This child will die. This child will die and it will be my fault, I say, rocking back and forth on the chair, the balls of my feet balanced on the ground. No. I catch myself. No, Land forbid it. You will live, I watch my words bounce off the surface of the earth and disappear into the air.
I look at Ma, expecting a rebuke, or perhaps a statement to counter my words, but she looks away. She is sitting an arm’s length away and with her back turned to me, but from the corner of my eye I see her drag a foot across the ground and fold her arms over her chest. Her leg taps the ground impatiently.
She is restless. She is never restless. But then she has never had to wait this long at a life tying, especially not at one for her children. The last one, the life tying of her third son born of her second husband, had so many people in attendance that the ceremony had to be extended to the following day. The many strings given to him lie plenty around his neck. He will live a long life. His way will be smooth.
I look down at Nyanga as she fidgets in my arms. She purses her lips and tucks a tight fist under her chin, then raises a brow slightly and goes back to sleep. It is the same thing she did two weeks ago, the day she was born. It is why we called her Nyanga, meaning the one who comes with pride.
What sort of a name is that? Ma had asked, wrinkling her brows.
Do you not see the way she looks with disdain at the world? I tried to explain. Like she is too much for it.
Indeed. It is a sign she does not want to stay long in it. Ma quipped in response.
I said nothing. It was true. If nobody showed up for this life tying, Nyanga would die and it would be my fault. Who marries for love except for fools who forget that the life of their child is tied to the family they are born into?
If I had married the man Ma had arranged for me, the one whose bloodline ran so deep it could be traced to the first man, the man with a large family made up of many children and grandchildren – all strong, direct bloodlines that would guarantee one a sure way in this world, Nyanga would have had a crowd at her life tying today. Many would be fighting for their turn to bind my child’s life to theirs, instead there was only one unwilling soul and one fearful one, both waiting for more to arrive.
In our land, there were blood ties by marriage and blood ties by birth. When you are married into a family, the man and all his people tie you to them. And then when you give birth, the child is tied to the man and to his family. But blood ties are fickle things, once cut off from its source they snap off as easily as a dried leaf falls off a tree, reducing your lifetime by half.
This was why Ma had tried to get me to see reason. Marry for the ties, she said, do you not see? It is what I did after your Baba left me.
Baba had died early. Too early. He joined the earth long before I learned to speak my first word. Though not one of the strongest in our land, he had had a good bloodline. And so after he died, Ma made sure to marry again, choosing a bloodline so strong that if she ever had to be cut off from it her lifetime would still be long.
But I did not care for a long life. I was content with the ties my Baba had left me. They would see me to a reasonable number of years and then my time would be up. But now, as I look down at Nyanga sleeping in my arms, I wish I had cared. I wish I had remembered to think not only of myself but that she needed to be bound to a family, a people, a community. I wish I had more to give her than just my own life tie, lying small and limp and grey around her neck as a reminder of where her journey had begun.
Ma stood up and walked to the edge of the compound. She squinted her eyes till they looked like slits. Leaning forward, she gazed into the setting sun in the distance. Then she turned to me, her face carrying all the impatience of a woman not accustomed to being kept waiting.
I could tell what she was thinking before she said it. The day was gone. If he did not show soon, we would have to leave. Nyanga would be left with just my tie around her neck. And by the end of the week, she would be dead.
I swallowed a sob, then coughed to let it out. Nyanga stirred, opened her brown eyes and fixed them on me. In the light of dusk they looked more golden than brown, a much lighter shade than mine. They were her father’s eyes, but not only because of the colour. It was the way they fixed themselves on me, boring deep into my soul as if trying to search for something. A look only her father had ever given me.
It was said that eyes like that belonged to a special people. The Gifted. Travellers destined to walk the earth for all their lives. It is of these people that her Baba belonged, and if he ever returned to tie her to him, Nyanga would become a wanderer as well.
#
Our people saw them as restless spirits. Constantly moving in groups of four or five or moving alone, they didn’t have complete families. Their bloodlines were short and their blood ties even shorter.
We do not live long, my love, but we live full, he had said to me the first night we met. As we lay on our backs and gazed at the stars, we plotted a future together that neither one of us were certain to see.
I did not know I could ever have come to love someone of his kind. As children we learned to run away from them, hiding behind our mother’s wrappers as they passed, avoiding their too light gazes, which the elders had told us were because in walking all the corners of the earth they had seen too much.
On the day we met, he had saved me. I had been walking through a bush path I should have not been on, and came across a wild boar, its mouth foaming, and its husks large and sharp. I tried to run but I tripped and fell. I was sure then that I had met my end and I said a quick prayer to my Baba, asking him to welcome me when I arrived. That was when he appeared, out of nowhere – this man that would become my saviour, the father of my child, and since I am now tied to him, my life. He drove his spear into the boar and lifted me from the ground.
His eyes were the first thing that caught me. Everything that had happened up to the moment he stretched his hand to me had seemed like a blur, but as I looked into his eyes, the world suddenly became clearer and I could have sworn I saw into his soul. I knew then that the elders were wrong; their eyes had not seen too much because they walked the earth, they walked the earth because there was much their eyes needed to see.
The earth is big and beautiful, he would say with a sparkle in his eyes, gazing longingly at the night sky. And life, it calls. Can you not hear it?
I couldn’t help it; I enjoyed listening to him as he mused. He talked about the things he saw in all the places he had been. The place where all the waters gathered together so that it was all you could see every way you turned, even meeting the sky. And the people who lived on it, building their houses on top of sticks dug deep into the sand under the water.
He spoke the languages of many people; indecipherable words that rolled from his tongue with such ease and beauty, they sounded like the songs the birds whispered to one another as they sat on the trees. Everything he said was foreign to me, but they captivated me. So when he promised to take me to the places he had been and show me the things he loved, I clung to his every word.
When? I had asked.
Soon, he had replied, but for now I must leave and I do not know when I will return.
But will you return?
Yes, my love, I will always return to you.
And he did. After weeks of waiting, he would return to me. That first time, I ran to him and held on to him so tight our bodies felt like one. Later that night, under the stars, we did become one. He took me in the same spot where we first met, with the heavens and all its hosts bearing witness as our breaths and moans carried with the night wind. He stayed one day longer than the last time, and then he left.
The second time he returned, many months had passed and my stomach was already swollen with Nyanga. He had placed a hand on my belly and Nyanga had moved under it. We laughed. Then he cried. And before he left, gave me a necklace made from something he called sea shells. They were tiny, like small stones, but bore no further resemblance to the dull, brown rocks of the earth. He also left me with a promise: I will return. I held tightly unto both.
The third time he returned, he held my hand as I pushed Nyanga out into this world. But at that moment, knowing that he would return did not seem enough, I wanted more. I hoped that Nyanga being tied to him would be enough to keep him in one place, to make him stay. That his coming and going, his constant moving like a cloud in the sky or a leaf tossed by the wind, would come to an end.
Ma called him “Waka-waka”. I hated it. She hated him. So when he took off an hour after they placed Nyanga in my arms, Ma looked at me. It was a look that said: Waka-waka has left you. You are alone. Your child will die and it will be your fault. It was a look that was louder than her voice could ever have sounded. It shook me. It pained me. But it did not surprise me.
#
I did not want to believe that he was leaving me yet again. A corner of my heart hung on to the hope that he would return in time to give Nyanga a place in the world. And as I look at Nyanga now, her golden brown irises glistening in the rays of the disappearing sun, and she pulls her face into a wide smile, that corner of hope widens.
So when she removes the hand tucked under her chin and stretches it outwards like she is reaching for someone, I look up.
It isn’t his appearance that makes my heart leap for joy. I am not surprised to see him there outside the compound, with a sprinkling of dust on his shoulders and scattered over the soft curls that make up his hair. It is the sight of the two dozen or so people standing behind him, all with golden irises glistening in the sun. More travellers than has ever been seen in one location before. They have come for her.
I stand up slowly, my eyes fixed on him. Ma’s eyes dart from me to the crowd now making their way into the compound and her mouth falls slightly agape. She staggers backwards, her eyes falling to the ground as she avoids their gaze in fear.
I walk to him, my eyes blurring with tears. He smiles widely and stretches out his hands as he walks towards us. Nyanga and I fall into his embrace.
I told you my love, I will always return, he says, planting a kiss on my forehead. He cups my face, sliding his thumb over the tear that runs down my cheek.
I close my eyes as the warmth in my chest spreads to the rest of my body. Then I look down at Nyanga and whisper to her: Nya, it is okay; your Baba is here to tie you. And it does not matter that you will not live long, you will live full.
End
Ronke Adeleke was a participant at the 2015 Writivism Creative Writing Workshop. Her stories have been published on Brittle Paper, The Naked Convos and muwado.com. She recently finished a Master’s degree in Communication and hopes to soon travel the world to live the writer’s dream.
It was one of those downpours that made you think the world was angry at something. Sudden release. Like the sky had been holding its breath for too long. Without so much as a growl or rumble up there, and I was soaked before I could move an inch. Trying to get home under this would be inviting a cold, so I looked around for anything to shield me from the onslaught.
Wiping the rain off my face, I spotted a bush path. I could barely make out the tip of a rusted zinc roof somewhere along it. I dashed for it, running as fast as my soggy jeans and shoes would let me.
A few gasps along the path, I stopped to catch my breath. Up ahead an abandoned house, half buried in the bush, stared at me through empty window sockets. Its roof sagged like the face of a drooling old man. A rotting plank hung askew above the gaping doorway.
I braced myself and made for the building. Beggars weren’t choosers.
Inside was much like the outside; grey and decaying. The walls and floors bore cracks that crept into dark corners with grass growing in-between their narrow gaps. In some parts of the wall the plaster had fallen off, exposing algaed blocks that would crumble at the slightest pressure. There wasn’t much of a roof left and rain trickled through holes, forming puddles in the in the broken concrete. The ceiling boards hung like stalactites, some barely attached to the structure. The place was littered with garbage; bottles, broken toys, plastic containers, pieces of cloth, so much junk all covered in algae and mould. And of course to compliment the décor, vulgarities had been graffitied across the walls in paint, charcoal and what may have been shit. The house had a dank and rotten smell that teased your nose, alternating between decaying and pungent.
I found a dry spot on one of the crumbling windowsills and half-sat, half-leaned on it, staring at the junk around me and hating the tingling chill creeping over me through my wet clothes. I tapped the back pocket of my jeans to feel the reassuring bulge of a sachet. Arizona, the guy under the tree had said. Smiling with a mouth full of yellowed enamel he had added, you go feel am, I swear die.
Well, I had nothing but time to pass and the rain didn’t look like it was letting up anytime soon, so I pulled out the sachet, glad that it was water proof. I took out my plastic yellow lighter and the free joint the guy had rolled for me. Shaking off the dark bits of dried grass that clung to it, I lit up, puffed, then took in a proper drag. It was good herb: I could already feel the tingly warmth in my chest after only a single drag. I let it fill me up, rise from my belly and crawl into my head until I felt buoyed and the rain and cold began to seem pleasant. I smiled and leaned back. It was good, but I’d smoked better weed back in Uni. Ironically, smoking weed hadn’t been my vice of choice then.
The first time I smoked was in my second year of university. It was the only thing I could do to help me forget the guilt that had dug its roots into my chest.
“I’m pregnant.”
Uche’s simple words had shaken my core and squeezed my heart. This was our second year of school. I was 18. I had no job. I was an only son from a Catholic family. A horror spread across her face as she realized I was as terrified as she was.
“What do you want to do?” I had asked tentatively, dreading her answer, my heart beating right against my ears.
“I-I don’t know.” She had started sobbing, “What should I do? I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.”
I said nothing. I realized that day that I was the worst type of coward. I let her carry the weight of the choice alone. I started avoiding her calls and found a hundred reasons to stay off campus. Then one day she stopped calling. We never spoke again after that. I couldn’t bring myself to ask her what she did or how she was. On the rare occasions when we ran into each other I couldn’t meet her eyes. I couldn’t risk seeing the look of disdain I knew she felt. I avoided her like a bad dream until I graduated a year ahead of her. The last time I looked her up she was doing her masters somewhere in the UK.
I let time pleasantly drift past, listening to the sound of falling drops, and enjoying my buzz. I’m not sure how long it took but the rain eventually slowed to a lazy drizzle and the light violet of dusk now tinged the sky. I was still coming down from my high and my thoughts were everywhere. My eyes were roaming all over the room when I spotted something tucked into the roof, just on top one of the few unbroken ceiling boards. I got curious. I wasn’t tall enough so I dragged a cement block over and climbed on top of it.
It was an old carton. I pulled it out slowly, careful not to touch the filthy cloth on top of it. The box was already crumbling, any slight manhandling and it would break into so many pieces. Carefully I pulled it out, stepped off the block, and placed it on the ground. The box was just big enough to hold two pairs of shoes. I fished a stick from the corner of the room and carefully lifted the rag covering the opening. I jumped back. For a moment I wasn’t sure what I was looking at.
“What the hell?” I muttered to myself. I was staring into the dark hollows of a skull. A baby’s skull. The neat arrangement of an infant’s skeleton lay on layers of rotten cloth, grayed and stained with damp.
A sudden flicker between blinks superimposed the image of a baby over the bones. My knees felt weak and I staggered backwards. For a few incoherent moments I stared at the bones, the memory of Uche’s words drifting through the haze in my head. I used the stick to lift the filthy cloth and laid it back over top of the box.
I picked the box off the floor and lifted it over my head as I made to put it back where I’d found it. My feet had barely touched the concrete block when the bottom of the box gave out. The bed of rags, rich with the smell of mould and decay, landed on my head before slipping to the floor while bones rained down on me with tiny clatters, scattering like an ominous divination across the littered floor. If you don’t know what it feels like to be high then you wouldn’t understand the stark horror I felt. A chill crawled all over my body and my hands trembled as I forced a scream back into my gut. I couldn’t stop shaking. I heard someone laugh and I turned around to look, only to realize no one was there and I was the one laughing. I forced myself calm, though my heart thundered in my chest and I felt the irrational urge to laugh again. I was still high.
I was spooked; I needed to get out of here, rain or no rain. I bent down and picked up the skull. I’m not sure how long it took me to pick up all the bones I could find, place them in the carton, and put it back on the roof, carefully placing a hand beneath it this time to keep the bottom in place. By the time I began the walk home it was dark and all I could feel was the desperate craving for a shower. Times like this I was thankful I lived alone. I didn’t need anyone asking me questions.
The smell hit me as soon as I opened the door. My room smelled foul, like… like a stinky wet rat. No, like a wet, dead, rat. The smell hung in the air with no apparent source. I was too tired to start searching for the creature and I could already feel a headache building, so I opened up the windows, put the fan on full, and had the shower I’d been craving. Afterwards, sleep came easy, probably because I was exhausted and still a bit buzzed.
#
I stirred awake sometime in the night to find myself shivering. I felt a chill spreading through the room, I felt it most on my toes so I got and closed the windows, and got back into bed pulling a blanket over me. Just as I settled to sleep, I heard a click. I jerked up. I knew that sound: it was the window latch. Didn’t I latch it well? I pushed off the blanket and was just about to get out of bed when the windows started swinging open. I knew it was the wind but something made me freeze in place. The windows were opening with an exaggerated slowness, just like someone sneaking in might open them. But who would sneak into a window one storey up? The hinges didn’t squeak, no, just the drawn-out sound of metal grating on grit. It rattled the back of my teeth. The cold continued to seep in, finding its way through my clothes. I knew no one was there but knowing did nothing to reassure me.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed myself off the bed and walked over to the window. Something shifted in the darkness outside. Maybe I was imagining things but I thought something had moved towards me in the gloom. No, it was just my shadow shifting under the dim light from the security bulb outside. I smiled nervously and pushed the windows closed. What if someone is sneaking in? I knew no one was but, what if? I needed to satisfy that part of my mind otherwise I knew it wouldn’t let me sleep. What if? I opened the windows and looked out and down.
Two very wide and moist eyes were staring at me unblinking. The cold gripped my heart and prickles erupted across my skin. Something flashed beneath the eyes and it took me a second to realize it was a widening smile filled with yellow teeth. The eyes blinked and I tried to scream. My chest heaved and my mouth hung open, but no sound came through. I shot a look at the door. Would I make it before whatever was there crawled into my room? I looked out the window again. I saw nothing. No eyes, no yellow smile. Nothing. I was freaked out. I was seeing things. I was never smoking weed in a decaying building again, never-ever-ever again, definitely not one with a baby’s corpse in it.
I closed the windows and as my heart quieted its soundtrack, I realized the smell had returned. Dead, wet rat. Maybe not a rat, but it was definitely something dead and damp. There was no way I could go back to sleep without help so I rolled a joint and smoked myself to a soothing high that left me unbothered by the smell, then I went back to sleep.
#
I was standing in the middle of my room listening to echoes of a baby’s cry coming from far away. As I listened it grew louder and louder and with it, came an overwhelming sense of urgency until I felt I had to find the crying baby immediately or something terrible might happen. I ran out the door and found myself in my room back at my hostel when I was 18. Uche stood in the near the window with her back to me, her shoulders shaking with sobs. I reached for her. Maybe this time I could fix it. I put my hand on her shoulder and gently turned her around. Her face was exactly as I remembered it: red-eyed, streaked with tears and swollen from crying. She was holding a delightfully pudgy baby girl in her arms. The baby couldn’t have been older than a month or two. She nestled quietly in Uche’s arms, one little hand clutching her mother’s dress. So small, so fragile, so peaceful. She gurgled and I smiled, my eyes watering.
“You kept it,” I started saying, the weight in my chest lifting as I reached for the child.
“My pikin,” Uche said in an unusual raspy voice.
“What?” I stopped, looking up at her. But Uche just kept sobbing, her face concealed in the shadows. I started to tell her that everything was alright now that we were all together, when the baby’s gurgling turned into sudden shrieks – raspy, dry shrieks that turned my blood cold. I reached to take the baby once again, hoping I could calm it, but its face began to contort like soft clay and its lips pulled back over its teeth as its skin dried up into the hollows of its face. I pulled my hands back as the baby reached for me with bony arms, shrieking into the darkness that surrounded us. This was not our child. I turned to warn Uche. I froze. There was no Uche. I found myself staring instead at a woman with bulging eyes that oozed with puss. Thick tufts of unkempt hair framed her face; her yellow toothed grin seemed to glow in the dark. It was the face I had seen outside my window.
I awoke, clawing my way into the darkness of my room with a scream caught in my throat. My shirt clung to my body, cold and damp with sweat, while my heart tried to beat its way out of my chest. I breathed hard. My windows grated against the sill and my breath caught. The windows had swung open again and were continuing to swing, scratching like bone on wood.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I whispered into the dark. Why am I getting jittery over nothing? Obviously, something was wrong with the window latch, nothing more. I climbed out of bed trembling. I inched my way slowly over to the window and pulled it shut. I couldn’t trust myself to look out this time. My fear was far greater than my curiosity.
I climbed back into bed. Maybe all the weed I’d smoked to sleep hadn’t been a great idea after all. With a sigh I rolled unto my side, thinking of how groggy I was going to be in the morning.
She smiled back at me.
I screamed into the face breathing rotten air into mine. Her grin widened and I screamed again, throwing off the blanket as I scrambled off the bed and backed away until my back hit the wall of my room.
“Oh God, what the fuck!” I gasped trying to push myself through the wall. Her lying form twitched and she was suddenly standing on the bed, her arms outstretched and her eyes on me.
“My pikin…” The words drifted my way, laden with the smell of decay. I glanced at the door. I leaned forward to make a mad dash for it when the woman twitched again and she was now standing a few steps away from me, reaching.
“Please…” I shook with sobs. Tears rolled down my face in the dark as I thrashed against the wall. “Leave me alone!”
Bone-cold fingers wrapped around my throat and I froze like a broken mannequin as she pulled me towards her, our faces so close I could see the dirty bone of her skull through the cracks of the seeping gashes on her face. Her dead eyes were glazed over with a milky whiteness that leaked out the corners and her nose had an unnatural twist. She smiled again and I could see her dried up lips cracking.
“My pikin…” Her corpse-breath filled the air between us and I gagged, choking back another scream.
“My pikin!” she shrieked, grabbing my face with both hands. “Wey my pikin?!”
The stink dizzied me and for a moment, I thought I would faint. She wrapped her arms around me, cradling me like a child and pulling me towards her shriveled bosom.
My mind screamed and tears ran down my face as I prayed desperately that this nightmare would end but my body wouldn’t move. I was crippled in her arms.
“My pikin…” Crooning, she lifted a stringy breast, thrust it into my mouth and I wished I was dead.
I struggled against the fetid embrace, choking on the stinking brownish liquid forcing its way through my mouth and nose. I couldn’t breathe and for a moment I thought I was going to die after all. Eyes wide, I drowned in rotten milk from a decayed breast. Somewhere during my mental struggle, things began to blur. The screaming in my head grew distant as the rotten fluid clouded my eyes. Faraway voices drifted my way like echoes and then like a vague dream, I began to see things I couldn’t explain.
I watched two men walking quietly through a bush path, whispering words I couldn’t hear to each other. Their forms were distorted like images reflected off a desert haze, stretching and yawing with subtle ripples. The old house blurred into view, its image wavering, struggling to be still. It wasn’t quite as condemned as it was now but it was still in bad shape. The vision rippled and I saw one of the two men going around to the back of the hut. Ripple and blur. Inside the hut the two men were struggling to hold down a woman. I knew it was her – the one cradled me. Her tattered clothes ripped off in their hands as she screamed and bucked like a wild beast in their grip. Even then, I could see the madness in her eyes. The images of their act fell like angry rocks. Thrusts and screams. Grunts and frenzied laughter. Again the vision rippled and I saw her naked on the ground, her head to the side, nipples trickling with breast milk, feet apart and blood between her legs. Her breath came in rasps as her eyes searched the roof of the old house from where the distant cry of a hungry baby fell.
“My pikin,” she rasped. “My pikin.”
She wrenched me from her bosom and shoved me aside. The grotesque images still burned behind my eyes. She stood over me and pointed a decaying finger with a long yellowed nail at me.
“Wey my pikin?” And she disappeared.
The revulsion struck me hard and quick. I emptied my stomach on the floor, only vaguely aware of the cloying smell of half-digested food. Then, hugging my knees to my chest, I rolled unto my side and darkness enveloped me.
#
The next morning I spent hours in the bathroom trying to scrub the filth off me, gagging at the memories of the past night. Scrub as I might, I still smelled the rot clinging unto my skin. I felt violated. Scarred physically and mentally. A part of me wished I was dead. A part of me probably had died.
Last night I saw what happened to her. I felt her pain and fear as she was ravaged by those two men. What would drive a man to do that? She had hidden her baby from them before they came upon her. After bleeding out on the filthy ground of the abandoned house, her desperate soul stayed behind to watch her baby starve to death, crying in the roof where no one would ever hear it.
A sudden wave of anger threatened to burst through my chest. These men were filth. Less than filth. A slow painful death would only begin to scratch the surface of what they deserved. I wanted to scream and grab them by the throat like she’d grabbed me. I wanted to hit them over and over and over again till they felt half as much pain they had inflicted on her. I wanted to do something, anything to balance the tragic scales. I felt a dull throb in my hand and I surfaced from my anger to feel pain pulsing through my knuckles. I had been punching the wall and I hadn’t even known. I knew I was losing my mind but I was sure of one thing; I had to go back to that house. I couldn’t turn my back on another child.
#
I lost my way twice trying to find the old house, and by the time I did it was late afternoon. I was hot, tired and dripping with sweat. The building was as I left it, watching me through forlorn eyes that seemed to share my misfortune. I entered, making my way to where it all began, with my mind trying to convince me that every dark patch on the floor was the mad woman’s blood. The box was where I left it, half hidden in the roof. I took a deep breath, squatted and started looking for any bone fragment I must have missed. I knew she was watching me because the smell of rot filled the air. I picked all the tiny fragments of the skeleton that I could find in the dim light of the evening, and when I was really sure there was nothing left, I reached for the box.
Carefully holding its base, I lowered it to the ground and emptied its contents unto the dirty rag that had fallen on my head the previous day. Then with the care and calm of a resigned convict, I began to arrange the bones. When I was done, I placed them back into the box and gently returned it to its home, covered in the filthy cloth it had come with. My legs ached and I was hungry but my fear gave no room for an appetite. A thought occurred to me. I was wearing the same jeans I had worn the day it rained so I reached into the back pocket and pulled out the sachet of weed. Something dropped to the ground with a click and I looked down to see a finger bone: tiny and grey. And then it all made sense. She had followed me home, seeking out what was hers. I lowered the box a third time, picked up the bone and placed it where it belonged, then for what I hoped was the last time, I returned the frail carton to its resting place.
That night the air was warm, no rotten smell drifted my way and I slept without the sounds of grating windows.
#
It’s been five years now and things are more or less normal. I work in an orphanage, but I don’t intend to have any children of my own. I can’t be a father; I’ve already had my chance.
Last month I ran into one of the men at the shopping mall. I knew it was him. There was no doubt in my mind. The way he reeked of her. I wouldn’t mistake that smell for anything. He was much older now, carrying a pot belly like a trophy. That old anger flared like a freshly fed flame and it was all I could do not to inflict the harm I had dreamed of over and over for the last five years. I stalked him long enough to know where he lived and then I went back to the old house. It was still there. Not much worse off than it was the last time I saw it. The bones were where I left them too. I took a piece of her child and buried it in his compound. I had a feeling I would run into the other one in due time.
End
Eugene Odogwu writes a blog called indiGENEous. His short story fantasy series, In The Shadow of Iyanibi has been published on Brittlepaper.com. In addition to writing, he designs book covers for publishing houses like SEVHAGE and Winepress.
Tawene squeezed the fingers of her left hand until her knuckles made a popping sound – something she only did when she was unbearably anxious. She stood in front of Kaliwe’s door as the words he’d said on the phone echoed in her mind.
“It’s best if you never see me again.”
If he was any other man, she would have taken him at his word. But this was Kaliwe who had never said a word to intentionally hurt her. Who, only a week before that call, had thrown her a surprise Diva birthday party, just like she had always wanted. He’d even had an African print gown made that fit her like a glove. When she had embraced him her happy tears had run down their cheeks…
She bit her lip and took out her spare key. She only wanted to understand.
The first thing she noticed was the smell. Glancing around the dim lit flat, she saw half-empty tequila bottles littered across the floor, some had spilled on the tiles and carpet. Good Lord, what happened to him? She looked up and had her answer. Kaliwe stood in the kitchen, one of his hands gripping the edge of the kitchen table and the other up to his left eye in a fist, like he was in pain. Instinctively she took a step forward. He took a step back.
“You can’t… can’t get any closer to me. Stay away Tawene, please.” The tremor in his voice scared her. He sounded like he was suffering, yet he seemed more scared for her.
“Kali, I… I’ve missed you so much.” Tawene said, not taking another step forward. Tears welled in her eyes as she felt the gap yawning between them like the Rift Valley. He didn’t move, and through his open eye, she saw his abject fear and pain, and it broke her heart.
“Tawene…” Kali began, with a hint of the tenderness she knew. Hope fluttered in her. Maybe he would let her in… Then he suddenly doubled over and screamed, stumbling backwards, bumping into a sofa, knocking over one of the half empty bottles of tequila. He pressed both hands over his left eye.
“What’s wrong?! Talk to me, please!” Tawene sped to his side, moving to hold him, but stopped, her hands frozen just above him. She did not dare to touch him in case it made the pain worse. Whatever it was.
“You need to get away… now!” Kaliwe’s voice was hoarse with pain, his hand alternatively gripping the couch and jerking sporadically in the air.
But Tawene was frozen in place as tears began rolling down her cheeks. Suddenly, like he was gripped by a new, sharper pain, Kaliwe backed away from the couch, and stumbled to the floor. Screaming, he flung his left hand away from his eye, and gripped the wrist.
Nothing prepared Tawene for what she saw. Kaliwe’s left eye was white and pupiless, but then the pupil began to expand. The growing pupil was ringed with a dark blue iris instead of Kaliwe’s natural dark brown, and it spiralled like a bottomless whirlpool. That whirlpool in his eye drew her in, stealing her air, her mind, her spirit, her sanity… she felt she would lose them all if she kept looking at it.
Tawene screamed. Kaliwe jerked his head up making a gagging, choking sound, then an inhuman roar escaped his lips and his body began to jerk in unnatural ways. His face twisted into something unrecognisable for ahuman. The Thing lurched forward like it wasn’t accustomed to having a body. It slammed one side of Kaliwe’s body against the dining room table, which tipped up on two legs, then crashed back into place. It ignored the impact.
Tawene fled towards the door. As she ran Kaliwe’s body was pulled upright, as if by an outside force, and his hand clawed towards her at an impossible speed. He gripped a corner of her silk scarf, slipping it from her neck, and growled as he tore the scarf apart.
Tawene reached the door, yanked it open and ran through it. Turning to slam it behind her, she caught a glimpse of the transformed Kaliwe, one eye totally eclipsed. The Thing that used to be Kaliwe did not take its eyes off Tawene until the moment she slammed the door. Running, she fled to the parking lot, not daring to see if she was pursued.
*
When the door slammed shut, Kaliwe instantly felt control rush back into his limbs. The Thing was present in every muscle and nerve, but it seemed it was taking the back seat – for now. His lungs had not taken a breath since the Thing took over. It had no use for oxygen. However Kaliwe did, and he gasped as if he had just surfaced from a deep sea dive and crumpled into a heap on the floor, holding his side where his hip had hit the table.
You don’t even know how to operate a body, Kaliwe directed his thoughts at it. You could have killed me! He knew the Thing did not speak words, but it radiated a tangible energy that Kaliwe could match with an approximate human emotion. It was tired, like a fighter that had attacked too rashly and worn itself out. He also sensed another emotion: Disdain at the limitations of its host, like an irritated airline passenger.
His own anger towards this parasite threatened to bubble up, but he suppressed it, focussing on examining the damage the unwelcome joyride had done on his body. He had learned early on that anger only fuelled it. Leaning against the door, he eased up his t-shirt. He exhaled raggedly, realising he was going to left with a nasty bruise.
Since this thing had… infected (no, he wasn’t going to say possessed) his eye it hadn’t responded as savagely as it had today. This Thing inside him hated Tawene. Or rather, as Kaliwe had come to understand, it hated the feelings Tawene awakened in him. The powerful love, gentleness and peace he felt when she was near. It fed on his inner darkness, and these feelings of light were starving it.
As he tested the limits of his movements, he heard Tawene’s Toyota screeching out of the parking bay. Although he wasn’t surprised, the sound made him miserable. I hope you’re happy! Kaliwe thought at the Thing. It was idle now, swirling around within his consciousness, and exuding a casual curiosity about taking complete control of his body.
*
Two months later, Kaliwe opened the mailbox on the wall next to his door. The fact that he was receiving mail at all made him mildly surprised. He now worked from home and ordered all his food online so that he never needed to leave the house.
He pulled out a tightly wrapped package which fit neatly into the palm of his hand. It was wrapped in soft, dark green leaves. Frowning, he looked around cautiously and slipped it into his pocket before he went back indoors.
He had chucked out most of the furniture, leaving only a plastic chair and a rough table. He sat down and eased the package apart with his fingers. The leaves rolled open, and in their centre was a piece of black cloth.
He felt an odd stirring in his left eye, an irritation that was nearly an itch. He gave his head a shake, blinking his eyes rapidly until the irritation subsided. He took a breath and looked down at the package again, prodding it tentatively. Figuring he had nothing to lose, he picked up the black cloth and unfolded it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said aloud. It was an eyepatch. The only place he had come across one of these was in novelty toy stores, along with other goofy pirate gear. He stared in disbelief at what must have been a sick joke.
Kaliwe squeezed it in his hand and pounded the table. He didn’t need anyone else to tell him he was a freak! He roared and flung the wrapping and eyepatch off the table, feeling his anger boiling up.
The Thing in his body roused in glee, drinking greedily from his well of rage. Kaliwe hated to give it the satisfaction of a meal, but he could not control his emotions. Placing his hand on the wall, he forced himself to count his breaths and calm down. He would burn this cruel prank…then destroy his mail box.
He scowled at the package then kicked it with the tip of his boot. As he did this, a scroll of white paper parted from the leafy wrapping. Curious, Kaliwe picked it up and opened it.
He recognised Tawene’s handwriting instantly. Not taking his eyes off it, he sat down and drank in her words:
Dear Kali,
Do you remember the moment I fell in love with you? I was stressed about my midterm, convinced I’d grade much lower than my classmates. You asked me why I was so ready to fail… When I couldn’t answer, you told me that everything you saw I was capable of made my failure unthinkable to you. You don’t know how profound that was for me. It taught me that I didn’t have to ask permission to be brilliant. When I later told you I had passed top of the class, you just stared and stared at me, without saying a thing… then you kissed me for the first time…
I won’t let you go.
I’ve done research about your affliction, and have finally found a pastor who moonlights as an exorcist. What you have is a kind of spiritual infection called a Chintu. He gave me the eyepatch that you will find enclosed. It isn’t a cure, but it will suppress the spirit until the cure is ready in about a week. God, I hope it works. Let me know by responding through the address on the back.
I love you. Every day.
Tawene
Kaliwe closed his eyes and sighed. Then he turned quickly to the eyepatch on the ground, picked it up and dusted it off, now treasuring it in his palm. He looked from the eyepatch to the letter, and his right eye brimmed with tears. Even after he had frightened Tawene so badly… she still loved him.
His left eye remained dry and cold.
After a moment he stood up decisively, and went to the bathroom, cradling the eyepatch in his hand. At the sink, he peeled off the black paper he had stuck over the mirror. He moved the eye patch towards his face, but paused, lowering it again as he glimpsed his reflection for the first time in weeks. His unshaven face was unrecognisable. His right eye was brown, but bloodshot. But it was his left eye which held his attention. The white of his eye was gone entirely, and only the deep blue pupil swirled about slowly but continuously, like a diseased marble in thick sludge. It made him queasy to look at it.
Not daring to hope, he blinked away from his reflection, and lifted the eyepatch to his face. Taking a deep breath, he put it against his eye with an uncertain shiver. For a moment he felt the spirit, the Chintu, attempt to resist but it was quickly stilled. Kaliwe gasped and looked up at the mirror. The skin around his left eye appeared to be smoothing out and the bruising was fading. However, these signs were minor compared to the change he felt inside.
For the first time since the spiritual parasite had taken his eye as its home, Kaliwe felt clean. He felt blissfully alone in his own body, a kind of peace he had thought he would never feel again. In the mirror, his smile was almost unrecognisable to him.
He laughed and a joyful tear rolled down from his right eye. His left eye still couldn’t make tears, but he didn’t care. He was free!
“Tawene…” He murmured, touching the eyepatch lightly. He was moved beyond words… when everyone else in his life feared him, she hadn’t given up on him. Suddenly, he had to see her. Kaliwe prepared to wash and shave.
*
Kaliwe arrived at the Vorna Valley flats where Tawene lived. He switched off his motorcycle, removed his helmet and took a deep breath, enjoying the feel of fresh air in his lungs. He appreciated it so much more now. He looked up at the identical doors, but focussed his eye on the Tawene’s door. Three floors up, the fifth door from the right. Flat 306B.
Nervous, he dismounted and walked towards the staircase, touching the eyepatch lightly. This would be the true test of whether it could contain the Chintu. When he got to her door, his heart was pounding, but not because of the stairs. He raised his hand, knocked once, then froze as all the “what-ifs” bombarded him at once. This was a mistake, he thought, and he quickly turned to leave.
The door opened behind him. He heard a gasp. He didn’t look, but knew it was Tawene. Her familiar scent of floral perfume and cinnabons surrounded him. Still he would not turn and face her.
Tawene touched his shoulder lightly, but to Kaliwe it was the most powerful force he had ever felt. He turned his head and gazed upon her face. Five of her dreadlocks framed her left cheek down to her ear. The rest of her hair was pulled back in a flowing ponytail. Kaliwe let his seeing eye trace the gentle curve of her dark brown face and neck.
She was beautiful.
Her eyes brimmed with tears, and he saw her looking at the eye patch. Then she looked straight into his seeing eye and he exhaled in helpless bliss. She embraced him tightly, and he wrapped his arms around her as if she was the only lifeline saving him from the abyss.
“Tawene… oh my love…” Kaliwe murmured. He pulled back from the embrace, cupped her smooth face in his lighter brown hand, and kissed her.
*
A week later, on a typical Johannesburg winter day, Marcus was smoking a cigarette stub in his corner of the office common room, alone. A short stocky guy, he often seemed a shorter than his full height since he slouched. Several people entered the room and when he rolled his eyes to look, his stomach turned to acid. Kaliwe was back and he was surrounded by his usual cronies. They were hugging him, making jokes, and shouting in obnoxiously joyful tones. Gugu, the pretty office flirt, was smiling at Kaliwe the way she always did… the way she never did at him. Marcus clenched his fist and turned away with a growl. Conversation drifted to his ears despite his attempts to ignore it.
“Oh my goodness, Kali, what happened to your eye?” Gugu gushed. Marcus couldn’t help but look, hoping it was something terrible. His eyes widened when he saw that Kaliwe’s left eye was covered with a patch.
“Ok,” Marcus said in a low tone to himself. “You officially have my interest.”
He put out his cigarette on the polished wooden table and walked towards Kaliwe…
*
Kaliwe stepped back to address the group. “Guys, I know you have a ton of questions, please listen to me first. I won’t discuss what happened to me, but I do want to apologise for the way I have treated you. I pushed all of you away, and I’m sorry.”
Bill thumped his shoulder. “Kali, come on. Sure you went a little crazy for a moment there, but we won’t hold that against you!”
“Speak for yourself. I say drinks are on Kali for a week,” said Mpho with a grin, patting him on the other shoulder. Kaliwe smiled, touched that they were so forgiving. It was that moment that his eyes met Marcus’ through the crowd. Guilt tightened his throat. They had forgiven Kaliwe easily, but Marcus… his sins had left him friendless and ridiculed. Kali broke away and walked towards the shorter man. The others watched him in surprise.
He noticed Marcus’ eyes widen in shock as he approached. But he knew there was also something else there. Since the Chintu had possessed him, Kaliwe had developed an ability to sense negative emotions in others. He sensed a deep hatred in Marcus. He stood in front of Marcus, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“I owe you the biggest apology Marcus. Even before my… experience, I should have treated you more kindly. I’m sorry.”
Marcus glanced at Kaliwe’s hand on his shoulder then glared at him. “Don’t touch me.”
Kaliwe moved his hand away but stood his ground. “I’m trying to be sincere, man.”
Gugu sighed. “Don’t waste your breath on Marcus, he’s allergic to friends.” The others laughed, but Kaliwe shook his head.
“No, I don’t think it’s right for us to leave Marcus out. Isolation is enough to put anyone in a really bad mood.”
*
Marcus frowned in puzzlement, not knowing how to respond. He had never been apologised to. “So what… saying ‘sorry’ makes us friends? That makes it ok that you tanked my chances of getting a promotion? Now they all treat me like shit.”
“Let’s be honest, you got ruthless with Bill in the process, and I couldn’t just let that slide,” Kaliwe said. “Look, I’m – not looking for an easy way out… Just a new start.” Kaliwe extended his hand.
Marcus’ nostrils flared, but then he calmed himself, glancing at Kaliwe’s hand then his face. “Tell you what, Madiba. If you take that eye patch off, we’ll call it even.” Marcus grinned with self-satisfaction. An eye for an eye would be poetic justice.
Kaliwe’s extended hand curled into a fist and he lowered it. “Payback isn’t going to solve anything. I just want peace.”
Marcus laughed. “Peace. Of course you would talk about peace like it’s free for everyone. You’ve never been hated, ever,” he said. “You can’t even take a little embarrassment, too scared of showing your busted eye to your groupies. Don’t worry, they’ll still lick your boots tomorrow.”
Gugu stepped in, furious. “Marcus! Out of all your dickish moments, this one blows the most. Can you just grow a spine?”
Kaliwe raised his hands. “Just a sec, Gugu, please. I’m not trying to start a fight.”
“Well Marcus obviously wants to, why not make him happy?” Gugu said with a dismissive hand gesture, her manicured nails clicking.
“Marcus-” Kaliwe began.
Marcus shrugged irritably. “Why do you even care? Do you lose sleep not being best buddies with Marcus the Dick?” He stared Kaliwe down with his lip curled. “Take off the dumb patch, then we can talk.”
“That’s not happening Marcus,” Kaliwe’s voice was like steel. He had stopped faking friendliness. Good. Marcus hated his fake-ass bullshit.
“Too bad, you’ve just lost a new groupie. I would have made a good one,” said Marcus.
“Marcus! You’re a selfish jerk who never gets over anything,” Gugu shouted. “If you were wondering why we don’t hang with you, it’s because you will never be Kaliwe. I don’t know why he bothers with you.”
Marcus felt something inside him crumble irreversibly. Didn’t Gugu see that he cared about her the way Kaliwe never would? That his heart rotted in the mires of unrequited love?
Gugu turned, linked her arm through Kaliwe’s, and began marching him back to the group.
Marcus saw red.
He moved like a cobra, clamping his hand on Kaliwe’s shoulder and yanking him out of Gugu’s uninvited embrace. He clawed his fingers at Kaliwe’s face, ignoring Gugu’s scream and the shouts from the others. The eye patch was strapped on tightly, but Marcus got a firm grip on it.
*
Kaliwe clutched at Marcus’ wrist, twisting and wrenching it this way and that to make him let go. But Marcus would not. The others didn’t dare touch either of them, but instead gathered in a circle around them, calling out and pleading.
When Kaliwe realised that he couldn’t push Marcus away by force, he yanked him close instead. “Marcus, forget embarrassment, forget my social life, forget yours,” he growled. “If you do this, you could destroy everyone here.” He saw confusion and hesitation on Marcus’ face.
But it didn’t last long. “As long as you go down too.” Marcus snarled. Then he gripped the strap and ripped off the eye patch.
*
Tawene closed the car door, paused and smiled. Her Kali was back…
While he went ahead to the party, she had gone to pick up the cure. She held the small reused cooking oil bottle and put it into her suede satchel. The exorcist told her that drinking the liquid while wearing the eye patch would allow the cure to cleanse Kaliwe’s spirit of the Chintu. He would be free again. She smiled and walked to the office common room. She would call him away and hand it to him at a discrete moment. She couldn’t wait to see him happy and free again…
*
Kaliwe had never before felt the intensity of the rage and glee that consumed the Chintu as soon as Marcus tore off the eye patch.
The feeling radiated from his left eye, spreading through his skull like an ice cold wave as the Chintu advanced through him faster than he could comprehend. In horror, he realised the warm edges of the cold wave were himself, his consciousness, his control over his own body. Kaliwe might have been screaming, but his vocal cords felt so far away from his ears that he couldn’t be sure.
Marcus took a quick step back. Kaliwe’s body was convulsing, his face contorting with expressions never seen on a human face. As he watched the horrific transformation, Marcus’ mouth dried. Everyone else stared with their eyes wide open. Mpho and Bill backed away quickly.
“Kaliwe… what’s happening…” Gugu said in a shaky voice. She took a short step forward then stopped, wanting to help Kaliwe but not knowing how.
Then, the Thing That Was No Longer Kaliwe looked up. Both of its eyes had turned navy blue. It directed its gaze at Marcus, although it couldn’t be described as staring. It looked like it was seeing through him.
The Chintu moved Kaliwe’s arms this way and that, practicing using a body again. It looked down at the floor where the eye patch was. As it stepped towards it, everyone else stepped back. It found bending awkward, but managed to pick up the eye patch and stood staring at it with loathing. Gripping it in both hands, the Chintu tore the patch in half.
Marcus pulled back his fist to punch Kaliwe’s face. His fist was stopped dead, and it took him a moment to realise Kaliwe was gripping it. He had moved that fast. Marcus’ eyes locked with the Thing that operated Kaliwe, and he was more terrified than he had ever been in his life.
The Chintu grabbed Marcus’ forearm with its other hand, then twisted, not stopping until it broke in two places. Marcus’s screams were ear-splitting and the Chintu let him fall to the ground in agony. Gugu screamed and ran, pushing Mpho out of the way, and stumbling as she forced the door open. She almost rammed into Tawene entering.
*
Tawene jumped out of the way as Gugu and the others ran past her. Their colour-drained faces told her exactly what had happened.
“Oh no…” Tawene hurried inside, and had to step around chairs that had been toppled in the rush. Then she saw It. She saw Marcus on the ground next to It, shivering and grey. His arm…
Tawene clamped her hands over her mouth and screamed into them, collapsing in dismay. Helpless tears flowed from her eyes as she crouched on the floor. She was ready to die, for what was there left to live for? This was worse than the first time she had lost him. Now, the soul she loved was gone, with only the shape of the man left behind.
She gasped as the Chintu stepped towards her. Marcus pulled himself up, groaning, then hobbled to the fire escape. Tawene got up and turned to run, then spotted the bottled cure on the floor where it had landed after falling out of her bag. Sure, she couldn’t get him to drink it, but maybe…
Without considering it for a moment longer, Tawene grabbed the bottle, just as the Chintu grabbed her other wrist. Before it had a chance to stop her, she drank every drop of the remedy. It growled, but more out of irritation than any sense of defeat. Then she launched herself at Kaliwe’s body, and held him.
*
Deep within himself, Kaliwe screamed. No! Don’t let me hurt you! No!
He had been beaten down into his own subconscious to only a fraction of consciousness, but when the Chintu touched Tawene he began to fight for control.
Meanwhile, the Chintu was using Kaliwe’s fingers to scratch at Tawene’s arms and back. She cried out, but held on tighter.
No! Kali thought, and felt his consciousness expand a little.
Kaliwe’s body jerked and slumped, and suddenly no one controlled it. The Chintu had turned inwards to fight Kaliwe’s counter attack, to compress and crush his awareness completely. It was trying to kill him, even if the cost would be destroying the body they both needed to survive.
But a part of Kaliwe was still present in his skin, and he felt the pressure of Tawene’s embrace, felt what it meant to him. There was love in that embrace, a ferocious love which demanded his freedom. Something else flowed in waves from her too, a weapon. The cure. It was mixed with her essence which he perceived in his mind as a soft luminescent tide, trying to reach him past the black crude oil ocean which was the Chintu. The creature swelled up, morphing into a black thorny wall, towering high above Kaliwe, blocking him from the warm energy of her love and the cure.
By instinct he knew he had to get past the Chintu. He ran to his right, seeking the end of the wall. But as fast as he could run, the wall grew twice, and then ten times, faster on both sides, onwards to eternity…
“Tawene…” he lamented.
In the material world, Tawene’s wounds begun to bleed through her clothing. Tears streamed down her face. “Come back to me…” she whispered. Her fingers slipped as her arms weakened…
The Chintu’s wall grew higher as well as wider, arching over Kaliwe, shrouding his consciousness in a dark, rapidly closing dome. Around isn’t going to work! He stopped running.
Then I’ll go through.
He leaned full tilt into the thick thorn bush. He cried out in agony as It tore his flesh. It’s not real, he thought, remembering the last time the Chintu had “burned” him. The pain stopped all at once. In disbelief he began to sprint, seeing a glimpse of the light that was Tawene’s spirit ahead of him.
Kaaaaliweeee…
A chill ran through him… It was using words.
I maay not hurt your body but I caan aalwaays hurt your mind…
Not merely raw, alien emotion, but comprehensive threats. He didn’t stop running. A thorn tore into him and as he glanced down a perfect cube of flesh was missing from his arm, exposing bone underneath. Disgusting, but not painful. Then he got the strangest feeling, like he was forgetting something, but he didn’t know what it was.
Do you remember how you met her? It hissed.
Of course he did. He treasured that memory every day… what was it…? No… No, it couldn’t be… he panicked when he realised he had no idea how he and Tawene had met.
I will eeraase her from your mind! If you kill meee, you won’t even know her, much less LOVE her! I. Will. BREAAK YOU!
Kaliwe ran faster than he ever could in reality, and as he did, his right arm tore off, but a moment later, he found the wall of Tawene’s light, embraced it, and became one with it.
The Chintu screamed, the scream twisted into a gargle, and then into the sound of air passing over an empty glass bottle… then it was gone.
Kaliwe’s conscious grew and filled his mind, then his torso, then his limbs (which were whole), and his body was his own again. The first thing he felt was the weight of his lover’s body as she slumped on top of him, slipping into unconsciousness. He caught her before she fell and knelt down, lowering her to the ground.
“Hey…” he put his hand gently on her cheek, tears ran from both of his eyes. “It’s gone… you did it…” Her eyes fluttered open. Comprehension slowly dawned on her face and she managed a weak smile.
“I love you, Kaliwe.”
He smiled back, wiping his eyes of the fresh tears that rose from them. “I love you too…” He froze, then shook his head, blinking.
He could not remember her name. He could not remember his own name.
It didn’t matter. All he knew was that he loved her more than his own life.
END
Ekari Mbvundula is a Malawian writer who won second prize in “The Writer 2016” competition (hosted by The Naked Convos), and published over 10 short stories in various formats (online, print, ebook and audio), primarily in the speculative fiction genre. Her hobbies include making handcrafts, watching open mic poetry. and creating fictional characters to pit against each other in a not-yet-illegal fighting ring for your enjoyment. Her historical fantasy short story ebook “Montague’s Last” can be purchased on Amazon.com, and the rest of her published work is listed (with links) in the Bibliography section of her blog www.ekariwrites.com
When Chinelo Onwualu and I founded the magazine, our major driving force was the need to provide a home for the varied stories of the speculative that were being written across the African continent. We hoped that by giving writers of the speculative a literary magazine, their fear of rejection would be conquered. They would be encouraged to freely explore their gifts and, hopefully, utilise the materials that we know abound in the continent for this.
Well, our wishes have been met and surpassed.
We can’t lay claim to the growing interest in speculative fiction in Africa. We can’t own the movement that is seeing more and more writers drop their shame of loving genre fiction and embrace the sassiness of being a writer of the speculative. We would like to, but we can’t. This is because this acceptance and resultant growth is owned by many people, and we are happy to be a part of the engine that keeps the wheel in motion.
However, Omenana cannot continue to improve in quality, or increase the payments to our contributors, without funding. For the last two years, we have been paying for the design, illustration and maintenance of the site out of our pockets, but this is no longer sustainable.
While the website version of the magazine will continue to be free, this edition will be the last to offer its downloadable PDF without charge. In July, we will be running a fundraising campaign to raise money to cover the costs of running the next two years of the magazine. We also plan to offer subscriptions to the magazine and will be installing a donate button on our site for ongoing funding. Stay tuned for more information.
In the spirit of changes, you might have heard of the buzz coming from the comic book industry in Nigeria? Three of the four works shortlisted for the African Speculative Fiction Society’s upcoming Nommo Awards are by Nigerians. Omenana will be giving you a feel of the industry’s talent by presenting one story in each edition in comic form. For this edition we selected Anne Dafeta’s beautiful coming-of-age story ‘What if I Fall’, with art and lettering by Revolution Media.
This edition also features stories by writers from across the continent. We are happy to see more female voices and more African writers exploring science fiction. We enjoyed working on this edition and hope you will enjoy reading the stories.
‘Good evening sir, welcome to the Regal. How may I help you?’
Ciku beamed her sweetest smile at the squat man standing across the counter from her.
‘My name Jae-Mo Tochukaso, I make reservation two week ago for three night,’ the man said.
‘All right, Mr. Tochukaso, one minute please, as I look up your reservation.’
Ciku typed the name into her computer, and began to frown as it beamed the information she had summoned back at her. She glanced quickly up at the guest, then back to her screen again.
Shit. Another one.
‘Um…sir, there seems to be a problem with your reservation, please have a seat as I try to figure out what it is. Please sir, this won’t take more than a minute.’
He stared at Ciku belligerently, as if he had just been waiting for her to say the wrong thing.
His eyes flashed angrily, and his face began to redden.
‘What mean?’ he said, his voice rising. ‘I make booking two week ago. I just land at airport, long flight, very tired. I need room now.’
‘I understand sir, please, have a seat and I promise you I will sort this out as fast as I can.’ she said in her most diplomatic tone, flashing her most disarming smile.
Her niceness bounced right off him.
‘No, no, NO! I make booking two week ago –’ holding up two fingers ‘– two week! I make long flight from Congo, have early day tomorrow. I need room NOW! I make booking TWO WEEK–’
His voice kept rising with every sentence, and soon he was shouting; repeating the same sentences over and over again. In a few minutes the whole lobby knew that he had made a booking two week ago, had just come off a long flight from the Congo, and he wanted a room, NOW.
It took all of Ciku’s de-escalation skills, the promise of a complimentary glass of champagne, and the smiling, hulking presence of Elias the security guard to persuade him to calm down and take a seat at the lobby. Once he was safely out of earshot, Ciku picked up her phone and dialled her manager’s extension.
‘Brenda?’
‘Hello Ciku, what’s up?’
‘We have a problem. He showed.’
‘Who?’
‘The Korean guy, Tochu-something.’
‘Shit!’
‘Yup.’
‘Can you handle it?’
‘He’s causing a massive scene. You better get down here.’
***
Brenda hung up and buried her head in her hands, groaning. This was the worst part of her job, the absolute worst.
The hotel was overbooked. She rang Odhis down at Reservations and harangued him for a full five minutes. She hung up on him mid-sentence, and began to work through her list of contacts. This was the fourth guest today. She had called in every favour to get the first three rooms in other hotels, and knew that it was the longest of long shots trying to squeeze in a fourth. Still, she tried, but turned up nothing. There was a conference in Nairobi that week – a UN summit on something or the other – and there were simply no rooms to be had.
It was just a piece of bad luck – the wrong day, the wrong guest. Usually, when faced with a choice, Brenda would bump the Japanese businessman travelling alone: they were always so polite, so understanding, smiling and bowing. Not today. First of all, he was Korean, a researcher of some kind, a big shot; Dr. Prof. Jae-Mo Tochukaso. Shit!
She hurried out of her office and made for the reception. Ciku winked and nodded towards the professor. He was seated at the lobby with his arms crossed on his chest, his face flushed with anger, refusing to even acknowledge the glass of champagne bubbling beside him, looking like he could explode any minute.
Brenda glanced back at Ciku hesitantly, who shrugged and flashed her it’s-your-mess-now-deal-with-it grin.
‘Good evening Doctor Tochukaso, my name is Brenda Alusa, I’m the manager here –’
‘Professor Tochukaso,’ he cut in. Brenda flinched.
Something was off about him, way off. His eyes were strangely out of focus, he seemed unreasonably aggressive, and even in the Regal’s cool, air-conditioned lobby his forehead shone with beads of sweat. His face was beetroot red.
‘I make reservation two week ago. TWO WEEK. Now, I land from Congo, long flight, very tired, very angry. I want rest, early morning tomorrow, very early. No tell me, “Sit here Tochukaso, wait please,” no! I want room now! I make reservation TWO WEEK –’
‘All right sir, please, calm down!’
He seemed taken aback at the sudden steel in her voice; he paused for a second, just a second, which was all she needed.
‘I am very, very sorry for this inconvenience, please accept my profoundest apologies.’ She cut in, trying to sound as earnest as she could.
‘I’m going to find you a room sir, I promise. Please, just calm down and give me a minute; we’re doing everything we can.’
She almost ran back to the reception counter – there was no telling how long this lull in the storm would last.
‘Ciku, give me a room.’ she said, almost begging. Ciku typed furiously away, frowning and shaking her head.
‘We’re full.’
‘Everything?’ Brenda asked, desperate, glancing back over her shoulder; the guest was staring right across at them, his jaw working furiously, his eyes flashing like lightning. The storm clouds were gathering again.
‘All we have left is the Mbingu Suite, Diamond’s people called to cancel an hour ago. Everything else is full till tomorrow.’
Brenda turned back to Prof. Tochukaso. He was dabbing with a handkerchief at his florid, shiny forehead. His hand was trembling, and he was muttering under his breath to himself. She walked over, a warm smile on her face, thinking to herself how she had a bad, bad feeling about this guest.
‘Professor Tochukaso, I have good news for you. The hotel offers its thanks for your patience and understanding, and in light of the delay you’ve unfortunately had to experience, we would like to offer you a complimentary upgrade to our Mbingu Suite, with a complimentary dinner. The Mbingu is our pride and joy, and was voted Best Suite in Africa by the Gulliver Magazine.’
She expected relief, thanks, or at least some sort of softening from him; besides, this was a hell of an offer. Nothing. He was as bellicose, as florid, as before. He didn’t seem to have heard or understood her.
‘I make reservation two week ago. TWO WEEK. I want room.’
Brenda signalled to the porter to carry the guest’s bags and lead him to his room. Tochukaso shot her, and then Ciku, one last look full of fury and loathing. Then he turned to follow, dabbing his forehead, muttering under his breath. As she watched them disappear into the lift, Brenda wondered what the hell was up with the guy.
There was silence in the lobby, finally. The security guard who had been hovering around watching the situation with mounting concern mimed wiping a stream of sweat off his brow.
‘What a jerk.’ Ciku said, from her desk.
Brenda checked her watch. 7pm.
To think the night was only just beginning.
***
Six hours later she was slumped over her desk, exhausted. Two more guests had turned up that evening. Miraculously, she had managed to get them rooms over at the Grand. She had had to make fantastic promises which she knew she could never keep, but that was a problem for another day. Her shift was up in two hours, and right then she was fantasizing about crawling into her bed and not leaving it for two months. Her reverie was interrupted by the sound of someone knocking.
‘Come in,’ she said wearily, sitting up. It was Elias, from Security. He looked worried.
‘What now?’ Brenda snapped.
‘Pole madam, but we might have an issue.’
‘What’s happened?’ she asked calmly, reminding herself that there was no need to take her frustration out on her co-workers.
‘Mwange – you know, the guy who monitors the CCTV? – he says he saw one of the guests on the penthouse floor go into one of the service doors.’
Brenda frowned. ‘It wasn’t locked?’
‘It should have been, we’re trying to find out from Maintenance.’
Brenda rubbed her temples, trying to think.
‘What time did this happen? Have you sent someone to check it out?’
‘An hour ago, Muli sent me to call you.’
Muli was Head of Security. Brenda sat up, alarmed.
‘Why does he want me?’
Elias shuffled uncomfortably.
‘The guest hasn’t come out yet. The service door leads to the roof.’
Brenda froze, stunned into silence momentarily.
‘Shit.’
***
Brenda and Elias rode the lift to the fifteenth floor, where they found Muli waiting for them.
‘I’ll go first,’ Brenda said, her voice filled with a confidence she did not feel. ‘Could be it’s only some guy who wants to smoke, or look at the stars or whatever. Elias, what did Mwange say the guy looked like? I need some idea of what I’m dealing with.’
Elias spoke into his walkie-talkie, and listened keenly to the reply.
‘He says it’s that guest, the one who made a scene earlier. Tochukaso.’
Brenda took a deep breath, steeling herself.
I knew it. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. I knew that guy was trouble. I fucking knew it.
‘OK, Elias, you stay down here, be ready to call for help. Muli, with me. If nothing’s up, stay back, I’ll talk to the guest. It’s probably nothing,’ she added, in an attempt to lighten the mood. ‘You know how crazy some of these guys get. We’ll probably find him up there naked, howling at the moon.’
They all laughed, weakly.
Muli had told her on the way up that he had dispatched two guards to patrol the grounds around the hotel.
God, I hope it’s not a jumper, she prayed. Not today.
They walked down the brightly lit corridor between the numbered doors. Brenda kept thinking of The Shining. They turned the corner, and there it was; the service door, clearly marked ‘ENTRANCE RESTRICTED TO HOTEL STAFF ONLY’, slightly ajar.
She pushed open the door, it opened into darkness.
‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Is anyone up there?’
No response.
She fumbled along the wall for a light switch and flicked it – nothing. Muli handed her a torch and she shone it into the doorway, revealing a staircase that disappeared into the ceiling.
Fuck this, she thought, I quit.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and pushed the thought from her mind. Then she forced her legs to move, one step, two steps, then up the staircase warily, calling ‘Professor Tochukaso, are you up there?’, and taking comfort in the knowledge that Muli was close behind her.
Another flight of stairs. Brenda called again, her voice echoing up into the darkness. She listened keenly for a response, and heard nothing, only the frenzied beating of her heart. She swept the staircase with the flashlight and caught sight of something white.
It was a handkerchief, soiled and damp.
She looked back at Muli, who shook his head.
Up two more flights of stairs and they came to another door, also slightly ajar, through which a cool draught rushed, whistling. Brenda steeled herself, and pushed the door open.
It opened out into the roof. The first thing she noticed was that there were no stars tonight; a full moon shone all by herself in the grey sky. The wind was strong, and cold, biting right through her sweater like a thousand tiny needles. The roof was littered with satellite dishes and large black water tanks. She stepped uncertainly out into the night, shining her flashlight around, calling the professor’s name, gesturing to Muli to follow.
A few minutes later Elias, downstairs, heard the screams and began to dial for the police.
Friday, 8.00 am
‘Who was he?’ Inspector Kipng’eno asked.
‘Professor Jae-Mo Tochukaso, world renowned mycologist, from Seoul.’ Corporal Sinde answered, jogging to keep up with the Inspector’s long strides.
Inspector Kipng’eno liked his briefings on the go. They swept across the Regal’s lobby, ignoring the stares of the hotel staff and guests.
‘How long has he been in the country?’
‘Three days. Flew in from Congo-Brazza, was doing research in the jungle there for a couple of weeks.’ They got into the lift, and the Corporal punched the button for the fifteenth floor.
‘My God, Inspector,’ he added, in a low voice. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this before.’
‘If it’s anything like what you’ve described, nobody ever has. How many people have seen the body?’
‘Besides myself? The manager, the head of security, two other police officers. The head of security had the presence of mind to shut off the area once they discovered the body. The two officers were the first responders, they called me directly. They are all under strict instructions to keep this quiet.’
‘Good work,’ the Inspector said. The elevator doors opened. ‘All right, let’s have a look.’
They went up the stairs. Corporal Sinde pointed out the handkerchief on the staircase, and assured the Inspector that nobody had touched it. Soon they climbed out onto the roof.
Dawn was breaking; the first sunrays were just peeking over the horizon. The Regal was situated in a prime location, smack in the middle of Nairobi’s Central Business District, and the air was full of the sounds of the City Centre coming to life.
The body was propped up against one of the water tanks, half crouching, half sitting, with its back resting against the tank. The head was tilted back, facing upwards. A foot long, whitish object protruded from the victim’s face.
At first Inspector Kipng’eno thought that someone had stabbed the man, and left the knife in the wound, right in the eye. Surely that was the hilt protruding; this Sinde fellow must be exaggerating.
Then he got closer, and began to inspect the area around the body. It was strangely bloodless, just specks of membrane here and there. Then he saw it.
‘Sinde,’ he asked calmly, ‘is that an eye?’
It was, lying there on the concrete, staring at him sightlessly.
Kipng’eno turned his attention to the corpse itself. Sinde was right. That was no knife. It was…some kind of…some kind of plant, some sort of greenish-yellow stem poking out of the man’s eye socket. It seemed hollow; the tip of the plant – the thing – was ruptured, curling outward.
Kipng’eno looked back at Sinde, incredulous.
All around them the wind whipped, howling. Below them, three million people were scurrying to and fro, like termites scuttling from one nest into the other.
‘What do we do, sir?’ Sinde asked.
The Inspector didn’t answer. He had no idea.
Friday, 4.30 pm
Dr. Alice Okallo sat, shell-shocked, in her office at the Kenya Medical Research Institute. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. If she hadn’t known it was Festus Babu, Director of Police Forensics on the other end of the line, she would’ve dismissed the whole thing as a prank.
‘That’s not possible.’
‘I’m telling you, it’s true. I’ve seen the pictures with my own eyes. Have you ever seen anything like it?’
‘Well, yes, but – in insects! In…in nothing larger than caterpillars, for God’s sake!’
‘Get me all the information you can,’ Festus said. ‘I’ve sent the samples over, I want a report ASAP.’
She rushed from her office and into the adjacent laboratory, just in time to see her intern, Nakhayo, walk in with a package.
‘Are those the samples from police forensics?’ she asked excitedly.
‘Yes,’ Nakhayo replied, surprised to see her boss so worked up.
Dr. Okallo snatched the package, opened it, and lined up the slides by the microscope. She put the first one onto the microscope stage and peered down at it, adjusting the lens.
‘Extraordinary. Absolutely extraordinary!’ she murmured to herself. ‘It doesn’t make any sense!’
Dr. Okallo removed the slide from the microscope stage, and mounted another, repeating the process until she had inspected all of them, all the while shaking her head in disbelief.
‘What’s up?’ Nakhayo asked.
‘Cordyceps.’ The doctor breathed. ‘But how?…’
Her words trailed away, and she crinkled her brow, thinking; thinking hard.
‘Cordyceps?’ Nakhayo repeated, ‘What’s that?’
Dr. Okallo squeezed her eyes shut, and rubbed her temples with trembling fingers. Then she got over the initial shock, and sprang into action.
‘Cordyceps is a genus of endoparasitoid fungus,’ she said, thinking aloud. ‘It targets insects…anthropods…’ She was talking very quickly now, pacing up and down. ‘Have you heard of Ophiocordyceps unilateralis? It’s a fungus that affects ants; they call it the zombie-ant fungus. This is crazy!’
She flew to the nearest computer – Nakhayo followed her, trying to keep up. She had never seen the doctor so excited.
“Look! It’s a parasitic fungus that manipulates the behaviour of its host in order to increase its chances of reproducing.’
Nakhayo stared at the image Dr. Okallo had summoned up. It was a grotesque picture of an ant clutching a stem, the stalk of a horrific fungus growing from its head.
‘Wow,’ Nakhayo gushed. ‘How does it do that?’
‘The – the spores – they enter the ant’s body through its spiracles. Fungal filaments – mycelia – grow through the ant’s body cavity, absorbing soft tissues but avoiding its vital organs–’
‘So this thing grows inside the ant?’ Nakhayo broke in, incredulous.
‘Yes, yes,’ the doctor answered impatiently, as if this were some minor detail, ‘but that’s not it! When the fungus is ready to sporulate, the fungus produces chemicals which act on the ant’s brain. Get this – it makes the ant climb to the top of a plant, then forces it to clamp down securely on the stem with its mandibles!
‘Then it devours the ant’s brain, and the fruiting body bursts up through its head, releasing clusters of spores into the air. Do you know why it makes the ant climb? It’s so that the sporules can spread over as large an area as possible, infecting the maximum number of ants, and the cycle begins again. It has decimated entire colonies!’
‘Sheesh,’ Nakhayo shuddered. ‘Nature cooks up some pretty creepy stuff.’
‘It’s nature’s way of population control,’ Dr. Okallo continued. ‘Making sure no species’ numbers grow beyond what the ecosystem can support. Different Cordyceps species target different organisms – grasshoppers, locusts, caterpillars…it’s a system of check and balance; once a species becomes too dominant, Cordyceps happens and limits its growth.’
‘Cool,’ Nakhayo said.
‘Nakhayo, you don’t understand!’ Dr. Okallo was almost jumping now; shouting, shaking Nakhayo’s shoulders in excitement. ‘This morning, they found a man in a hotel. Or rather, on a hotel. He had been acting strange all night, and finally climbed up onto the roof! He was a mycologist. He flew in from the Congo, where he was doing research in the field. The Congo forest is one of the places where this Cordyceps fungi is found.’
Suddenly, a thought struck her. Dr. Okallo raced back to the microscope and peered once more into the lens. What she saw must have confirmed her fears – she sank, horrified, into a chair.
‘What, Dr. Okallo, what is it?’ Nakhayo asked, alarmed.
‘The samples…they’re taken from part of the fungal ascocarp. My God! Oh God!’
‘Doctor, you’re scaring me. What is it?’
Dr. Okallo looked at her; it was a strange look, half of horror, half of pity.
‘The asci…they’ve ruptured.’
‘What does that even mean?’
‘The spores have been released.’
Speaking the fact aloud seemed to have sparked something in Dr. Okallo’s brain. She sprang up, and began making frantic phone calls.
***
Jeff, Brenda’s husband, was scared.
The hotel had called him at eight that morning, telling him his wife was not feeling well, could he come get her? He had been on his way to work, two minutes away from his office building. He made a U-turn and called his boss.
He had found the hotel lobby full of police officers. When he asked to see his wife, the receptionist had looked at him with pity in her eyes, and directed him to an office in the back.
He’d walked around to the office and found her surrounded by police officers, being questioned in a gruff voice by a senior cop, an Inspector or something.
She wouldn’t say one word.
One look at her, and Jeff knew that something was terribly wrong. She was sitting in her chair, staring vacantly into space, her face ashen.
The Inspector had taken him aside and explained in a low voice that Brenda had seen something – he wouldn’t say what – and it was important, once she came to her senses, that she record a statement, and speak of it to nobody else. Jeff just stood there, amazed to learn that his wife had gone through an extremely traumatic episode, and instead of calling an ambulance these men had been interrogating her all morning.
They’d been in and out of hospitals the rest of the day.
First they put her through triage, then they waited an hour to see a physician, who referred them to the resident psychologist, who, they were informed, only came in at 3.00 pm, for two hours, and whose appointment schedule was full for the next two months. The receptionist added helpfully that the psychologist had a private practice which he ran from 8.00 am to 2.30 pm, over at another hospital.
Jeff had driven there, cursing the mid-morning traffic that turned what should have been a ten minute drive into an hour-and-a-half ordeal. They then waited another hour to see the doctor; they were finally hustled into his office at 2.15 pm. The doctor checked his watch every five minutes during the consultation.
After a cursory examination, he announced that Brenda had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, prescribed some medicine and lots of bed rest, and gave them an appointment for first thing Monday. Then it was back into the gridlocked traffic for the drive to his brother’s house.
His brother Eddie lived in South B, a suburb much closer to the city centre than Rongai, where Jeff and Brenda lived. Eddie travelled a lot and was rarely in the country for more than a few weeks at a time. Now he was off in Norway, and since Jeff had a spare key to his house, he decided to go there instead of his own home so that they would be closer to the hospital. He shot Eddie a WhatsApp message explaining; he knew his brother wouldn’t mind, considering the circumstances.
Through all this Brenda had spoken less than three words to him, to anyone. She had followed instructions like a child – go here, sit there, lie down, breathe in, hold it, breathe out. Ordinarily she could never stand being told what to do. Jeff was very scared. When he dropped her off at the hotel at the start of her shift last night, she was buzzing, as full of life as ever. Now she was a zombie with a two word vocabulary.
‘Fresh air,’ she was all she would say, over and over again.
Jeff cranked up the A/C to the max. Brenda curled into a ball on the passenger seat and fell into a fitful sleep. When they got to Eddie’s, Jeff parked the car, and checked the time on his watch – 7.40 pm. He got out and went round to the passenger seat, where Brenda was fast asleep. He opened the door, carried her out and up the stairs into the bedroom and laid her on the bed.
‘What have they done to you?’ he asked her. ‘Don’t worry, B. I’m here. I’ll get you through this.’
‘Fresh air,’ she murmured. He opened all the windows.
He was massaging her head – she had such a fever! – when his phone rang. He went out into the kitchen to answer it, so as not to disturb her.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Mr. Jeffery Alusa?’
‘Yes, who is this?’
‘This is Sergeant Franklin Ogidi, police.’
‘Yes,’ Jeff said warily. ‘How can I help you?’
He thought he heard the front door creaking open, but it couldn’t be, surely, Brenda was fast asleep –
‘Mr. Alusa, where are you?’
This caught Jeff’s attention.
‘Why,’ he asked, growing suspicious.
‘Where is your wife?’
‘She’s here with me, why do you ask?’
The man on the other end of the line sighed deeply.
‘Mr. Alusa, we think your wife may have been exposed to a highly infectious disease this morning. We need to know where you are so we can send a team of medics to examine her and help contain this disease.’
‘What are you talking about? What disease? Is it – is it…Ebola?’ Jeff whispered the word, hardly daring to say it out loud. ‘Is that why there were police at the hotel this morning?’
‘No,’ Sgt. Ogidi said. ‘Something else, we don’t know what it is. That’s why we need to identify and contain it as fast as possible. Where are you? We need to send a team of medics to you ASAP.’
The whole thing seemed fishy to Jeff, now that he thought about it. A disease? No, Brenda had seen something. Who was this Ogidi fellow, and how could anyone be sure he really was a policeman? Maybe Brenda had witnessed a crime, or seen something she shouldn’t have…why was this guy, whoever he was, so insistent on finding them, on knowing where they were? Something was not right.
‘Who am I speaking to, again?’ Jeff asked, unable to keep the hostility out of his voice.
‘Sergeant Franklin Ogidi, I told you, I work with the police –’
‘And how do I know that? How can I know for sure? I want to speak to the Inspector.
Inspector Kip- er, Kip-’ dammit, what was his name?
‘Unfortunately, that won’t be possible. Inspector Kipng’eno was found half an hour ago. We are trying to reach everyone who was present at the scene. Mr. Alusa, if you would just tell us–’
‘What do you mean, found?’
‘Mr. Alusa.’ Sgt. Ogidi sighed deeply, fighting to keep the frustration out of his voice. ‘This is very serious. We have dispatched units to your house in Rongai, it is empty. Where are you?
Your wife’s life is in danger. Hello? Hello?’
Jeff flung the phone across the kitchen, burst out of the door and sprinted across the living room. The bedroom door was open. The bed was empty.
‘Brenda? BRENDA!’
Friday, 7.55 pm
Fresh air, fresh air. Must have fresh air. No, not that itsy-bitsy draught from those tiny windows. Must have fresh air.
Must see the sky.
Brenda got up and glided across the room; opened the door, carefully, as noiselessly as she could. For some reason, it was important to be quiet. It was like a game, she wanted to see how quiet she could be. Besides, someone might hear and try to stop her from getting fresh air.
Somewhere nearby she could hear someone talking, in a room close by. The voice sounded vaguely familiar. How could he stand the stuffiness?
Fresh air, fresh air, it’s too close in here. Fresh air; I simply must have it.
She crept up to the living room door. There was a deadbolt; she slid it open noiselessly. Then she began to open the door, slowly…It creaked, loudly. These hinges need some oil, she thought, annoyed. She listened; the voice paused for a fraction of a second, then resumed speaking heatedly. All clear.
Up, up, up. Must go up.
She passed a number of people on the way; they all looked at her so strangely. One woman touched her on the shoulder and asked, ‘Are you all right?’
Brenda just shrugged off her hand and kept climbing.
Of course I’m all right, she thought. Everyone else – that’s who’s not ok. The stuffy air down here must be addling their brains. Anyone with any sense is after some fresh air.
Up, up, up.
Beautiful night. Look at that full moon! And the breeze! Lovely fresh breeze. Just the thing I want. I just need something to lean against, as I take in this view, this fresh air.
She walked toward a large satellite dish and sat with her back up against it.
Perfect. Fresh air, so refreshing. This is bliss.
She closed her eyes, smiling, and turned her face up to the sky. She felt like she could sit here, like this, forever.
She began to feel a slight headache.
THE END
Alvin Kathembe is a 25-year-old writer born and raised in Nairobi, Kenya. He is a lover of truth and beauty, and seeks after both through art. He writes for the mind, and might touch your heart while he’s at it. His poetry has been featured on the literary blog wamathai.com here, and stories on Story zetu.
Translated from the French with the help of the Harrap’s Shorter Dictionary.
In the near future.
“Hello, dear viewers! Today, we are happy to welcome on our daily literary show, ‘Words of the Future,’ the Gabonese computer scientist Paul Urinda.
“Mr Urinda is a professor at the Libreville Institute of Technology (LIT) and creator of the much-debated software “TYPEWRITER”. As you know, the latter intends to help writers in their narrative creative process.
“Good evening, professor.”
“Good evening.”
“So, what is TYPEWRITER?”
“TYPEWRITER is a computer-aided writing package (CAWP).”
“What exactly do you mean?”
“That is to say it can write some parts of the story by itself. But don’t worry; TYPEWRITER cannot compose a tale on its own. TYPEWRITER is not able to build the storyline, it merely follows the instructions given by the author. Human beings remain at the control of the creative process. Actually, this software barely interferes with the writing process and style, in other words, the ways taken by the novelist to tell the story. In a way, TYPEWRITER is the 3D printer of the writer.”
“But don’t you think that we find the fine touch of the writer more in the ways used to tell the story than in its structure?”
“I think that the writer is everywhere. In the storyline, as well as in the style.”
“Then, can we say that when a writer uses your software he grants a part of his capacity to create to the technology?”
“Yes, so to speak. The novelist and the software are sharing the narrative creative process together.”
“Software proposing to help us in our intellectual tasks are becoming more and more numerous. Should we be worried about that?”
“No, I don’t think so. Since the invention of the calculator to the computer, and nowadays to Bio-Integrated Software, human beings have always sought the means to improve and facilitate their cognitive processes. That seems to be a feature of human nature.”
“Do you think that the mention ‘written with the help of TYPEWRITER’ needs to be affixed on books written with your software?”
“Not necessarily. But, perhaps soon we will attend live writing sessions like we attend music concerts. It will completely change our manner of consuming literature!”
“Thank you, professor, for agreeing to our interview.”
“Thanks to you for inviting me.”
“Dear viewers, your literary show “Words of the Future” has now ended. Please do not forget that you can get TYPEWRITER by connecting your cerebral implant into one of the numerous downloading terminals of our sponsor, the Next Read Library.
“See you tomorrow!”
END
Rèlme Divingu’s real name is Marc Divingou Moussounda, he is 31 years old. He is Gabonese and currently lives in the city of Tchibanga. He works as a psychologist in a HIV care center. He has published some of his sci-fi short stories on Wattpad (English) and Atavist (French) under the username “Relme Han”. He likes everything related to the arts and technology innovation.
Blood tickled the edge of Mary’s lip; rough wood prickled against her back, snagging on the fabric of her school uniform. Her thin skin was already burning with the sun – a blazing ball of ultra-violet that sparked off the jagged rocks in the valley around her and brought an emerald brilliance from the silver grey of the low bushes and shrubs that clung to the boulder-strewn hills.
It always hurt to stare at the granite. At midday the rock was a mottled mirror, pulsing and burning her sensitive eyes. Only the sharp shadows, trickling from the time-hewn giants into the deep cut of the valley, offered any respite.
Mary closed her eyes against the brilliance, but that only sharpened her other senses. Not too far away, the excited buzz of bees whispered of honey and greed, a song she knew well and one that made more sense to her than the twittering of nervous birds. The dull smell of turned earth rose from beneath her heel; the dust they had stirred was settling on her skin and worst of all, the heat of Anton Swanepoel’s breath against her neck – a force as palpable as his weight holding her up against the barn wall.
At her worst moments, when the brightness and the stink of the mountains became too much, she would focus on her hazy memories of another sky. The people who called the valley home always said their land was beautiful. They thanked God for it every Sunday, but when the thin songs rang out and the creaky old organ played, Mary took herself to another place. A place with grey clouds running to pink and yellow in the mellow evening; no burning blues or shrill greens; no white light to make your eyes water and head pound.
Her pa always told her she couldn’t possibly remember these things – that everything in those fragmented scenes was just a dream, best forgotten, but Mary never quite believed him. There had to be somewhere better than this, where the sun didn’t hurt so much.
“You still here, rooinek?” Anton’s voice was heavy and his breath was coming quickly, a cloying warm sweetness that mixed with the dust and heat and coiled in her gut. Nausea oozed through her. “Or you got your head in the clouds again?”
“Look at her, Anton, skin that white she might as well be a cloud,” one of Anton’s friends said. The voice belonged to Piet Snyman. Her gut twisted just a little more. She’d always liked Piet, at least from a distance. No one wanted to get too close to the tall albino girl, but Piet had always seemed to have kind eyes. Mary was glad she was too dazzled to see them. Losing the illusion of that kindness would have hurt almost as much as the rusty bolt that pressed into the small of her back as Anton ground against her.
Mary tried to speak, but it was hard to get anything from her constricted lungs. Anton was big, only a head shorter than her, and his mother’s indulgence had ensured that he’d packed a lot of meat onto his growing body. Anton was always eating something, and he had a notoriously sweet tooth. Sugar was a rare thing in the valley, but Anton was spoilt enough that he got more than was good for him; his lack of dental hygiene didn’t make for a good situation.
Anton shifted. His weight intensified. Mary tried to press farther back, but the wall left her nowhere to go. The scent of soured honey wafted past Anton’s moist lips and the sweet he was sucking clicked close to her ear.
Anton gripped her jaw and let his thumb slowly trace the line of her cheekbone. The dust that had been trapped in the pads of his sticky fingers rasped against her skin.
“Feels like paper.” He laughed and his friends were quick to join him. “Looks like it too.” His other hand dropped into his pocket. Mary screwed up her eyes tighter – he kept a knife there.
They couldn’t mean to really hurt her! Could they?
The others didn’t like Mary, but her pa had always said that no boy would bother a lady if he knew what was good for him. Her pa was usually right, but there was a hunger in the boys’ eyes that hadn’t been there when Mary and her father had arrived three years ago. The others had always had an instinctive wariness of outsiders, even though they themselves had not been in the valley long. It was inexplicable to Mary how people, who knew what it was to run from bullies, could so easily become bullies themselves.
It was not a question she had ever been able to ask anyone, since she had no real friends. The community needed a blacksmith, and as long as her father fixed kettles, fabricated plough-blades or made shoes for horses, her family would be tolerated. Tolerated was not the same as being accepted. Most of the children knew they could only go so far; if they caused any real damage, there would be repercussions from the adults, who valued her father’s skills. Anton was different, though, he didn’t care. His father was important too, and any wariness he might have had had long ago transformed into meanness and contempt.
Instinct told Mary it wasn’t affection that motivated Anton’s interest in her. He pressed close, but she had no doubt that of all her tormenters, he was the most repulsed by her. It was the same as when someone couldn’t stop worrying bad tooth. She was different, disconcerting; for some people the urge to control came hard on the heels of not understanding something.
Anton rummaged around in his trousers as if he couldn’t find the knife. His belly bulged at the pressure from beneath and he offered her a yellowed grin. “Perhaps I should write my name,” he murmured. “What do you think, albino girl? You want me to write my name?”
Bile burned at the back of her throat. The cruelty of the sun was suddenly welcome; perhaps it would burn away the filth on her cheek. She opened her eyes and stared down at the fat boy in front of her. It was Anton who looked away. For an instant defiance flared, but her father had been clear – no fighting, no trouble at all costs.
Mary closed her eyes again and Anton pushed in harder, eager to avenge his small defeat.
“Sies, man, don’t get so close. She could have something catching!” Jacques chimed in from behind Anton. “Besides, her pa might be coming home soon.”
Anton laughed. “The Uitlander isn’t coming home for a while. Got important business with my pa this afternoon, I heard.” Anton turned his attention back to Mary. “We both know your father isn’t going to say no to a little something from the still, once they’ve talked business nê?”
Mary all but choked on her disappointment. She wanted to believe her father would come back and save her, but Anton was right. Her father’s taste for liquor had intensified over the years and it was unlikely he would be back anytime soon.
“What do you say, hemel besem, want to go somewhere out of the sun?” Anton’s meaty hand closed on her wrist and he began to drag her before she had time to answer. “Hey chaps, you coming?” he asked.
There was nervous murmuring from the other boys. Everyone but Jacques took a step back. Piet looked around at her father’s sheds and the low house beyond. “Na, it’s creepy around here, weird just like her.”
Anton snorted. “Bangbroek! Besides, she’s not so bad.” Anton looked at Mary as if she should be grateful for the meagre acknowledgement; all she could register was gratitude that Piet had chosen to leave. The boys melted away like shadows into the heat of the afternoon.
“Just the three of us, then.” Anton smiled and offered her his arm.
Mary didn’t take it, but she was feeling the effects of being out in the sun for so long – she used the wall for support. Jacques stepped in behind her and Anton fell into step alongside. They were ready for her to bolt, but they needn’t have worried. Mary didn’t have the strength to run. All she could think of was getting inside.
Mary allowed herself to be taken to the door of the barn. Each step was an effort and her throat was so tight she didn’t dare speak. Even so, she had to try when Anton made to open the door.
“Please…” The word came out high pitched and rasping, “Please you mustn’t go in there.”
Anton made a sour face. “But why not? Everyone wants to know what happens in the smith’s workshop.” Anton reached for the handle, Mary closed her eyes in anticipation of what must follow – her father guarded his secrets and…
To her surprise and horror, the door gave way. A year ago her father would never have left the workshop open. Even Mary only saw the inside of the barn because her father brought her here to take her medication.
The door creaked and swung open. If she had not felt so sick, Mary might have used the momentary distraction to try run for the house. She could even have gotten away; at the very least she might have made them forget the idea of looking into the barn. But, in the end, the momentary safety offered by the barn’s gloomy interior proved too alluring. She broke from the two boys with a sudden burst of speed and scurried into her father’s workshop. Her instant relief as she slipped into the coolness of the room faded as she remembered where she was.
The workshop had been a normal barn when her father had taken it over, but it had changed significantly since then. Metal surfaces gleamed and small devices ticked and turned on shelves. Her senses sharpened almost as soon as she stepped through the door. The hisses and pops of the hundred little projects that her father was working on were loud. The whirling fan blades and extractors couldn’t quite remove the smell of her father’s work.
As her mind cleared in the gloom, Mary understood the gravity of her mistake. She spun around and tried to force the door closed.
Too late, Anton was already stepping through, using his weight to keep the door open.
“What’s all this, eh?” Anton was peering, struggling to make out anything in the relative darkness.
“You have to go.” There was new stress in Mary’s voice. If she had been worried for herself before, she was past panic now. Her father had said that none of the villagers must ever see his work. It wasn’t exactly her fault, but he’d say that she’d led the boys here.
“Go?” Anton asked. “But we only just arrived.”
“She’s right; we shouldn’t be here, Anton.” Jacques sounded nervous.
Anton laughed. “You wait outside if you like, Jacques. Miss Carter and I have things to do.”
Anton made a sudden grab for Mary, but she avoided it easily. She was slow and clumsy in the sunshine, but in the cool dimness of the workshop, she was faster than the fat boy could ever hope to be.
Anton was left standing in the doorway, holding her shawl as she fled farther into the workshop.
Anton took her escape with good humour. “And where are you going to go, meisie?” He chuckled. “There’s no other way out of here.”
“Go away, Anton!” Mary shouted. What could she do to make them leave? It wouldn’t matter to her father that it was his fault the workshop had been left open, and it didn’t seem to matter to the two boys that she wanted them to go. She had only the vaguest notion of Anton’s intent. Come to that, she doubted the boy had much idea of what he was doing either. It wasn’t something they discussed in the books her father gave her to read or that Mrs Venter might mention during their arithmetic lessons.
There has to be something he wants!
Metal clanged and clattered behind her, punctuated by the shattering of glass. Anton must have knocked some of her father’s engines to the floor. There would be no hiding that the boys had been here now, but perhaps she could persuade them to go before more damage was done. Before Anton hurt her.
“You make sure she doesn’t get out through the door,” Anton shouted to his friend.
The walls closed in, stirring a dreadful claustrophobia, as time narrowed to an inevitable point. Anton was getting closer, and the bully was right – there was nowhere to go. He was going to hurt her. She could still feel the stickiness he had left on her cheek; she could not bear the thought of him touching her again.
Stickiness!
The idea hit her as she reached the end of the barn – where her father’s forge stood. It wasn’t a forge as most people would understand it; rather it was a large, battered metal box with a sliding panel on the front. Mary’s father had made a habit of calling the box his ‘forge’, since he didn’t want the other inhabitants of the valley guessing what it actually was.
The outside of the box was stained and blackened, as if it had been in a fire. A casual observer might take it to have no value, but the forge was the most valuable thing in her father’s entire workshop. If you fed the right details into the dials next to the sliding door, the forge could make anything.
Her father would no doubt call what she planned madness, but with Anton bearing down on her, she felt she had no choice. There was only one thing Anton liked more than scaring people and that was sweets.
Anton’s footfalls sounded close behind her. There was no time to think it through.
“If you leave me alone, I will give you sweets!” she shouted.
Anton stopped, she had his attention at least. “What are you talking about?”
The back of the barn had no lighting. Mary didn’t have any problems with the lack of illumination, but she could hear Anton shuffling around behind her, groping for her in the dark. His breathing was ragged with excitement.
“If you promise to go away and not tell anyone, I will give you all the sweets you could ever want,” she repeated. “You and your friend.”
“Jy jok, there are no sweets.” Mary turned in time to see a nasty smile spread over his face. “And we can take them anyway if there are.”
“No! No you can’t, because I still have to make them.” Mary hurried over to the panel on the side of the forge and spun the dials as her father had shown her. She turned the dial that controlled the amount of the substance produced all the way up, and began the process.
Anton opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. Light blazed as the forge’s door slid open and candies began to hit the wooden floor. Spun sugar shattered like stained glass as it spilled onto the ground in a wave of blinding confectionary. Mary had no idea where her father’s machine had learned about so many types of candy, but every permutation of the sweetmakers art seemed to be flowing from the forge in a ceaseless wave, lit by the white brilliance burning within the battered old box.
Anton’s eyes bulged and he snatched a treat from the dusty floor.
Mary wasn’t sure if she should be worried or relieved if the whole batch turned out to be poison.
“Anton? Wat gaan aan?” Jacques had come half way into the barn, a moth drawn by the light pouring from the forge, but he dared go no further. “Wat is dit?” He stared at the abating tide of candy with obvious distrust.
Anton swirled the sweet in his mouth and beamed. “It’s good.” The candy crunched. Anton was too impatient to suck.
“But how do you know it’s safe?” Jacques blurted.
“It’s safe. Right, Mary?” Anton started to fill his pockets. “Mary and I are friends.”
Anton smiled at her. He kept looking at her, even as he scooped up the sweets from the floor. His unwavering attention told Mary her gamble had not paid off. nton meant to take his sweets then finish what he had started.
Jacques clearly lacked his companion’s determination. He opened his mouth to say more, when the forge began to shudder violently and the illumination spilling from it intensified. This was part of the shutdown process, but Mary decided to make the most of it.
“There’s something wrong, we have to get out!” she shouted.
Jacques turned and fled. “Anton come on, boet, let’s get out of here!” he shouted as he ran.
Anton’s eyes narrowed as he looked from the shaking metal box to Mary.
Mary pretended to ignore him and turned to the dials as if trying to bring the device back under control. A slight adjustment sent a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke coiling out into the air. That was enough for Anton, who went thundering after his friend. Sweets clattered to the floor as they spilled from his overstuffed pockets.
As soon as he was through the workshop door, Mary ran after them. She slammed the door shut and locked it. Anton began hammering on the door almost as soon as he realized that he had been tricked, but the barn was impregnable. The forge powered down with a series of flashes and shudders. Mary sat drawing in the cool gloom of the workshop, when the banging on the door finally stopped she got up and started to clear the debris from the floor.
She did a good enough job that her father didn’t notice when he got home, though Anton’s father’s brandy could be given some of the credit.
Her father was still bleary-eyed when they came for him.
*
Mary always had trouble sleeping at night; she almost heard the mob approaching in time, but her father was a heavy sleeper and the house was surrounded before she could rouse him.
The people called her father’s name and he went to meet them. He told Mary not to worry, that it was all some misunderstanding, but Mary knew it was already too late and that, when the worst happened, it would be her fault.
All it took was a thrown rock to show that her father bled blue – bluer than the royal families of Europe one of the mob later commented. The men said they had come about sorcery; the strange blood was all they needed to confirm that there was a demon in their midst.
*
“I am sorry to have made you wait so long, my dear,” Mr. Swanepoel said. The lantern light pierced Mary’s eyes. After nearly a week, she had become accustomed to the darkness of the cellar; she had even begun to like it. She was unsure if it was the lack of her father’s medicines or the long isolation, but light intruded on her senses now. They’d let her keep her bonnet, and she adjusted it to make sure the light didn’t blind her.
The grey haired preacher frowned. “You truly are a pathetic creature, aren’t you? I only hope that prayer and being part of a solid family can undo the damage that monster has inflicted.”
“What are you talking about, Mr.Swanepoel? Why are you holding me here? When can I leave?” Mary’s jaw felt stiff from lack of use.
The pastor’s hand blurred and pain exploded in the side of her head. “I told you already! You are not going anywhere,” Swanepoel snarled. “Bad enough that we have to–” He visibly forced himself to calm down. “You are lucky to have my protection. Many whisper that you’re as strange as your father. How long do you think you would last if I just let you walk away?”
Mary reached up to touch her burning face. “We didn’t hurt anyone. If you let me go, I swear to leave. No one would ever have to see me again.”
“No point dwelling on that, girl. You need to accept that things have changed. Best to do as I say.” He leaned in closer, lifting his lantern right into her eyes. “Lord, you’re not even crying, are you?”
“I don’t,” Mary said simply. Why would he want her to cry?
“To think that my youngest son might want to be bonded to such a –” Swanepoel reached into a pocket and drew out a handful of colourful sweets. “My son says you made this with your father’s cursed device. Is it true?”
Mary hesitated. Her father had been killed for merely owning the forge. Should she admit to any knowledge of it?
“Well?” the pastor asked impatiently. “Is my son a liar? I do not trust his word for much, but I must know.”
Mary remained silent.
Swanepoel blew out his ample cheeks. “Before he passed, your father confessed that this ‘forge’ of yours was what he used to produce all his metal. Is that true? We wondered how he always seemed to have a supply, but this infernal device would explain much.”
Mary stared at the pastor. She hadn’t realized that he’d spoken to her father before he died. It was possible that Anton’s father shared the outrage of his flock and that he was merely trying to trick her into admitting that she knew of her father’s ‘infernal device’. However, Mary read something different in the man’s eyes – a greed that echoed his son’s.
“Yes,” she confessed.
“Yes, what?”
“He used the forge to get his materials.”
The pastor’s grim expression shifted slightly. “And you know how to do this too?”
Mary could hear a tension in his voice. It would go badly for her if she said the wrong thing.
“I do. I can make you anything you want, if you’ll just–”
The pastor slapped the table, his mood visibly improved. “Then it’s settled.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There’s nothing for you to understand, girl. Your father is dead and you need a home. My boy has expressed an interest in you, so you shall be married and spared the indignity and danger you might otherwise face.”
Mary stared at him. She understood the words, but what she was hearing made so little sense.
The pastor plunged on. “Of course you will need a dowry and, while the rest of your father’s estate is forfeit, I shall make sure that his forge is brought here, where you can begin to repay your debt.”
Mary opened then closed her mouth. What was there to say that wouldn’t simply earn her another slap or worse? What would the pastor do when he realised she only had the most basic understanding of the forge?
Pastor Swanepoel took her silence as agreement and rose. “It will take a few days to smooth things over. People’s fears must be allayed. In the meantime, I think it best that you stay here.”
Mary looked around. How many more days would she have to stay in the cellar? He’d have to let her out for the wedding.
Swanepoel’s nose wrinkled as he caught sight of the bucket in one corner of the room. “I’ll leave the lantern and send Anton down to remove that,” he said and looked at her as if she should be grateful for his concession. “He’ll also bring some water. You should do your best to make yourself presentable. You will not be down here much longer.”
With that, the pastor swept from the room.
As soon as he was gone, Mary put out the light.
*
Darkness returned, bringing with it the dreams her father had warned her of. Another day without the injections her father used to give her only made them more intense.
Her skin was tight and itchy… Burning.
In her dreams she saw flames – the same flames that had engulfed her father’s forge before he’d pulled it from the conflagration. There was the sour smell of flesh on that smoke. She saw infants, just like herself, sizzling in their green tubes. Her father had not been quick enough to reach anyone else. A new generation, destroyed.
The darkness was a cloak that hid and comforted her. Pain abated and the sickness that had overflowed the bucket they had left her, receded. When she was awake, she felt as if her body were covered in tiny insects that tickled and nipped. She plucked out her fingernails one by one with her sharp teeth. As she ran her exposed fingers over the rough plaster on the walls, it was as though she were feeling things for the first time.
The bright colours that had once only tinged her vision bloomed, edging every shape and highlighting the furthest corners of her dark domain. The sound of heartbeats from the floors above became like thunder. Her mouth watered when that sound came close, but the maids only left food and drink at the top of the cellar stairs. None of them felt the need to come further into her lair, and Mary was happy to be left alone to sleep.
***
“Wake up, Mary.” Anton’s voice was heavy. He held a single candle and was dressed in his church clothes.
Mary’s instincts told her it was morning, probably past time for his father’s sermon. Why was he here now?
“We’re to be married, Mary,” Anton said.
Mary started to get to her feet, but before she could rise, Anton crossed the room quickly and stood before her. “My father has said so.” He put the candle on the table next to him and stared at her. Mary didn’t look back. “I want to be sure you’re worth it.” His breath smelled worse in the confines of the cellar. That or her senses had indeed become sharper in the dark. “My brother said that you might be just like your pa. Said I should check you were a woman before I married you.”
“Please, Anton.”
He ignored her and his hand went to his belt. “Shut up.”
There was a dull clack as a well-sucked candy hit the back of his teeth.
“You can lie there or you can do something, but I want to know…”
He yanked clumsily at her stained skirts. Despite his promises, the pastor had not even sent a change of clothes. The fabric was stiff with the fluids that had leaked from her during her slumber.
Fear gripped Mary. What would Anton do when he saw her body? Her father’s medicines were wearing off quickly now; there would be no hiding how different she had become. Her father had been killed for having blue blood. What would they do to her?
She slapped his hand aside and tried to escape past him, but it was a mistake. His weight bore her down and they rolled across the cellar floor. Her dress tore and he pawed at her, his breath fast with unfamiliar exertion. His fumbling assault knocked the candle from the table. The last light sputtered for a moment then died.
“Anton, no! Leave me alone!”
The boy ignored her pleas and forced himself forward, tearing fabric aside until they were pressed together, skin on skin. Had he known more of what he was about, Anton might have noticed something was wrong, but the darkness and the boy’s lack of experience kept Mary’s secret.
Her transformation was almost complete.
The legs that Anton parted and the wrists he held were not her only limbs.
The tiny vestigial arms below her ribs had flourished without her father’s therapies to stunt them. The long elegant arms arched out, their chitin points quivering over her oblivious attacker.
Her thrashing dislodged her bonnet, and she looked up at him from unblinking compound eyes. Eyes that saw in the darkness as Anton’s could not.
There was pain as he entered her, but that was almost nothing to the sensation of her face splitting vertically from her chin to her nose. Three years of gene therapy had done much to curb her nature, but once roused, the mating instinct could not be resisted.
Earth had not been their intended destination, but Mary’s race was nothing if not adaptable. Her father’s serums had begun the process, but her body quickly shifted gears to accommodate her mate’s genome. Anton gurgled as fine spines pierced his groin, hunting the precious genetic material Mary required. His anguished moans stopped as her mandibles clamped over his head.
Her jaw shifted back and forth, mimicking the action of a saw. Without warning, the vertebrae gave way. Mary gagged on the hot spurt of blood that filled her throat. It seemed sweeter than any candy that she had ever tasted. Anton was warm, plump and full of juices; she kept sucking until she had all she needed.
When it was all over, she could feel Anton coming to life inside her, her body changing still further to welcome him. She scurried towards the cellar door, revelling in the freedom of using her new limbs. There was no fear now. Whatever concerns she might have had in her old life were gone – there was new life to protect.
A new generation, on a new planet…
End
Toby Bennett was born in 1976 in Cape Town, South Africa. He holds a degree in philosophy from the University of Cape Town. Like many writers, he has had a varied career that has included graphic and web design, database administration and technical writing. Much of his work can be found on Amazon Kindle.
Bonjour chers téléspectateurs. Aujourd’hui, nous sommes ravis d’accueillir dans notre émission littéraire quotidienne, « Mots du futur », l’informaticien gabonais Paul Urinda.
Monsieur Urinda est professeur à l’Institut de Technologie de Libreville (I.T.L) et créateur du très controversé logiciel « TYPEWRITER ». Comme vous le savez, ce dernier a pour intention d’aider les écrivains dans leur processus de création narrative.
― Bonsoir, professeur.
― Bonsoir
― Alors, qu’est-ce que “TYPEWRITER” ?
― TYPEWRITER” est un Logiciel d’Aide à la Création Narrative (L.A.C.N)
― Qu’entendez-vous exactement par là ?
― C’est-à-dire qu’il peut écrire de lui-même certaines parties du récit. Mais ne vous inquiétez pas, TYPEWRITER n’est pas en mesure d’écrire une histoire tout seul. TYPEWRITER est incapable de construire une trame, il suit simplement les instructions données par l’auteur. L’être humain reste aux contrôles du processus créatif. En fait, ce logiciel interfère à peine en ce qui concerne les procédés d’écriture et de style. D’une certaine façon, TYPEWRITER est l’imprimante 3D de l’écrivain.
― Mais ne pensez vous pas que la fine touche de l’auteur se retrouve plus dans les moyens littéraires utilisés pour dire l’histoire que dans son intrigue ?
― Je crois que l’écrivain est partout ; aussi bien dans la structure que le style.
― Aussi, peut-on dire que quand un écrivain fait usage de votre logiciel il cède une partie de sa capacité créative à la technologie ?
― Oui, pour ainsi dire. Le romancier et le logiciel partage ensemble le processus de création narratif.
― Les logiciels proposant de nous aider dans nos tâches intellectuelles sont de plus en plus nombreux. Doit-on s’en inquiéter ?
― Non, je ne crois pas. Depuis l’invention de la calculatrice jusqu’à l’ordinateur et aujourd’hui les logiciels Bio-Intégrés, les êtres humains ont toujours cherché à améliorer et faciliter leur processus cognitifs. Cela semble être un trait de la nature humaine.
― Pensez-vous que la mention “écrit avec l’aide de TYPEWRITER” doit être apposée sur les livres élaborés avec l’aide de votre logiciel ?
― Pas nécessairement. Mais, peut-être, assisterons nous bientôt à des sessions d’écriture en direct comme c’est le cas pour les concerts de musique. Cela changera complètement notre façon de consommer la littérature !
― Merci professeur d’avoir accepté cet entretien.
― Merci à vous de m’avoir invité.
Chers téléspectateurs, votre émission littéraire “Mots du futur” touche à sa fin. N’oubliez-pas que vous pouvez vous procurer le logiciel TYPEWRITER en connectant votre implant cérébral à l’une des nombreuses bornes de téléchargement de notre sponsor la librairie « Next Read ».
A bientôt.
FIN
Rèlme Divingu’s real name is Marc Divingou Moussounda, he is 31 years old. He is Gabonese and currently lives in the city of Tchibanga. He works as a psychologist in a HIV care center. He has published some of his sci-fi short stories on Wattpad (English) and Atavist (French) under the username “Relme Han”. He likes everything related to the arts and technology innovation.
I was very pleased when I found out about the Will this be a Problem? anthology. As Chinelo Onwualu notes in her essay Emerging Trends in African Speculative Fiction, the numbers seem to indicate that the African speculative fiction scene at present is dominated by South Africans and Nigerians. I may be Nigerian, but I don’t like this state of affairs, and I have been actively seeking speculative short fiction from outside Nigeria and South Africa.
Will this be a Problem? Issue 3 is a collection of seven speculative stories by African writers (six male, one female) from Kenya, Malawi and Nigeria (again). With a title like that, the anthology seems designed to invite a response. But while I was tempted to respond positively, that would have been dishonest.
In his review, Brainstorm’s Michael Onsando does this. He felt that time, magic and power were the fragmented, but unifying themes of the anthology. I see his point, but I found his analysis a bit loose and don’t quite agree with it.
To my reading, the collection offers a wide range of speculative stories about death, revolution, loneliness, power, and responsibility that never quite cohere into a whole, but has no real connective tissue. This almost appears intentional since the anthology does not contain an editor’s introduction to frame it. So in this review I will focus on the anthology’s individual stories.
First, however, I must praise the beautiful cover art by Kenyan digital artist, animator and illustrator, Peter Marco, which illustrates Andrew Dakalira’s “Rise of the Akafula” perfectly. His art is sharp, well-composed and lovely to look at. I hope to see more of his work illustrating the African speculative in the future.
Now, the Stories…
The anthology opens with its best foot forward, presenting the story “Rise of the Akafula” by Andrew Charles Dakalira of Malawi. In the story, the earth is largely uninhabitable following years of havoc due to climate change, except to the Akafula who are a race of short people native to the Chikangawa area of Malawi. The other tall, technologically advanced people called the Chintali have fled to bases on the moon and bunkers underground. From the safety of these locations, they enslave the Akafula, using them as a domestic, maintenance and foraging labour force on the barren surface, which is now overrun by wild mutant dogs. The enslaved Akafula however, are silently and patiently plotting their liberation.
The story is crisp, clever and enjoyable, with great world-building and descriptions. Dakalira, who previously appeared in AfroSFv2 with the novella “VIII” is no amateur and there are small touches of cleverness and SFnal extrapolation that are used to buttress the story’s environmental and social message. For instance, the Akafula are described as being from ‘Chikangawa desert.’ Chikangawa is actually a forest in the northern region of Malawi which is currently being decimated by excessive logging. I also think Tilinde, the main character especially shines – he has a quiet resolve that comes across within a few passages – and the story concludes with a satisfying end.
The only weakness I found was in the level of Chintali technology presented. If the Chintali have technology advanced enough to allow them make the hopelessly barren moon habitable, why can’t they make the damaged earth habitable again? Also, for a society with such advanced technology, using the Akafula as slaves makes little sense since robots would surely be able to do more and survive longer. It seems inconsistent. Still, it is a very good read and I recommend it.
The plot of “The Mortuary Man” by Mark Lekan Lalude of Nigeria is simple enough: a young, sexually frustrated mortuary attendant sees a ghost one night and is allowed to keep seeing and interacting with the other ghosts in return for his silence. Soon after, he resorts to necrophilia, and eventually loses his mind when, at the height of his passion, he promises his heart to the ghost of a young woman whose corpse he violated. The plot works overall but there are two main issues I had with this story.
One, the language is excessively flowery. Take for example this passage describing Tao’s love-life:
“Away from the morgue, Tao’s life was a loveless mess. His scandals of young girls who were about to step into the trap of his squalid den of a room littered from time to time with cigarette stubs and small bottles of locally brewed gin and the morbidness of being a mortuary man was enough to make the young women that he liked to ogle often tell him no, and hiss when he promised them love. The women who wiggled buttocks so large they trembled in fleshy deliciousness despite the stretch-marked thighs, from bum shorts to raunchy music at the seedy blue-lit hotel around the corner were quite expensive to keep. And so Tao went around containing the rise of his longing, he bore the rock-hardness of the insistence of his maleness.”
The language works in a few places but more often than not, it’s just too much, distractingly overwritten. This story needed an editor to tame it before it was published.
Two, Tao is an unlikeable character who does despicable things with no real motivation for doing them beyond being horny and ignored by women. Because of this, the character and the main plot elements – his sexual frustrations, the apparitions, his necrophilia, and his eventual madness – never come together to make a bigger statement. At least not to me. They are just a series of unsettling events. This is a pity because I think the piece has the skeleton for a much better story.
The third story, “The Last History” by Kevin Rigathi of Kenya, is conceptually grand. When humans find one day that they are unable to die, Amina Amaru rises to the head of the East African Republic by finding a way to bring death back to humanity, at least for children. But it seems she is being manipulated by a powerful force and her actions are only part of a larger war between the living and the dead that may eventually lead to war between the gods themselves.
This story has an epic scope and I was impressed by the sheer scale of the concept. But the actual execution is weak. Major plot points are unexplained or make no sense: for example there is no explanation for why the dead think the living attacked them. Also, once we get past the halfway point of the story, no character has any clear motivation for what they are doing anymore, and things just seem to occur.
It also doesn’t help that there is almost no dialogue or physical description, so it is difficult to picture things. Except for the interjected ‘excerpts’, the whole story comes across as one large infodump (or detailed background and context with no story).
To its credit, the story does invite some considerations on the importance of death and its purpose to society and humanity. But while I found some of its philosophical digressions interesting, they were not enough to elevate the story beyond its structural weaknesses. This is a story with a lot of brilliant ideas, but which I feel was ultimately unable to string them all together cohesively.
Now this one, “The Real Deal” by James Kariuki, also of Kenya, is a fun story about magic. The story follows Juma, a witchdoctor who may or may not have supernatural powers, as he is arrested by the police and forced to help them find a missing politician. There are moments of seriousness followed by straight comedy, all leading up to a great, hilarious, open-ended punchline at the end.
Despite the humour, the story is paced pretty much perfectly, with the tension is always kept high, and just the right amount of information presented in context to allow the reader to figure out the dynamics of what’s going on.
I particularly enjoyed this story because of its ambiguity regarding Juma’s powers – sometimes he is simply being practical, and other times he seems to genuinely have otherworldly abilities. Take for example this conversation where he describes his approach to keep straying husbands at home with their complaining wives.
“I gave them a potion to keep their husbands at home over the weekends. That was the problem they wanted me to solve.”
“So it was a love potion?”
“It was something to give them diarrhoea.”
In the end, it is left for the reader to decide if Juma is the real deal or not. While some readers may not care for this open-endedness, I personally think it all works very well, given the style and subject matter, and I happily recommend this story.
In “Future Long Since Passed” by Lausdeus Otito Chiegboka of Nigeria, life in Nigeria has improved through a pragmatic combination of infrastructure development, smart tax policy and good governance focused on improving technological capacity. Dr Izima, the co-founder of a medi-tech startup which is solving some of medicine’s larger problems, has an accident and is confronted by the spirits of his ancestors in the place between life and death.
There are some very interesting ideas here about the technology, politics and history of this potential Nigeria, as well as the doctor’s own past. However, I struggled when reading the story because there were many places where the author just stops the story cold to build the world. The world-building should have been merged with the narrative, in context.
This is sometimes unavoidable with speculative fiction. The real sin here is that the story goes nowhere. Nothing really happens. We meet Dr. Izima in his office, we are told of his world, then he has an accident, meets his ancestors who call him to the traditional role of priesthood, and then… Nothing. He just wakes up. The doctor does not decide anything or do anything.
By placing Dr. Izima at the nexus of life and death, the story seems to want to say something about the relationship between past traditions and future developments, but whatever it is remains unclear. This makes the story seem incomplete and I felt unsatisfied at the end of it.
At the start of “The World is Mine” by Kris Kabiru of Kenya, we meet Stan, who seems to be the last person left after everyone else on the planet mysteriously disappears. He wanders the suburbs of Nairobi, foraging in supermarkets and exploring his neighbours’ vacant homes to satisfy his curiosity about their lives as well as to maintain a connection to other humans, however tenuous. On one of his explorations he meets another left-behind person, a girl, they have a tense exchange but come to a sort of understanding. Even though she robs him while he sleeps and runs off, he looks forward to meeting her again.
While all the previous stories in the anthology are noticeably African, either in description of setting or characters, this one is the first story which could easily have been set anywhere or featured anyone of any background. Even the dialogue is free of any local stylings and the character’s name, Stan, is non-specific. Now, this is not necessarily a bad thing, but since the story presents a post-apocalyptic narrative, this failure to take advantage of the setting cripples it somewhat in my eyes.
The best post-apocalyptic stories use setting and atmosphere to buttress the narrative, usually to great effect (for movies, think Mad Max’s signature dusty, red Australian heat, or the grey bleakness of England in Children Of Men; for literature, think of the dilapidated and decayed landscape of the American south in Cormac McCarthy’s 2006 The Road or the crumbling, lonely Los Angeles cityscape of Richard Matheson’s 1954 novel I Am Legend or even, for a lesser example, the ruined Lagos of my own short story The Last Lagosian).
Still, I found Stan a mostly interesting character. His need to search houses for some kind of human contact is understandable, and works with his humorous outlook to give the story some nice character moments that illustrate Stan’s humanity despite his dire situation. I did find it unbelievable that the girl would rob him, considering the fact that the situation only seems to have been ongoing for three months and food and supplies are not presented as being scarce. There seemed to be no point to her theft.
The story is passable but ultimately too derivative of typical post-apocalyptic fare. Not tapping into the atmosphere of its post-apocalyptic Nairobi, or having anything new, or even uniquely Kenyan (or African) to say, renders it inert.
Full of wonderful, fantastical imagery, “What Happens When It Rains” by Michelle Angwenyi of Kenya, follows a young girl who one day, when she is caught in the rain, learns from the spirit of her mother that she is not fully human. She is part of a spirit world that exists in parallel with our own and has a responsibility to defend our world from the evil ‘elementals’ ensuring the connection between the two worlds is not lost.
The vivid imagery and description is demonstrated in sections such as:
My mother, the two male and the female elementals had begun to violently scratch their skin. Giant flakes of dry, burnt skin fell onto the ground and vanished in a hiss of mist as soon as they touched the ground. Their bodies began to mist and hiss as well. And then they were gone, in a flash of colour and black light.
However, the imagery is the only thing I found enjoyable about this story. The narrative is needlessly complicated for what is an essentially simple plot, and the dialogue and exposition are so clunky, they took me out of the story a few times.
Perhaps even worse, is that the characters do not seem real. For example, there is no sense of the emotional connection between the girl and her mother – even when her dead mother materializes in front of her to deliver a large chunk of exposition, they do not hug, or express surprise or joy or any other recognizable emotion. They just talk as strange things continue to happen around them. Some readers may not see as this as a problem and consider the lack of human emotion to add to the supernatural, dreamlike sequence, making it more effective, but for me, it didn’t work. The story ends on a hopeful note though, which I think is a good way to end the anthology.
In Conclusion…
Having read all the individual stories in this collection, I feel that ultimately, Will this be a Problem? Issue 3 is both an interesting and frustrating new member of the African speculative canon. Interesting for the range, cleverness and comfort with the coexistence of conflicting ideas that I see in much of African speculative fiction. Frustrating, because most of the stories possessed at least one great element but lacked several others – they are bursts of raw speculative thought. I wonder if a clearer, narrower theme would have helped the anthology since it’s even its weak individual parts could have seen as supporting the overall impact and purpose of the work. Either way, I’m glad I read the anthology, I enjoyed parts of it and I commend the efforts of the authors, editors and publishers. I look forward to seeing more work from all of them in the future because while there may be things lacking in this collection, talent is definitely not one of them.
WOLE TALABI is a full-time engineer, part-time writer and some-time editor from Nigeria. His stories have appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Omenana, Lightspeed, Terraform, Abyss & Apex, The Kalahari Review, the anthologies Imagine Africa 500, Futuristica Vol. 1 and a few other places. He edited the anthologies These Words Expose Us and Lights Out: Resurrection and co-wrote the play Color Me Man. He likes scuba diving, elegant equations and oddly-shaped things. He currently lives and works in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.
![Typewriter [English Version]](https://omenana.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/04/typewriter-e1491466680238.jpg "Typewriter [English Version]")
