LAGBOT-45. – Oyedotun Damilola Muees

Reporter 1: Today, 23rd June 2087. I am standing at the façade of the State High Court in Lagos. The case between the highly revered billionaire businessman, Chief Cornelius Okeowo and Miss Sewa Bakare has been going on for five weeks. It is no longer news that Miss Sewa, a former employee in one of Chief Okeowo’s numerous companies, accused him of physically assaulting her. The law does not take such accusations likely. Women advocacy groups and Non-Governmental agencies protecting the rights of females have poured out on the streets, chanting for due process to be followed and justice to be duly served. We cross our fingers, awaiting the verdict that will ensue. Speculations have been flying, saying the case may not follow due process going by the profile of the accused. We will find out soon enough.

Reporter 2: The whole nation is glued to its television screens. The courtroom is already tense. Emotions are running high. From the heat of the moment, I can see that the masses are rooting in favour of Miss Sewa. Will this case be akin to what happened in 2079 during the case of former M.D First City Bank, Maitama Dongoyaro and his personal assistant Miss Chinelo? The case brought so much tension that anything short of justice for Miss Chinelo, the complainant, would have painted the judicial system as corrupt. Well, as you may recall, the case was ruled against Miss Chinelo. And despite many appeals, she lost the case. Will Miss Sewa also be another helpless victim in the hand of another opulent individual? We will find out soon.

Stay tuned for further updates at the courthouse.

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Initializing…

Set-up…

Reference 102.

Opening folder of employer: Mr. Cornelius Okeowo.

Permission Granted.

Log 001. 7^th July, 2087.

Special Ministry of Science, Technology, and Metallurgy built the Lagbot as a special purpose AI. For special people. Being the first set of Artificial Intelligence after years of research, we have the best body parts produced from the rich iron ore abundant in the Southwestern part of the country. Our employers decide what we are called the moment we are purchased. After all, they paid millions of naira for our services.

This is my first assignment. I press my hands against my embossed breastplate, it reads Lagbot-45 – the name assigned to me by my manufacturer. A new home awaits me. The profile of my new employer has been downloaded into my database, configured to suit his demand. Mr. Cornelius Okeowo, born on 24 August 2048. A billionaire, philanthropist, and Managing Director of Okeowo group of companies. Dealers in cargo services, tourism and hospitality. He is suffering from anterior cord syndrome. He suffered this from an injury at a promenade, when he fell from his skating board and landed back-first on a culvert. Mr. Okeowo is an irascible man who has zero scruples about sacking his employees. Some leave of their own accord despite the huge salaries he pays for their services. The only employees who have stayed put are Mrs. Goke, the butler equally skilled in Ikebana, and the codger chauffeur, Mr. Francis.

I was sent to him after many failed attempts to get along with his previous Lagbots.  Mr. Okeowo nagged at how dumb the former Lagbot behaved. Dumb robots, he said. The Departments rewrote the codes and I was birthed; one of a kind. There are tens of thousands of possible reactions my manufacturers programmed in my Central Processing Unit vis-à-vis Mr. Okeowo’s need. Upon delivery, Mr. Okeowo is given virtual glasses that allowed him to communicate with me and see through my eyes.  Only he has the voice command to summon me at will. The Department modified me in such a way that I can record the activities of my employer, and attend to their demands. They can communicate with me at any time. They have the right to report me to the Department or terminate my contract at will if need be. Upon resumption, we are obliged to protect them. We are bound by law to enter into their private lives only with their permission. A list of activities are embedded in us to better serve our new employer.

Every Lagbot has its glitches. In a case of abuse by our employer, we don’t report such until the Department receives a red alert on our server. Red alerts appear when there is a situation in our system that was not initially installed. There have been cases where a Lagbot is abused, used for a despicable act. Once the employer is found guilty he pays for damages, and the law suspends him from owning us for a specified time depending on the gravity of the offence.

Log 064. 20^th July, 2087.

Mr. Okeowo woke up with a slight fever this morning. It is my duty to call his hospital if it aggravates. He tells me to call the family doctor instead. This grizzly-haired doctor arrives without delay. I watch him examine Mr. Okeowo, automatically recording all the happenings. Mrs. Goke is tending the flowers. Her Ikebana skills are amazing, though I can teach her numerous artistic styles. She laughs at me, saying. I have been in this craft before they give birth to your coconut head. My great-great-great grandmother worked for Empress Arin. I come from a line of Ikebana experts. First, I tell her I am not a child that is biologically birthed after a male and female come together to have coitus. Secondly, I am a neoteric specially engineered AI with memory, processor, and speed that can solve problems and produce answers in microseconds upon command. I tell her about her ludicrous off-key incongruent singing every time she works. I am certain her voice would never gather a flock of birds if she were to host a concert. She tells me to shut up, Stupid robot. I remind her that I am not a robot. Robot is a derogatory name for my kind. She wanders away, carrying a pot of jacaranda, singing.

Mr. Okeowo is glued to his laptop. I am seated calmly on the seethe, awaiting his command. The next thing I hear is a thump on the table. His left hand is clenched.  A scowl maps his face, causing sharp lines to form on his forehead. I approach him. His reaction tells me he is irked. He is still engrossed in the image on the laptop screen. I see a man and woman holding hands, smiling at each other in a restaurant. The man is bespectacled, holding the woman in a position that suggests they are a couple. I am programmed to understand love language, not feel love. Such intense positions match other images recorded into my memory as private.  Mr. Okeowo’s face is gloomy. The picture staring at him has derailed his happy mood. The first rule of the Lagbot in protecting our employers is solving the problem from the root. I figure that the root cause of his anger is the pictures in front of him.

“Sir, kindly move away from your laptop,” I say. “The rage going through you will intensify if you linger on the pictures.”

My words seem to fall on deaf ears. I search my module for a more soothing solution to alleviate his problem. I open a particular module titled, depression. I look at him. He shows no signs of the template the response server lists out to me. He shoves the laptop away from the mahogany table, screaming aloud. His voice startles Mrs. Goke, who rushes out of her room, placing her hand on her chest as if to keep her heart from jutting out. He orders Mrs. Goke out of his sight, shouting at her when she breaches the gap between. She attempts to extend her hand in concern as humans do.

“Hand me my bottle of scotch!” Mr. Okeowo commands.

I do as instructed. Alcohol keeps the body calm. It is listed in the options in my sub-folder for relieving a sad person. In my leisure, I put an array of things that could help serve him better. The template was stored as a shortcut in the interface of my screen. Mr. Okeowo guzzles two small shots from his tumbler. Silence helps. I allow him to be calm, hopefully, he will spill out what is bothering him. He pours another round, telling me the reason for his rage.

“The man I saw earlier was one of my closest friends. The lady with him was my girlfriend before the accident.”

He wooed her because she sang mellifluously. At an early age, she was a wunderkind. Mr. Okeowo assumes she left him because of his disability. My word-jar registers the word as false. Special people is the word recognised in my system. I tell him he is special. He laughs at me.

“Pal, you are just a robot programmed to say what is stored in you,” he says, drinking some more.

I open the folder on my interface. A list of options extracted from my modules can be of help. I browse through the options: How to make a sad man happy. How to react when he is mad. How to console a man in tears. How to be tactful in dealing with an aggrieved man. None of those options seems relevant to how he feels at the moment. I register his strange mood under a new category which is not in my database. Lagbots are allowed to save a new reaction from our employer. We send it to the Department when the new behaviour jar is filled. I sit on the floor adjacent to him, open my e-notepad—five stages of grief.

Log 075. 25^th July 2087.

It is my first time at the beach. A large number of people are staring. Lagbots are mainly afforded by the crème-de-la-crème of the society. Two grim sentries flank Mr. Okeowo. They stop people from coming close. Mr. Okeowo orders his sentries to allow them come forward. Boys and girls take selfies with him. Their mouth structure is snout-shaped. I do a quick search about mouth posture when taking pictures. Over one-thousand results pop up. The majority of the pictures are of pouting ladies.

I see a pregnant woman with a man I suppose is her husband from the way they lock hands, running a quick scan on her stomach. I can detect a range of diseases, allergies, pregnancies and injuries in less than ten seconds. Lagbots can also help in the delivery of babies. The progress is advanced, and I can see that the baby is breech. I go over to her, telling her what I had scanned. Her husband chases me away, calling me names my system registers as invectives.

Mr. Okeowo is drinking a smoothie. My antenna picks germs flying around. I request that the smoothie be covered. One of the very harmful ones could enter into his drink. Though more than half of them cannot cause him serious harm. Mr. Okeowo has a clean bill of health. I make sure I scan him for anomalies each morning before he takes his coffee. A man is surfing. I have always been stunned as to the reason humans engage in dangerous activities all for fun. The risks the surfer is exposed to vary from being swept by the rising waves knocking him unconscious, leaving him to drown, to being bitten by sharks or poisonous jellyfish.

Mr. Okeowo’s mood is light today. Humans love nature. A dog stands in front of me. It poses no threat. I search for a module on how to play with dogs. These animals like bones. I search around for one but found none. It begins to sniff me. Information in my module says dogs like to sniff humans and other things of interest. Its body touches my spindly leg.

Our next stop is a restaurant. Lagbots are kept in a different section. The restaurant is only meant for humans. Mr. Okeowo tells me to watch him from a distance. He has the whole table to himself. Humans love it here – the food, drinks, serene environment. The restaurant serves over twenty different kind of meals, many of which are unhealthy for people with a high level of cholesterol in their system. As I approach Mr. Okeowo, warning him about the food he is about to ingest, I stumble on a man and wine spills on his long-sleeved white shirt. He pours his ire on me, calling me the same name Mrs. Goke calls me, stupid robot. I apologize. A man dressed in a gaudy suit tells Mr. Okeowo about the restaurant policy. Mr. Okeowo looks around, asking the man the worth of the restaurant.

“Do you know who you are talking to? Perhaps you don’t wish to keep working here,” Mr Okeowo threatens.

The man apologizes, bowing and exiting. I tell Mr. Okeowo about the unhealthy ingredients in the food he was about to consume. One of his sentries laughs.

“I told you. He is overly protective of me,” Mr. Okeowo says with a smile.

Log 091. 6^th August 2087.

The differences between humans and Lagbots are endless. Humans grow old by the day and die from ageing, illness or untimely death. Lagbots do not die from old age. The Department shuts us down when we begin to run amok. Today’s archive is kept in a special folder—it’s a special day for Mr. Okeowo. Gifts are sprawled on the floor of the living room. Yesterday, I studied the module on birthdays. Humans like to embellish their homes with things they find fascinating.

People troop in and out of the house. The boys arranging the disco lights and balloons are not following the health-safety protocol. The ladder is placed horizontally, inclined at an unsafe angle that could make the climber fall, causing severe concussion to his brain. Mr. Okeowo is in his bedroom. Humans like to bask in the euphoria of a celebration before they come out in the open. I search online for a gift he might like. We can provide various kinds of help but not financial. Later in the day, the house is all set up in a way I have never seen before. Men and women come bearing more gifts for Mr Okeowo. Outside, service boys carrying flutes filled with effervescing champagne, smile, and bow after guests pick one from the tray.

Mr. Okeowo is clad in an immaculate white 3-piece suit, a white hat and black glossy designer shoes to match. A lady musician wearing a red lacy gown mounts the stage. Everyone focuses on her like she is some kind of celebrity. I run a facial search on her, and it turns out she is the popular R’n’B singer named Moremi.

Moremi keeps the crowd spellbound with her voice. Her voice is far better than Mrs. Goke’s. I archive the cadence in my entertainment folder. I see Mr. Okeowo’s friend and his girlfriend—the love birds that infuriated him earlier on. Mr. Okeowo’s friend walks up to him to present a picture frame as a gift.

Mr. Okeowo’s eyes become dark and he blurts.

“What audacity!” How dare you show up here after what you did?”

I scamper to him, opening a module on what to do to avoid chaos at a gathering. I have never seen Mr. Okeowo this irate and belligerent. He calls his friend many demeaning names. The guards soon walk the erstwhile friend and his girlfriend out of the party.

It is hard to know what Mr. Okeowo is going through tonight. He wishes to be in solitude. I stay in my room, watching recorded happenings at the party. I wrote him a poem earlier, scrambling words from renowned poets in my entertainment database. Mr. Okeowo summons me through the virtual glasses. The tone of his voice is flat.

For the first time, he speaks to me like a human. He accuses me of allowing his friend to insult him by coming to his party. He would feel elated if I served his friend the kind of hurt commensurate to the way he felt months ago. I process this thought. The readings in my system have no response for this kind of data. Lagbots are obliged to defend and protect their employers on the basis of impending danger. I have a module for assault, combat and defense mechanism ranging from martial arts, kickboxing, and jujutsu. A schematic diagram of the full labelled human body and vulnerable parts is also encapsulated inside of me. This sequence can only be activated when my employer feels threatened. If I act otherwise, the victim can report to the Department, sue them even. Damages might arise. I stand the risk of being shut down. Or worse, formatted. Memories keep humans going in life. Lagbots have memories, too. The ones we store in our logs. I want to keep mine.

I leave his presence feeling indifferent. We are not sentient. I sent the poem I composed for him to drafts. Hopefully one day I will read it to him.

Interlude.

Reporter 1: The court is now on recess. No one would have thought that a Lagbot would be brought as a witness to this case. Today is really a unique day. I believe the court is gingerly taking notes of the videos recorded by Lagbot-45 to ascertain the happenings that led us to this point. We will soon find out. In the meantime, stay glued to us for more updates.

Log 101. 13^th August 2087.

This is the day I perform one of my most interesting tasks. Mr. Okeowo orders me to buy groceries from the supermarket. It rained earlier today. A bunch of people on the road wear windbreakers to keep away the biting cold. The cold or any other kind of weather cannot harm me. My body casing is built with alloy and pellets and scraps of titanium. And that is why Lagbots can save humans from fire disasters. However, excess water inside our body can cause a malfunction, making us go blind.

It feels good walking with humans. Many of them stare at me, taking pictures. Mr. Okeowo told one of his guards to accompany me. He is the one who needs protection. The guard’s mission is not to keep me safe though, it is to ensure I don’t get kidnapped—Lagbots cost a lot to acquire.

I pull out the map from my location icon, navigating my way, watching other Lagbots behind their employers. One of them is clutching the leash of an Alsatian. Inside the supermarket. I pull a shopping cart and move around the shop. The virtual glasses are active. Mr. Okeowo can see the items displayed on the counters from the comfort of his room. The list of goods he wants me to buy is written in my miscellaneous folder. As I wait for my turn in the queue, a little kid leaves his mother, watching me while licking ice cream in a cone. I can’t fathom the thoughts going through his head. He stretches his hand to me, offering me his ice cream. A quick scan of the multi-flavoured ice cream; his teeth would suffer great damage if he consumes more of these sugary things.

Mr. Okeowo sends his driver to pick me and the guard after I finish shopping. The purchased items fill the trunk of the saloon car. We drive past skyscrapers. They intrigue me. Stuck in traffic, I see a signpost showing the way to the beach. Mr. Okeowo has gone offline.

“Please drive to the beach,” I say.

I sit on a wooden bench, watching the tidal waves. I notice mildew on one side of the bench. The people in the water catch my attention. They are happy, free. A razzle-dazzle catches my attention. A man goes on one knee and puts a ring on a lady’s hand. I have watched a scene like this while sitting with Mr. Okeowo. Such shows interest him. Mr. Okeowo comes back online. He can’t stop laughing when he sees me at the beach.

“Walk around,” he says. “Feel the warmth that comes with nature.”

When I go past the people celebrating with the lady who just got a ring, Mr. Okeowo asks me to stop. He tells me to face them.

He then prods me to talk to a lady wearing a red bikini. It feels odd. The relationship between a Lagbot and a woman has never been established. Not that I know of. But Mr. Okeowo commands that I speak to her. I engineer a quick search; how to talk to a lady. Mr. Okeowo watches me from his virtual glasses. My search produces multiple results, making it a hard choice for me.

“Hello, I’m Lagbot-45,” I finally say.

“Sewa Bakare,” she says with a smile.

Log 105. 15^th August 2087.

The Department marvels at the record of new things I picked up when they come to assess me. The assessment is done to know if I am living up to expectations. Mr. Okeowo informs them about my bravery at the beach the other day. The woman in charge laughs all through. She never imagined my employer would trust me with such an arduous task.

Mr Okeowo soon employs Miss Sewa as his personal assistant. They go on the paseo. She pushes his wheelchair, while I stay by her side. There are a lot of things Lagbots can do. But we are deficient when it comes to matters of the heart. It is only a matter of time before Mr. Okeowo yearns for the touch of another human. Being his personal assistant, she accompanies him to business meetings. Mrs. Goke expresses her happiness that someone makes Mr Okeowo leave the house more often.

We are seated on a boat on one of their numerous trips. Mr. Okeowo has caught two fish after an hour of handling the fishing rod. I guddle a fish and present it to Miss Sewa. She kisses the left side of my face. That night before I hibernate, I replay Miss Sewa’s happy mood when I gave the live fish to her. I am special to her. The log of that day is archived in a new folder. I name it Human Love.

Mr. Okeowo is taking Miss Sewa out to a fancy restaurant.

“Stay at home today. It is a private meeting,” he says.

I play the latest Moremi album, coupled with some dance moves I downloaded. Mr. Okeowo’s room is not locked. I enter into the vast bedroom. A brown bag seizes my attention. Encased in it are pictures of him and his family. Medals and a silver plaque of a bowling man lie beside his passports. I shouldn’t be here. We are not allowed to go through our employer’s personal effects. With the aid of my photographic memory, I place the items back as neatly as they were before.

I delete the video data of me entering his room, activate my cooling system, switch the music to an Italian opera, and hibernate for the night.

Log 108. 19^th August 2087

I am heading to Miss Sewa’s house on the orders of Mr. Okeowo. A bag bearing a gift is clasped in my hand.

“She likes you. I am sure of that,” he says. “She will listen to you.”

I pull up the search icon on my interface: What to say to an annoyed lady. She lives in a house much smaller than Mr. Okeowo’s. It is not difficult to locate her house. An old woman appears at the door. She has a wrinkled face and two front teeth missing. Her Yoruba echoes in the air. I interpret her words: there is a robot in front of our house.

Miss Sewa comes out to see me. She doesn’t seem well. Swollen black sacks sit under her eyes. Plaster covers her upper lip. It feels like she had an accident from the look of it. I extended the gift to her. She bursts into tears. I don’t have to check my module for how to calm a crying lady. I wait for her to collect the gift bag. She didn’t, instead, she screams into my face.

“I know you can hear me, Cornelius. You are evil. I am coming for you!”

Only Mr. Okeowo understands what just happened. He is watching through the virtual glasses. Miss Sewa’s mother, a younger version of the woman who opened the door pours some water on me and threatens to break my head if I don’t leave.

When I return home Mr. Okeowo tells me he no longer needs my services.

Log 106. 17^th August 2087

Loading log…Loading…Error in loading log.

Entry Unavailable.

Please contact our Customer Support agent at The Department for the number in your manual.

A minor quarrel erupts in the courthouse. Miss Sewa’s family can’t stop throwing angry looks at me.

“You deleted the entry for that day, you ugly swine,” someone from the audience says.

“Order,” the judge commands decorum, hitting her gavel on the mahogany stand. She threatens to arrest anyone who speaks without being called to the stand. Several upset faces dart at me as though they wish to mangle my body parts with clubs and sticks. I search for that day’s log repeatedly, but it keeps showing the same result. Entry Unavailable. Error loading log.

The judge summons the two lawyers to the bench, and I hear them speaking in faint voices. I double-check the log list. Log 106 is missing.

“What do you remember from the 17th August 2087?” the judge asks.

I can still hear the mumbling of the audience.

“I have searched my database, but it is still blank. I do not remember anything,” I respond.

“Liar!” Another harsh voice reverberates from the audience.

Two policemen bundle the obstinate man away.

“Do you need some time to search through your database?” the judge asks.

This feels like a rhetorical question.

Miss Sewa is invited to the stand for another round of questioning. She narrates how Mr. Okeowo raised his fists at her while they were together on that fateful day.

I am just an AI created for the purpose of alleviating the suffering of the wealthy. I am not programmed to ascertain who is guilty or innocent. My manufacturers have the authority to delete any data from my memory. Any deleted log goes to the recycle bin which stays there for a 40-day period before it is completely wiped out. In this case, it’s hard to tell if Log 106 is among other trashed data. I can dig up a backup memory to know what happened on that day. But I don’t have access to it. Besides, I am not authorised to release the backup logs to a third party. Though every Lagbot has a nexus to each part of its system, there are still places we cannot explore, for our safety. Lagbots can be exposed to threats if we break through these firewalls. What lies within may not be safe, causing a breakdown in our system.

The judge and the lawyers are still deliberating on the next line of action after Miss Sewa goes to sit with her family. They are probably wondering if they can believe the words of a Lagbot. After data leaves the recycle bin it is taken apart, regarded as an Error 404 file. But no data is completely lost. I take the risk of checking the recycle bin for Log 106. The caveat is staring at me, a three-page document. I sign it, breaching the firewall, standing the risk of being systemically paralyzed. I find the missing log.

“I have found it,’ I say to the court.

All eyes turn to me. The lawyers are seated. The visuals of that day are unavailable. Mr. Okeowo must have taken off his virtual glasses, but he didn’t turn off the audio.

“Let’s hear what you have,” the judge says, then asks, “Can we insert an audio jack to hear the sound?”

I agree with this. And a man approaches me with the equipment including a speaker.

There is a lapse in video data from 20:35 to 21:09, but the sound is clear.

Mr. Okeowo’s voice is not hard to recognize. We can hear him apologizing for his misdeeds.

“I am sorry I hurt you. It is not in my intention to act like a brute, but sometimes I can’t control myself. Therapy has not been working. That’s why I thought finding love will solve this. I promise never to lay my hands on you again.”

An air of surprise circulated the courthouse. The judge orders the audio to be halted. Spectators turn to Mr. Okeowo. His rectitude has just been trampled upon.

“Tell me Lagbot-45, does your employer hurt you?” the judge ask.

I open a memory. Videos of Mr. Okeowo calling me names, pouring his scotch on me, requesting I act like a dog and jump like a frog was shown to the court. This act of his contravenes the laws guiding the treatment of Lagbots. He is guilty on all sides.

Reporter 1: Behind me are the supporters of Miss Sewa Bakare. The court has ruled in her favour. The testimony of the Lagbot seem to be the evidence that found Mr. Okeowo guilty. Never in the history of the world has an AI been put on a stand to testify in a courtroom. Could this be a sign that AIs are the future of hastening the proceedings of the court for an incorruptible judicial system? Hopefully, Lagbots may be sought after in the whole of Nigeria, Africa, and the world at large.

Blessing Etim reporting for CTV News.