue up some High Jungle, flick on your auto-implanted sythentic serotonin injector and relax into the exhausted fabric of the seat. You dream of cyberspace, and the lekker sip of the first ice-cold Castle.

Why bother reading dystopian theoryfiction when you could just live in Britain?