Le livre du Qâloun et de la Lune L’Ascension Nocturne – Par Makan Fofana
Étoile Sombre – Dounia Charaf
Le jeune garçon observait les alentours, fasciné par les marchandises accrochées aux devantures ou étalées sur les trottoirs.
Les hautes roues plates du train-chenille les transportant s’étaient arrêtées sur la place encombrée de véhicules, très près des arcades roses que les boutiquiers envahissaient de leurs marchandises, comme autant de devantures extérieures. L’air était sec et les odeurs s’y répandaient dans une belle lumière dorée de fin de journée. Les parfums des pyramides d’épices aux couleurs vives, l’odeur âcre du cuir des vêtements et chaussons pendus, celle animale des tapis aux motifs géométriques lui piquèrent la gorge et envahirent directement ses narines et son palais de sensations inconnues. Les premiers mots qu’il entendit dans la langue de Warzazate furent braillés en chant aigu par une sono de mauvaise qualité.
Ils étaient parvenus à leur destination, une ville au nom étrange. Il s’accrochait à la main de son papa qui ne le quitterait plus jamais.
Il n’y avait rien eu entre les deux rives de l’interminable désert qu’ils avaient traversé, rien de plus que quelques gargotes hôtels, de simples tentes à l’abri des falaises ou au bord d’oueds où ne coulaient que vent et sable.
Warzazate ne rappelait pas les grandes villes tropicales au sud du désert. Pas de tours en verre le long de fleuves épais et de lagunes verdoyantes à la végétation dense, ni de vastes avenues en latérite bordées d’étals de commerçants proposant des denrées au parfum fleuri et pourrissant à la fois. Au contraire de l’enveloppante humidité de sa ville natale tout ici n’était que sécheresse : la terre, la ville, même l’air qui lui irritait le nez.
Orpiré, son père, était revenu un soir dans le bidonville de Agbocity où sa petite sœur, Awa, et lui survivaient sous la protection de tatie Fatou, une proche cousine de leur mère décédée, et annoncé qu’il emmenait ses enfants dans le nord de l’Afrique pour tenter l’aventure spatiale.
Le dernier soir, à l’hôtel Sahara, la veille de leur arrivée, assis tout contre Orpiré, il leva les yeux et regarda la nuit dont la brillance l’éblouit presque. Il tendit les mains pour en saisir les étoiles scintillantes qui tapissaient la voute céleste nue et transparente. Orpiré rit et s’exclama :
« La prochaine étape, c’est là-haut, Kouadio, ce petit train nous emmène vers les étoiles ! »
« Les étoiles ! Papa on y arrivera quand ? » répondit-il.
Orpiré perdit le sourire et soupira :
« Moi dans un mois ou deux, toi dans quelques années. Quand tu auras appris ce que je sais et bien plus. »
« Tu m’emmèneras avec toi, » dit-il, « Et tatie Fatou et même Awa. J’irai à l’école dans les étoiles… » puis après réflexion. « Sur quelle étoile papa ? Il y en a beaucoup. »
Orpiré ne répondit pas, abattu par un chagrin permanent qu’il refoulait à la faveur de leur long voyage. Kouadio n’y prit pas garde et s’allongea sur la natte et le sable. Il s’endormit aussitôt.
*
Orpiré le prit contre lui et s’allongea. Fatou qui craignait le froid saharien s’était installée à l’intérieur, bien enveloppée avec Awa dans un épais sac de couchage. Elle l’interpela dans un grognement désapprobateur.
« Pourquoi lui dis-tu qu’il ira dans les étoiles ? »
« C’est pour cela que je suis venu vous chercher, je veux que mes enfants puissent aller dans l’espace. »
« Mais tu nous emmènes dans un pays étranger où tu vas nous laisser seuls. » insista-t-elle.
« Deux années, trois tout au plus. Tu habiteras avec des amis du pays et même du quartier, ne crains rien, cette région n’est pas dangereuse. Comme il y a l’astroport elle est sûre, et les gens du Grand Bassin sont heureux là-bas. On a des accords entre la fédération du Grand bassin atlantique et les états du Nord-africain. »
« Et tu ne pourras pas venir les voir avant deux ans. » continua-t-elle.
« Fatou, je serai à des millions de kilomètres. Et tu seras bien payée par la mine, ils te verseront tout mon salaire. Nous avons une association Afri qui aide à gérer l’argent et à se protéger. Vous serez à l’aise tous les trois. » il hésita, « c’est aussi pour cela que je pars, pour que les enfants puissent grandir en bonne santé et instruits scientifiquement. Ils doivent devenir ingénieurs en technologie et biologie spatiales. Un jour ils seront spationautes, c’est le plus important. »
« Et devenir comme les pipoles des forteresses ? »
« Oui, ou même mieux. Quand ils deviendront pilotes de vaisseaux ils pourront fonder leur propre compagnie et échapper à l’emprise des pipoles qui nous empêchent de conquérir nous aussi des planètes. Tu le sais même toi qui ne t’intéresses pas au vol spatial. »
Elle eut un haussement d’épaule méprisant.
« Les pipoles se croient meilleurs que nous, tant qu’ils nous laissent en paix sur nos terres africaines, ils peuvent bien même se faire avaler par leurs trous noirs ! Moi je trouve qu’on s’en sort mieux sans eux depuis qu’ils vont chercher leur richesse ailleurs qu’en Afrique. »
« Nous sommes impuissants sans cette technologie, Fatou, et nous restons dépendants d’eux. Bien sûr ils s’assurent que notre gouvernement ne devient pas trop tyrannique. Comme ça on ne cherche pas à fuir vers leurs pays forteresses. Ils ont les robots à la place des ouvriers, mais ils ont choisi pour nous, et nous devons les égaler. Mieux, les surpasser. Je ne veux pas que ce soit leurs trous noirs, mais ceux de tous. »
Elle poussa un petit soupir de désintérêt :
« Les égaler ? Les surpasser ? Pourquoi faire ? Tu n’arrêtes pas de me parler de ça, et de l’accession à la connaissance clandestine.
Fatou finit par se taire, comme à chaque fois qu’ils discutaient tous deux technologie et politique, et elle renonça à argumenter contre ce choix de faire des petits des étrangers à la Terre, d’autant plus qu’elle vit des larmes briller sur les joues d’Orpiré, même à la chiche lumière sous la tente. Elle avait eu peur de quitter Agbocity et sa routine souvent ennuyeuse, la technologie spatiale ne l’intéresserait sans doute jamais, mais elle commençait à aimer l’idée de devenir une autre personne, et sentait qu’une fois seule là-bas, elle ne s’ennuierait sans doute plus jamais, idée à la fois effrayante et désirable.
*
Il rêva de l’astéroïde. Un caillou minuscule qui tournoyait dans l’espace, noir de jour et noir de nuit. Vêtu de sa combinaison spatiale, il roulait sur une large piste de poussière grisâtre et collante qui restait en suspension bien après son passage, sa voiturette verte et sa combinaison rouge comme seules tâches de couleur sur la rocaille noire environnante. Il se dirigeait vers un monticule d’où dépassaient de grandes grues. Dans le fond, par-dessus les nuées de poussière, il apercevait la chaîne montagneuse qui plissait l’astéroïde. En ralentissant pour en admirer les pointes tranchantes Orpiré les vit soudain s’arrondir. Il reconnut l’Atlas qui surplombait Warzazate.
« Papa ! »
Kouadio courait dans sa direction, et à son allure précipitée il aurait dû s’envoler dans la faible gravité. Mais le garçon était tout près, dans son pyjama, et quand il saisit le volant de la voiturette celle-ci rebondit légèrement sur la piste. Il grimpa tout près de lui.
« Papa, tu as une combinaison d’astronaute ! Tu vois, je t’ai retrouvé ! »
Orpiré se réveilla aussitôt, refoulant son rêve, mais ne parvint plus à trouver le sommeil et se levant, partit marcher dans la nuit glaciale.
*
Au matin il se leva le dernier. Fatou avait regroupé leurs maigres bagages et emmené les enfants vers la longue table en métal sur laquelle le gargotier servait café léger sucré, coupelles d’huile d’argan sucrée et pain plat d’orge et de semoule, ainsi que quelques œufs durs dont Orpiré, n’ayant pas vu une poule de tout le séjour, se demanda d’où ils venaient.
Le soleil commençait tout juste à tiédir, gagnant l’intérieur de la vallée rousse qui formait le lit fantôme et pierreux d’un fleuve préhistorique. L’hôtel occupait une plage sableuse, campement de tentes en laine meublées de nattes et de couvertures rêches.
Les enfants mangeaient avec appétit, seuls de leur âge parmi les adultes. Orpiré s’approcha d’eux et sans se faire une place sur le banc, se servit un bol de café. Il observa les alentours, ignorant la mauvaise humeur que Fatou exprimait à chaque fois qu’elle prenait un repas étranger, c’est-à-dire depuis qu’elle ne pouvait ni cuisiner elle-même, ni espérer un plat de manioc arrosé d’un bouillon au poisson de la lagune. Awa accourut s’accrocher à sa taille et délaissant le liquide trop clair et tiédi de son petit déjeuner, Orpiré la prit dans ses bras et partit jouer avec elle un peu plus loin, suivi par Kouadio qui riait à gorge déployée.
*
Comment choisir ? Rester sur Terre avec eux ou partir coûte que coûte accomplir son projet… Il savait qu’il ne penserait plus qu’à son travail une fois qu’il se serait sanglé dans la navette spatiale. Qu’il construirait une nouvelle fraternité avec ses co-équipiers, comme celles qui lui avaient permis de tant de fois partir sans regarder derrière lui. Etreint par la culpabilité de trahir ceux qui l’aimaient en les laissant derrière, mais incapable de renoncer à évoluer et changer sa condition de vie, à sa liberté d’entreprendre le voyage.
Ainsi ruminait-il cette fin de journée en se promenant avec son fils dans le Quartier du Spationaute, ainsi nommé car lieu des échanges entre Warzazate et la base spatiale. Kouadio lui secoua le bras et lui montra ses premières navettes transcontinentales alignées sur un quai graisseux. Tout terrain terrestres et spatiaux, colorés par destination, ils avaient ramené l’équipe du matin et attendaient celle du soir.
« On dirait de gros autobus ! » Rigola Kouadio.
« Les navettes vont à l’astroport, elles sont comme des taxis pour les ouvriers qui travaillent là-bas. » dit-il à son fils. « Elles vont d’un continent à l’autre plus vite que tu ne parles ! »
« Elles ne vont pas dans les étoiles ? »
« Non, mais elles peuvent aller sur la Lune ou une station orbitale Lagrange. Pour aller dans les étoiles il faut de très gros vaisseaux qui sont construits sur la Lune, d’où c’est plus facile de décoller pour l’espace. Veux-tu voir des navettes s’envoler vers l’espace ? »
Orpiré lui prit la main et fendant la foule affairée des rues encombrées de marchandises, partit à grands pas vers l’extérieur de la ville ocre. Ils traversèrent les derniers faubourgs et montèrent sur la haute rive du fleuve, découvrant les plateaux alentours. Ils trouvèrent du monde, des badauds et quelques touristes venus assister au ballet des navettes fusées partant de l’astroport à quelques kilomètres.
Des commerçants proposaient des jouets fabriqués avec les métaux des navettes abandonnées, d’autres des épis de maïs grillés, des boules de dattes en purée, des arachides confites de sucre et du thé à la menthe. Orpiré installa Kouadio sur une roche plate et partit commander de quoi grignoter. Le marchand avait collé sur son étal une tablette archaïque où s’affichaient les heures des vols et le nom des vaisseaux, sans aucun doute un site de communication pipole piraté. Pendant qu’il sirotait son thé brûlant, le visage embué de sa vapeur parfumée de menthe, Orpiré écoutait distraitement les discussions autour de lui. Kouadio le surprit en demandant :
« On part tous les deux les premiers, puis quand on a trouvé l’étoile Tatie Fatou viendra avec Awa ? Awa est trop petite pour venir tout de suite avec nous, on doit d’abord construire la maison sur la nouvelle étoile. »
Orpiré ne sut pas répondre, mais Kouadio continuait :
« Mais elle ne brille pas cette étoile, j’ai vu sur ton téléphone les images, elle est juste pleine de poussière, et il y fait toujours noir. Comment on va faire pour tout construire dans le noir ? »
Orpiré s’étouffa dans son thé et reposa son verre en toussant.
« Tu es arrivé à allumer mon portable tout seul ? »
« C’est facile ! »
Orpiré s’emporta.
« Je t’interdis de fouiller dans mon téléphone, c’est impoli en plus ! »
Vexé, presque en larmes, Kouadio fit la moue. La discussion s’arrêta là cependant. Les badauds se précipitaient pour regarder le premier départ. Orpiré saisit son fils pour l’installer sur ses épaules.
*
« Où vas-tu ? »
Kouadio se tenait à la porte, ayant délaissé son jeu, et repoussé sur le ciment de la cour les fusées et voiturettes d’un petit astroport. Orpiré ne vit nulle part Fatou, ni la petite fille. Il s’était levé d’une courte sieste et sortant directement de la douche, se dépêchait de courir à sa formation d’entreprise. Les hommes d’Astéromines regroupaient le personnel à envoyer dans l’espace dans une vieille bâtisse berbère éloignée de la cité pour garantir la discrétion sur leur projet et il risquait de rater la navette s’il tardait davantage.
« Je vais travailler Kouadio, reste tranquille. Je reviens ce soir. »
L’enfant n’insista pas et accourut lui-même claquer la porte en métal qui grinça dans l’après-midi silencieuse et ensoleillée. Orpiré hésita, se secoua puis se hâta de filer.
*
Hommes et femmes s’installèrent à même le sol, dans une grande cour dont les hauts murs de terre crue les protégeaient de l’extérieur et donnaient la désagréable impression à Orpiré d’être en détention. Il écoutait attentivement la démonstration de Steph leur chef de mission, une suite de hologrammes projetés à l’ombre, là où le soleil qui entrait par les fenêtres sans vitres ne parvenait pas.
Orpiré prit quelques notes sur sa mini tablette, cherchant à comprendre le fonctionnement des outils d’extraction qu’on leur indiquait : comprendre comment on fabriquait les objets l’intriguait plus que leur finalité.
Des pipoles européens, Steph et Alfa les directeurs techniques, et Tania la navigatrice, dirigeaient la formation, en échangeant leurs points de vue, répondant de bonne grâce aux questions de l’assemblée. A eux trois ils représentaient l’expertise assurée des habitants habitués à accéder librement au savoir, personnes que ni leur carnation différente, blanche et noire, ni leur langue commune, l’anglopéen, ne permettaient de différencier.
Ils étaient les pipoles de la Forteresse Europa, et ils en avaient l’assurance naturelle. Tania, blonde et fluette, qui s’était présentée comme la compagne de Steph, restée en retrait, intervenait dès qu’il était question de voyage ou de transport en milieu sans gravité. Un jeune garçon roux, de l’âge de Kouadio, assis près d’elle sur un vieux tapis, coloriait avec minutie un des plans de machine extractrice. Fasciné, Orpiré l’observa un moment en se rendant compte qu’il remplissait une réelle feuille de papier avec des crayons de couleur, au lieu de pianoter sur une tablette graphique. Croisant le sourire de Tania, il le lui rendit poliment.
Quand on décréta une pause, laissant ses compagnons se servir à boire ou relancer certaines séquences du diaporama, Orpiré sortit respirer l’air tiède de la fin d’après-midi. Tania et Alfa le suivirent et lui offrirent une bière, engageant une conversation si directe et amicale qu’il repoussa sa méfiance des pipoles.
Un des techniciens stagiaires vint les rejoindre et demanda :
« Tania, tu crois qu’on peut nous autoriser à faire venir nos enfants ? On ne va plus les voir des mois durant, et ils comprendraient ce qu’on va entreprendre. »
Alfa protesta :
« C’est une mission confidentielle, le fils de Tania n’est en relation avec personne ici, nos enfants risquent de raconter ce qu’ils voient. Nous fêterons avec nos familles notre départ, mais seulement la veille. »
Ils retournèrent à la formation, cette fois chacun devait monter et démonter les outils de manière virtuelle sur une tablette à plusieurs dimensions, et fournir des arguments de réparation de pannes diverses, chacun et chacune heureux d’enfin se confronter à la réalité des travaux à venir.
Orpiré s’amusait à trouver de nouvelles pannes possibles quand Tania et Alfa vinrent le regarder faire. Tania finit par lui demander :
« Orpiré, tu as des connaissances en communication d’après ton CV. »
« Oui, en effet, » répondit-il avec curiosité, « j’ai beaucoup travaillé dans les réseaux de com et sur leurs machines et logiciels. Vous avez besoin d’un communicant ? »
Alfa lui jeta un regard d’avertissement et baissant la voix, lui confia :
« Nous avons besoin de quelqu’un qui officiellement fait l’interface technique avec la direction d’Astéromines, et surtout qui puisse nous alerter si des trucs pas clairs se passent à ce niveau. »
Interdit, Orpiré répéta : « Des trucs pas clairs ? »
Tania hocha la tête en chuchotant :
« Par mesure de protection. Nous serons à leur merci, à plus d’un million et demi de kilomètres de la Terre, personne ici-bas n’est au courant du projet. Alors si nous n’avions pas complètement les yeux bandés et les oreilles bouchées… »
Orpiré frissonna, comprenant brutalement sa situation et celle de toute l’équipe recrutée avec de belles promesses salariales et sociales et l’assurance que leurs employeurs avaient une grande maîtrise de la technologie de l’espace, mais exilée si loin qu’il serait bien difficile de se sauver et de se plaindre aux autorités terriennes.
*
Il rentra déprimé chez lui, se demandant si partir avec Astéromines était la meilleure solution, partagé entre le désir d’entreprendre quelque chose de nouveau, de se lancer enfin dans une activité qui lui permettrait de vivre une expérience exaltante et d’en revenir pour construire un vrai projet de conquête spatiale avec ses enfants et ses collègues d’Afrique, et le besoin douloureux de rester auprès de Kouadio et Awa, de les protéger ici-bas et de bricoler pour leur offrir une instruction technique digne de ce nom.
La nuit claire brillait par-dessus les lumières du quartier afri, plongeant leur cour dans une pénombre indigo. Fatou cuisinait un ragoût de poulet sur un braséro dont les flammes dorées et rouges qui léchaient la marmite bouillonnante lui jetaient des lueurs vives au visage.
Kouadio l’aidait en épluchant de grosses bananes qu’il débitait en tronçons. Orpiré prit Awa dans ses bras et s’assit près d’eux. Fatou l’observa discrètement, lui plongé dans ses pensées, et caressant avec tendresse la tête de la fillette.
Elle découvrit la gamelle et y glissa avec soin les morceaux de banane que lui tendait fièrement Kouadio. Orpiré sentit son regard et sourit piteusement. Il était bien difficile de cacher ses sentiments à Fatou.
« Tu as besoin que je te fasse de grosses courses ? » demanda-t-il
« Tu pars déjà ? »
« Cela ne devrait pas tarder, nous avons presque tout appris des techniques, maintenant on doit apprendre à vivre et travailler dans l’espace. »
« Tes chefs vous demandent beaucoup d’abnégation et de confiance. Ou en vérité, ils n’ont que faire de vos sentiments, vous êtes des bras et du travail pas très cher, j’en suis sûre. Tu as des dates au moins ? »
« Tout est secret. On le saura dans quelques jours sans doute. »
« Hum, tu ne peux même pas prévoir tes courses pour faire ta valise. »
Orpiré ne sut quoi répondre, il y avait beaucoup trop d’incertitudes.
Après le dîner Orpiré hésita à envoyer les enfants se coucher. Kouadio démontait tranquillement une fusée qu’Orpiré l’avait aidé à fabriquer, et Awa le regardait avec attention. Autour d’eux la cour avait pris un faux air de cour afri, et empêchait toute brutalité extérieure de pénétrer leur cercle illuminé par le petit feu. Orpiré décida à parler franchement avec son garçon, Awa saisirait des bribes, seulement des impressions de cet instant, trop jeune pour en comprendre le sens. Fatou ferait de son mieux, mais c’était lui leur père, lui qui les laissait ici-bas.
« Kouadio, laisse ton jeu pour l’instant, je dois t’expliquer des choses importantes. Comme à un grand garçon. »
Kouadio se contenta d’une grimace, il savait ce que Orpiré lui dirait, il l’avait senti à travers leurs échanges depuis qu’ils s’étaient retrouvés quelques semaines plus tôt. Il se fit attentif cependant.
« Là où je vais, c’est mon travail, les enfants ne peuvent pas venir. » Commença-t-il avec difficulté, la gorge nouée. « Tu l’as compris, bien sûr. Je dois aller, non pas sur une étoile mais sur un astéroïde. Tu sais ce que c’est ? »
« Oui. »
« Il n’y a que des adultes là-bas, on va miner du fer, du titane… Pour les rapporter sur Terre. »
« Tu m’as déjà expliqué, papa. »
« Tu comprends alors que l’étoile, notre étoile à nous, c’est pour plus tard ? Il faut un équipage, un vaisseau. Quand tu seras grand. Quand Awa sera grande aussi. »
« C’est quand ? »
Orpiré lui sourit :
« Dans quelques années, maintenant tu as cinq ans, ce sera quand tu auras seize ans. Dans onze ans, c’est le temps qu’il faut pour trouver de l’argent et pour apprendre tout ce qu’il faut pour faire voguer un vaisseau spatial. Pendant que tu apprendras ici à l’école des astronautes indépendants, je travaillerai à amasser l’argent. »
« L’argent ? »
« Pour acheter le matériel. »
« Tu pars bientôt ? »
« Dans plusieurs jours, un mois peut-être, je n’ai pas encore la date. »
« Tu vas rester là-bas beaucoup d’années ? Tu ne vas pas oublier ? »
« Non, je te le promets, je reviendrai dans deux ans de mon premier voyage sur l’astéroïde. »
Il se tut subitement, saisi par une inquiétude nouvelle, reviendrait-il de ce voyage ? Kouadio ne parut pas remarquer son trouble, de nouveau absorbé par son jouet. Orpiré ne sut pas s’il écoutait toujours, s’il était trop jeune pour suivre une discussion aussi théorique sur l’écoulement du temps à venir.
« Papa, tu nous racontes l’histoire de tata l’araignée qui voulait monter voir Ogun dans les nuages ? » réclama tout à coup Awa en se lovant dans ses bras.
Kouadio éclata de rire :
« Tatie Fatou nous a dit que tu vas travailler avec Ogun sur l’astéroïde ! »
Les enfants avaient chassé la tristesse de leur séparation en décidant de penser à autre chose. Orpiré les envia.
Il ne sut pas comment il s’endormit malgré le tourbillon des ruminations qui l’aiguillonnait à chaque fois qu’il tentait un peu de sophrologie pour échapper à son anxiété. Ils avaient gagné la salle et ses tapis plus confortables pour finir la soirée de contes et il s’était allongé près des petits endormis sans parvenir lui-même à trouver le sommeil. La fatigue l’avait sans doute écrasé à son tour.
Il rêva plusieurs fois, se réveillant en sursaut pour trouver les enfants serrés contre lui, tous blottis sous une épaisse couverture berbère dont la laine fleurait le pays et sa poussière. Fatou veillait sur eux.
*
Kouadio était assis sur une voiturette découverte et la Terre n’était qu’une tâche bleu pâle derrière lui. Un rideau de poussière noire et argent jaillissant de sous le véhicule lui faisait un tunnel statique. Kouadio portait une tenue de foot, Orpiré ne sut pas de quel club.
« Papa, elle est belle ta combinaison ! »
« Comment es-tu arrivé jusqu’ici ? Où est tatie Fatou ? »
« Tu as trop tardé, on est venu te chercher ! »
Fatou apparut dans le tunnel derrière, pieds nus, et tenant fermement Awa qui cherchait à s’échapper pour saisir la nuée de régolites brillants dans le faisceau de la voiturette.
Un faisceau de lumière dans l’espace ! Un portable qui vibrait longuement. Il comprit qu’il rêvait et se réveilla. Il faisait encore nuit, et Alfa lui parla sans même prendre la peine de le saluer.
« La navette d’Astéromines passe te prendre dans une heure, on part plus tôt que prévu, des fuites sans doute. »
« Quoi ?! Déjà ? Mais je ne suis pas prêt, j’ai encore ma famille à finir d’installer. On devait partir dans quelques semaines au moins, non ? »
« On ne t’a jamais donné de date, » grommela Alfa à voix basse, « c’est ça où tu restes. »
« Quoi ? J’ai signé mon contrat ! Je suis au courant de tout ! Tu ne peux pas me traiter comme ça ! »
Orpiré sifflait entre ses dents dans son téléphone et rageait de ne pouvoir laisser éclater sa colère et son inquiétude. Les enfants dormaient toujours à ses côtés.
« Je ne peux pas partir d’ici une heure, rien n’est encore prêt ! »
« Débrouille-toi, ce n’est facile pour personne, et tu es le premier que je préviens, les autres auront encore moins de temps que toi ! On s’envole dans trois heures environ. On a une fenêtre. »
Il s’adoucit brusquement :
« Je suis désolé Orpiré, nous ne pouvons pas nous passer de tes compétences, Tania pense sincèrement que tu es le plus doué de l’équipe, il ne te manque plus que d’apprendre la navigation spatiale et les techniques en micro gravité. Tu t’es bien débrouillé pour atteindre des compétences que d’autres commencent tout juste à maîtriser. Si tu préfères rester avec tes enfants on le comprendra. Il te faudra juste te cacher dans le quartier afri le temps que tout le monde s’en aille. On ne sait jamais. Je me méfie de l’entreprise. »
« Mais je veux participer à cette aventure, » protesta le jeune homme, « je veux absolument en faire partie ! je demande juste quelques jours encore. »
« Ça, je n’ai pas le pouvoir de te les donner mon ami, je suis de l’avis de Tania, tu dois entrer dans l’équipe dirigeante, une fois qu’on sera sur notre caillou minier. A toi le choix douloureux. Si tu décides de renoncer, envoie-moi un message écrit d’ici une demi-heure, je pourrai dérouter la navette de transport, et file voir Djenneba qui tient le maki de la rue principale, elle te cachera de ma part, elle est dans l’organisation. »
Alfa lui raccrocha au nez, le laissant soupirer de détresse. Un soupir plus profond, presque un gémissement lui répondit : Fatou, levée, s’avançait sur le seuil de la chambre en renouant son foulard sur ses cheveux défaits.
« A quelle heure tu t’envoleras de la base ? »
« Tu as tout entendu, bien sûr… Je n’ai pas dit que je partais ! je crains de devoir tout abandonner ! »
« Ne dis pas de sottises, pas après m’avoir amenée jusqu’ici avec les enfants ! fais ton sac, je réveille les enfants. »
« Mais ça va être terrible pour eux ! »
« Je vais les emmener au bord du plateau, à quelle heure tu t’envoles ? »
« Si tout se passe comme prévu, dans trois heures. » fit-il d’un ton morne.
Il imagina Fatou remonter dans l’aube obscure vers le plateau, les bras chargés de ses enfants à lui, pour voir exploser les gaz de sa navette fusée. Une angoisse violente lui donna la nausée.
« Non, je ne peux pas les trahir ! »
Fatou ne voulut rien entendre.
« Tu as promis à Kouadio que tu irais préparer votre voyage vers les étoiles pendant qu’il grandirait et s’instruirait, c’est cela ta parole. Allez, prépare tes affaires, que je les réveille et qu’ils te disent au revoir. »
« Fatou, » commença-t-il sachant qu’elle avait raison « je suis déchiré de les laisser, mais j’ai besoin d’y aller. »
« Vas-y mais ne nous oublie pas. »
Orpiré l’attira contre sa poitrine et la serra convulsivement, envahi de sa chaleur, ressentant son corps musclé et solide de femme dure au labeur. Il sut qu’il emporterait avec lui dans un univers aseptisé et vide le souvenir du parfum bon marché de sa chevelure, et de la tiédeur de ses bras. Elle avait raison, Alfa avait raison, c’était maintenant ou sans doute jamais. Il allait quitter la planète.
« Papa ! tu pars maintenant ! »
Le ton du garçon était presque accusateur, mais surtout résigné. Ce qui blessa le plus Orpiré qui tentait de se dépêtrer de sa culpabilité et de son chagrin.
Fatou repoussa avec douceur l’astronaute et lui chuchota :
« Reprends-toi et souris, tu dois les saluer et renouveler des promesses sincères avec eux. »
*
Quand ses jambes se dérobaient sous lui au rythme de l’allure de Fatou, quand son pied se tordait dans un trou invisible dans l’ombre des bâtiments, Kouadio étouffait son angoisse et refoulait ses larmes comme il pouvait. La jeune femme le portait presque à bout de bras à ce moment-là, déjà chargée de Awa bien serrée contre son dos. La petite ne disait rien, le regard fixe. Quelques chiens errants et agressifs les coursèrent à deux reprises, obligeant Fatou à s’arrêter et à les chasser à coup de pierres.
Ils parvinrent enfin sur le plateau désert qui ouvrait directement sur la nuit mourante et ses étoiles presqu’aveuglantes. La jeune femme déposa les enfants et leur saisissant la main, les emmena d’un pas prudent parmi les cailloux et les détritus abandonnés par les gargotiers jusqu’au bord de la haute berge.
« Voilà, dit-elle en respirant péniblement, c’est bientôt, on est arrivé à temps. »
Si Awa se réfugiait dans la sécurité affective de Fatou, Kouadio ne parvenait pas encore à accepter le départ soudain de leur père, gardant l’espoir très vif qu’il réapparaîtrait pour l’emmener avec lui.
« Je veux papa, » parvint-il à prononcer malgré sa peine à refouler ses sanglots, « je veux partir maintenant, pas quand je serai grand. »
Un bruit d’explosion au loin, une vive lueur blanche dans l’aube grise et rose : une traînée de fumée dessina un arc de cercle dans le ciel. Ce fut tout, son père partait pour les étoiles sans lui.
Alors que tous trois gagnés par le froid s’en retournaient chez eux, Kouadio secoua la main de Fatou qui lui sourit courageusement.
« Tatie, je veux apprendre tout de suite pour les fusées et les étoiles. Et aller chercher papa. »
*
Isimmiri – Marycynthia Chinwe Okafor
The night Chimebuka and her mother sat for the first time on the veranda of their new air cabin and she saw a cat—black and sleek—saunter past through the passage like it knew exactly where it was going, she knew something bad laid ahead. To see a lone black cat not moving along stealthily was ominous, but to see it very clearly on a night when no moon or stars graced the sky, was more than a bad omen.
So, when four market days later, two officers from the Ministry of Magic Affairs arrived at their doorstep, she knew even before they spoke that something had happened to her father. After their first visitors, she and Mama hastily threw a few things into a bag. Then, just as she started drawing the circle that would transport them to the headquarters of MMA in Awka, the ding rang out for the second time.
She opened the door to see Lotanna, her father’s aide. Because ever since they became adults, she had seen him only a few times and always in the company of Papa, she asked, “Where is my Father?”
She tried not to wrap her arms around him and hold on or let Mama see the fear in her eyes as she took in his battered face, his crocked posture and his ruffled blue hospital nightwear. She instead gripped tighter the nzu she had been using to draw the circle.
“That’s why I’ve come. Inside, please.” He leaned in and hugged Mama with the hand currently not in a sling. He didn’t hug Chimebuka but kept his eyes on her face as he limped into the house, fell into one of the sofas and took the precious time Chimebuka didn’t have to catch his breath. He glanced at the nzu in her hand and asked simply, “Did they tell you to go to Awka?” When she raised her eyebrows in question, he added, “I saw them leave. What did they want?”
Chimebuka turned to her mother and saw that she was already leaving the room, perhaps, to get something, to keep busy. They were already revved up for the tumble into Awka and couldn’t keep still. She turned back to Lotanna, “No. They wanted to know if Papa—or any of our ancestors—have any links with Ndi Mmiri. One dared to ask if our family ever sold any maid from the Water people. They wouldn’t tell us what’s wrong or why they were asking all those questions.”
“If they’re asking questions, then they’ve not found him.”
“He’s missing? He’s not dead then?” Until she asked, Chimebuka hadn’t realized how much she dreaded the possibility of getting to Awka only to be told that her father was dead. But the fear which had been curled low in her stomach like a viper ready to attack didn’t unfurl; it remained twisted, tight and ready.
Lotanna seemed to notice and said quickly, “His body hasn’t been discovered. When anybody drowns in Isimmiri, the maids bring the body to shore in no more than three days. It’s been five.”
“You were with him, what happened?”
“We were on Isimmiri, on our way home, when our bubble ran into something very hard. The bubble’s sensor didn’t warn us of any impending obstacle. Before it burst, your father sent out a distress call. After that, I don’t remember anything else. I woke up in the hospital and was told General Okolo is unaccounted for.”
“I can’t sense him, that’s why I thought he’s dead,” she finally admitted one of the fears nagging just behind her right ear. Both Lotanna and Mama turned to her sharply. Her gift was not something they talked about. Only four people alive—Lotanna included—knew about her gift of being able to sense people she had met in whatever sphere she was in. She hadn’t known whether to tell her mother that when she had tried to reach out to her father—several times—she had encountered only blank space. “It’s as if he has disappeared,” her eyes widened. “Disappeared.” She whispered. “Oh, Mama. He’s not in this realm.”
Mama gave a strangled cry and leaped up from beside Lotanna where she had sat and had a tray of juice balanced on both her laps. The tray upended and fell to the cloud carpet-protected floor, scattering glassware. The juice—the bright colour of Lotanna’s hospital nightwear—pooled at Mama’s feet as she stood shaking. Neither Lotanna nor Chimebuka dared to touch her.
“Mmiri has taken him,” Mama’s voice—usually soft and sure—was edgy and unrecognizable now. Chimebuka started to come forward to take her hand, but Mama waved her back and began pacing, her momentary fear put aside. “Before we got married, we checked our stars to see if we were compatible. The ogba-aha told us we were compatible, but it is written in your father’s akaraka that the water would take him. You know your father,” she turned to Chimebuka. “He didn’t take the ogba-aha seriously; he laughed it off and told me not to worry. I loved him, so I married him but I couldn’t stop him from his scavenging; it’s family business that had become tradition over generations. And he loved the water. Every time he left, I kept vigil until he returned. It was all I could do.”
“Mama, did he sell a nwa-okpu of Ndi Mmiri?” Chimebuka was horrified at this thought. Selling a maiden of any sphere was a great alu against Ana and a lot of other deities. “It’s an unforgivable alu that stretches out to future generations. Did he do it, Mama?” Desperation made her say what normally, she wouldn’t even contemplate.
“No, no. Your father would never do that; besides, he knows there are consequences. His great grandmother was from the water. Her husband, his great grandfather lured her away from her people and married her without the biamaru uno ritual. They never forgave him and now, they’ve taken your father away from us. Despite your father’s status, the ministry won’t be eager to help when they find out the problem is ancestral.”
“He’s partly of the water. They won’t hurt him,” Chimebuka said, more to reassure herself than her mother. “We’ll bring him back, Mama.” She promised. She didn’t know how they could manage that but she didn’t like the look that had yet again come into her mother’s eyes. “We’ll bring him home.”
“How?” The question was a hopeless cry.
Lotanna wobbled to his feet. “I know of a great dibia.”
Convincing her mother to remain home while she and Lotanna went to Anaku to consult the dibia hadn’t been easy. But by the time they set out, Mama agreed to stay back in case Papa returned or called home. She looked so small and fragile as she stood at the door and watched them descend, Chimebuka almost told her to come along.
They chose to take the ground route to Anaku rather than the air route because, though it was bumpier, it had less traffic. The vehicle—round and streamlined—which Lotanna had insisted on driving himself, moved steadily at a speed of a little over 140km/hr but Chimebuka felt it moved slower than giant home-grown snails.
“Could you go faster?” She growled for the umpteenth time.
Lotanna merely glanced at her and thought how he had missed her. He couldn’t believe how distant they had become. Once, in what seemed like a very long time ago, they had been as close as two nuts in a groundnut husk. Their mothers had been best of friends and they had grown up like brother and sister until that year she had been fifteen and he sixteen, and something had come between them.
A kiss.
Now, as he stole glances at her from the corner of his eye, he wished they could go back to the way they were back then. He couldn’t give up that one kiss they had shared and the fondle that had followed, for anything. In a blink he would go back a second time and attend that New Yam Festival where they had shared that one dance in the lovers’ circle and he had laid his lips on hers, and tasted her mouth for the first time. But he wished they hadn’t avoided each other afterwards, he wished they had sat down and talked about it.
Then, he wouldn’t have been so far away to see her dark skin grow shinier, her face leaner, her brown eyes sharper, her lips and body fuller—all this as her womanhood bloomed. He wouldn’t have had to just nod politely at her on the few occasions they saw each other.
“What happened to us, Ofunwa?” He called her by the name they hadn’t called each other in a very very long time. The name drew out a gasp from Chimebuka, more than the question would have.
She couldn’t pretend to misunderstand him, so, she remained quiet.
He put the vehicle on auto-pilot and shifted to face her. He pushed, “Ofunwa.”
The name had come from a very long time ago after they had realized that their parents wouldn’t give them siblings. It had started, at first as a joke, then it had stuck till their teenage years.
And now.
“We are here.” She couldn’t quite disguise the relief she felt at the interruption.
The vehicle had stopped in front of a palm-frond wall with no gate. The GPS on the dashboard blinked an arrow a furious red and the arrow pointed up. Lotanna changed gears and swung up and into the compound.
The dibia’s apprentice greeted them by name. They looked at each other, incredulously.
“Please, come. Onu is expecting you.” The apprentice took them further into the compound and then disappeared when he brought them to the mouth of the shrine adorned chiefly in red and black.
“Remove your footwear and come inside.” A voice said. They had to bow their heads slightly to pass the cave-like entrance. Inside, a face was put to the voice, and the young, innocent-looking face was a contrast to the gruff voice that welcomed them.
“I’m Onu Ujuagu, the mouthpiece of Ujuagu. I knew before you knew yourselves that you would come.” He picked a twin metal gong and its stick from beside him and beat a harmonic tune. “Ujuagu, my agbala told me.”
Lotanna whose idea it had been to visit the dibia, watched him now, his eyes shinning skepticism. Chimebuka knew there were dibias who really had the sight and knew what they were doing and there were ones who pretended they did and played simple parlour tricks. “Did your agbala tell you why we’ve come too.”
Onu focused bi-coloured eyes on her and smiled widely, as if he knew a secret about her, she didn’t know. “Ujuagu will forgive you because—though you have gifts—you see not with the same eyes that Ujuagu does.” He turned serious, shared a look between them. “You have come because somebody you both love immensely is missing, presumed dead.”
He didn’t give them time to break out of their surprised trance and comment before he broke into rapid incantation. “Anya mmuo abughi anya mmadu. He’s being held so that he cannot return. He’s hidden, it’s only his will to return that is making him seen at all.”
“Will you help us?” Lotanna was leaning forward in his stool, both his hands braced on his laps, his eyes earnest.
“Ask, Ujuagu,” he said to Chimebuka and pointed at a figure, a carved image of a willowy woman who had her hands stretched forward as if in receipt of something. “And call your father by name.”
“Please, Ujuagu, help us bring General Obinna Okolo home.”
Onu stood abruptly from his stool and turned in circles as though he was possessed by a wild evil spirit. With his back first, he went through a door draped with raffia mat. When he came back, he held a charm wrapped in fabric similar to the ones adorning the shrine and tied in thin threads.
“Take this,” he gave it to Lotanna. “The woman shouldn’t touch it because a woman who still bleeds shouldn’t. Keep it close, always, until your return. It’ll permit you to enter into the Water realm undetected.
“You’ll come back and thank Ujuagu after, only then will I tell you my fee. If you don’t come, Ujuagu will hunt you down. “He turned his back on them, “Go, now.” then he added, “Do not look back.”
They both stood to leave. Lotanna had to use both hands to tuck the charm carefully into his bag and he winced doing it.
Onu hurried to him and touched the hand in a sling. “You can’t journey there injured. Ujuagu said to inform you that you’ll spend half the night in her healing pond. You’ll drop the fee for healing in that bowl now.”
When Lotanna had first been deployed to search and dig in River Awka beside General Okolo for olanyanwu, the magical gem that aided the growth of plants in the dying world, the second person he had wanted to tell was Mama but he hadn’t because he had bruised her heart. He had bruised a heart that had loved and nurtured him after his parents’ death when he chose the water—which she feared—over taking charge of his parents’ conglomerate. When she heard of his promotion, she had traveled all the way to Awka to bring him a cake and they were back to how they had been in the past, and no reconciliatory words were said between them.
After that, he had told her everything exactly as it was, until now, and even though he felt really guilty, he didn’t say this to Chimebuka. Instead, he said, “We should have told her the whole truth.” But she cut her eyes away from him. She agreed with him, but they couldn’t have told Mama that her daughter was going into the water too.
“Soon, all these would be mere stories.” She whispered.
Lotanna remained quiet. He was standing at the wheels urging the bubble as fast as it could move to the centre of Isimmiri, from where they could see no land or even a mirage of one. From there, they could shift and the shift wouldn’t be noticed or recorded in the Hall of Magic in Awka. And because of the charm, it wouldn’t be noticed either in the sphere of Ndi Mmiri.
Feeling a yearning to be close to Chimebuka, to at least smell her long, dreadlocked hair, as he had done while they sat together at Ujuagu’s, he automated the vehicle and wandered to the glass refrigerator, took out two cans of Fanta and had the vending machine attached to it dispense a bowl of biscuits. He went to the crystal table where Chimebuka sat, studying the map of Isimmiri. He clicked the program off and sat the bowl and tubes before her.
“Take a break,” he said, “there’s nothing else to do until we get there.” He sat beside her and bit into a biscuit. They had barely gone through a quarter of the bowl—in silence—when he asked again, “What happened to us, Ofunwa?”
This time, there would be no interruption that would prevent her from answering. She finished chewing and considered stuffing another biscuit into her mouth. She shrugged, “I guess we drifted apart.” She met his gaze, her eyes daring him to say otherwise.
But he agreed with her. “Because we let ourselves drift apart. We could drift back again.”
“We’ll never be what we once were.” They could never have that innocuous friendship that only children could manage. Not after the lover’s circle on that New Yam Festival. She looked at him and saw in his eyes that he remembered. “We can’t.”
“I know, but I don’t want us to. You don’t want us to,” he settled his can on the table and leaned forward and took her hands. When she didn’t withdraw them, he took it as a sign, good or bad, he wasn’t sure. But he marveled at the familiarity of her hands, after such a long time. He slanted his palm—broad and rough—over her narrow one with long tapered fingers and linked them, lifted them to his lips and kissed softly.
She watched him from under her lashes. Dark and tall with a face that was a crooked nose away from being too beautiful, he could never remain the object of her sisterly affection. She had come to terms with that after she had stopped denying her attraction. She couldn’t deny it now so, she met his eyes with hers and assessed him as he did her.
Lotanna raised his hand to her face, pushed two long brown dreadlocks behind her ear, smiled into her eyes. And as always, was knocked back by them.
Onu had informed him while he had lounged in the pond that he didn’t need any charms to make him immune to the sirens’ charms because his heart had already been taken. He hadn’t needed Onu to tell him so, he knew already and was reminded every time he saw her. He was reminded every time her father mentioned her name. He was reminded at every glance at the small things that reminded him of her.
But he had surely needed the slight push from Onu urging him to tell her. Not yet though, he thought. He would wait until all this fiasco was over. Now, he would have to settle for tasting her lips again. He dropped his eyes to them, then brought them back to her eyes, searching.
Chimebuka smiled slowly and let him see the shine in her eyes before she said in a breathless, low voice , “Kiss me.” Then, she took his mouth, gingerly at first, then not.
Their lips battled for dominance. She moaned and dug her fingers into his thick dark hair and pressed his face closer. His tongue caressed her bottom lip, then slipped inside to tango with hers. Groaning into her mouth, he lifted her from the cushion and brought her to saddle his laps.
Unconsciously, she shifted to settle properly and dragged a deep moan from Lotanna. He snatched his mouth from her neck and groaned, “Damn, Ofunwa.” He kissed her again, swallowing her moans. “Don’t do that again.”
She smiled, a triumphant smile that told him she understood perfectly. “What?” She moved again and took her time climbing off him.
And they began to laugh. And laugh. And they laughed and laughed until they couldn’t anymore.
“How I’ve missed you.” He said it so simply that she turned, went to where he stood near the controls looking through the glass at the passing waves and hugged him from behind.
“Me too,” she said. “We’ll talk.”
“Yes, we will. First, we bring General Okolo home.”
The bubble stood in place and waved in tune with the gentle lapping of the water against it. They had changed from their simple attire of jeans and T-shirts to nylon lined swim suits that were resistant to both heat and cold. Watching Chimebuka strip—as if he wasn’t there—and shimmy into her swim suit had been refreshing and quite satisfying.
Now, as he watched her drawing the circle, he tried to put it out of his mind and focus on the task ahead. Again, he checked his back pack, checked hers too and ticked off his mental list. Hydrotorch, check. Cans of food, oxygen strips, double edge retractable swords, swim suits, check. And most importantly, nzu and the charm. When he finished, Chimebuka was done drawing and was standing in one of the two small spaces she had made in the circle.
He joined her inside the circle and stood opposite her. She stared into his eyes and murmured words that to him, were gibberish and soon, they were flying and flying. The world passed—white and very fast—before their eyes, the air stopped and if they listened hard, beyond the buzzing in their head, they could actually hear silence. And they were falling and falling. Then, they were both standing outside the closed door of a mansion which was white and regal in its entirety.
Lotanna quickly turned to Chimebuka and asked, “Are you okay?” and found out even before he thought it that he could speak and breathe easily.
Chimebuka replied, “I’m fine,” and created a flurry of smaller bubbles from her mouth. She reached out and started to take his hand but two very shiny people, a maid and a man holding hands came at them propelled by their scissoring legs at a surprising speed. The maid and the man swam through them, pushed the door open and went inside. The door closed after them.
“Woo, they can’t see us.”
“That shows the charm is genuine. I had my doubts.” Lotanna took her hand. “We too should scissor our legs behind us,” he demonstrated and figured he just floated quite fluidly.
A pair of glowfish circled around them before moving on and Chimebuka would have smiled had her heart not been beating so fast. They pushed open the door and went through and were greatly taken aback. The inside was magnificent and the people decked out in all manner of sparkly shells and strange ornaments stood and walked on both legs. Perhaps because, Chimebuka imagined, there was no water inside for them to swim in and for a moment, she wondered why the water stopped just at the mouth of the mansion and didn’t come through the open windows.
“Look,” Lotanna’s voice was heavy with terror. His grip on Chimebuka’s hand tightened.
She glanced up to where he had pointed and saw Papa—dark and beefy—draped in shiny ornaments. He was smiling into the eyes of a woman who was wearing a crown, kneeling before him and holding a wooden cup. The woman raised the cup to her lips, took a sip and with a half smile on her lips, handed the cup to Papa. He took the cup very gently from her, drained its content and stuffed a handful of pearls into it, sealing their marriage vows.
The Dogs Save the Day – Fagbamiye Wuraola
A short story about a girl, her dogs and her family.
Mummy was crying and holding daddy’s photograph. Her face was red and blotchy, and her nose was dripping. She wiped it, but it just kept on leaking. I wanted to say something comforting but I didn’t want her to shout at me.
Daddy had been fine just some hours before when suddenly he complained about something in his chest. He said his heart was fluttering. His head hurt and he was dizzy. Soon, he started vomiting and then he started pooping. The last straw was when he fell to the ground, twitching, as his eyes rolled back into his head. Mummy had told me to stay away as she cleaned him. The doctors hadn’t figured out what was wrong with daddy yet because a lot of people had been admitted in the hospital with similar symptoms. The labs were working overtime trying to test everyone but there wasn’t enough space or equipment for the number of sick people. They had taken his stool sample and told us to wait at home while he was admitted as they hoped to figure it out soon.
My hands were shaking, and I sat on them so mummy wouldn’t see them and worry, but she must have seen on my face, how I was really feeling, so she asked me to wait outside. As I went outside, a pastor came in and my heart sank. This was the same pastor they had taken me to for deliverance. Well, one of the pastors. I rubbed my arms, the memory of the stinging whips to drive out the demons from me still fresh. No matter how much he whipped me though, I could still understand Lulu, our lovable Labrador dog. My parents had rescued her when she was just a little puppy, and I was just a tiny three-year-old. Her little paws had grown over the years and her tiny wagging tail had become a long heavy rope that she swung back and forth anytime she saw me. I loved her so much. I loved her even more when I found out I could understand her barks, but it had been the beginning of trouble for me and Lulu.
It had happened suddenly. One day, I was playing with Lulu. We raced across the garden chasing the butterflies as she yapped at my feet. Our house was a corner spot, so the compound was big, and I had no problems staying in. However, the gate was open that day and as I got closer to the street, Lulu shouted very distinctly, “STOP! NO! DANGER OUTSIDE!” I stopped abruptly and turned to stare at her. My heart was beating rapidly as I asked weakly, “Lulu?” She ran to my feet, bit my dress and pulled me back inside, safe from the street. With her little nose, she nudged the gate closed and then she playfully shoved me to the ground and plopped her body on top of mine to prevent me from escaping. I thought it was all fun and mentioned it to mummy at dinner.
I was telling her all about my day and how fun it had been and then I said, “Lulu shouted very loudly, and pulled me back inside. Thank goodness she saved me.”
Mummy’s hand froze over the dishes she was washing. She chuckled. “You mean Lulu barked, baby. Lulu is a dog. She doesn’t speak.”
Foolishly I continued. “No mummy. She spoke. She said very loudly not to go outside and then she pulled me back inside.”
Mummy turned to me all stern faced then. “You understand Lulu?” I nodded. “Does she understand you?” I nodded again.
“Call Lulu here now.” So, I did.
Then, mummy continued, “Now, Titi, I want Lulu to go and drink some water from her water bowl. Tell her to do this.” I heaved a big sigh and waved my hand dramatically, already annoyed that my mum was choosing not to believe this wonderful story I had told her. I said very sweetly, “Lulu, are you thirsty now?” Lulu barked loudly. I turned back to mummy. “She says she isn’t very thirsty and what’s this about.” I turned to Lulu once more, “Mummy is being silly, and she doesn’t believe you can talk. So, she wants you to go drink some water from the water bowl. Go on Lulu.” Mummy’s hand flew to her mouth when Lulu obeyed me. I smiled triumphantly, happy that now she would believe me.
That night, mummy and daddy had many serious conversations about me, and they made me demonstrate a couple more times with Lulu. Over time, they discovered I could understand other dogs too. I befriended the strays around the house and then even more dogs came to visit us. This worried them so much that they decided they needed to fix me.
They had started with prayers at first. Every time I went for the prayers, I was afraid they would really take my ability to understand Lulu away, but it never worked. Every time, I was tested but I never lost the ability. So, they decided to do even more extreme things and I was taken for deliverance services. I was beaten, kicked and flung around wildly. I always returned home with bruises and welts all over my body, but the ability never left. The pastors would spend thirty minutes to an hour beating me to send out the demon that had given me the ability, but evidently, it never left.
When the whippings had failed to cure me, the pastors turned on Lulu, claiming she was the one possessed. Poor Lulu! She couldn’t defend herself against the accusations and try as I might, no one listened to my explanations either. Now, the pastor was taking her away to one of the churches for more deliverance. I was sick to my stomach. If they had whipped me so much, I could only imagine what they would do to Lulu. My poor dog would be subjected to all manner of beatings. I had even heard that some people eat dogs. I didn’t want to imagine Lulu in a pot of soup.
I was all alone. My mum was sobbing as if daddy was already gone, and I didn’t even have Lulu’s warm body to hug. I had to do something! I could not lose both my dad and my dog on the same day. I ran out of the house to the abandoned alleyway behind us, where the strays loved to stay.
The neighbourhood strays saw me but this time, they turned their snoots away from my eager hands. The neighbourhood strays were a pack of mutts that I and Lulu loved to play with. They were always so friendly and playful with us; but not this time.
“Please.” I pleaded as I wrung my fingers. “Please help me.”
The black mutt responded, “No way. We heard what happened to Lulu. We don’t want to risk getting shipped off too. Lulu was your family dog. We are just strays. We aren’t risking it.” The others nodded their agreement and my legs weakened. I dropped heavily to the floor, losing my last nerve. Without their help, I was afraid I could lose daddy.
My mind raced as I imagined what I could possibly say that would make them help me. I started talking quickly before they abandoned me. “Maybe there is a way to save Lulu. If you help me, I may be able to get her back.” Their ears perked up at this, but their backs still remained turned away from me. My mind raced. I wanted their help. I needed it. “I might also be able to get you off the streets as well. Just give me a chance. Can you help me find out what caused my dad’s sickness?” They were getting excited. Life off the street wasn’t for every single stray I had met but some of them longed to be pampered and cared for, just like Lulu. Lulu always got cleaned, fed and pet as often as she wanted and in the nastiest of weathers, Lulu had her very own bed she could always crawl back into. I had won them over. The dogs grouped together, and I stood apart with hopeful eyes. They broke apart and all, but the black mutt ran from the group and out into the streets. The black Mutt, the leader of the pack who I named Noir came to lick my face.
“We will help you. Just wait here.” As if in agreement, barks broke out from all over the neighbourhood as the dogs spoke to each other trying to figure out the truth. I couldn’t help the burst of hope that flowed through me as I waited patiently. I sat waiting and patting Noir’s head.
In a few minutes, the dogs had returned, barking loudly. I could barely make out their sentences. Eating!
Excitement! Lulu is coming home! Daddy will get better! Treats!
I waved at them to stop. It was impossible to understand when they spoke at once.
Noir said, “It was the pawpaw your father ate.” She pointed her snoot at the dark brown mutt at her side. “Lucy said she smelled them yesterday and they reeked of something. Then she pointed her snoot at the light brown mutt, “Jan said she saw the seller in the market spraying some water on the fruit and the water smelled odd. It wasn’t a nice smell.” I gasped. The pawpaw seller was always spraying her fruits. Something must have been wrong with the water she used this time.
Noir continued. “Jan also said that she saw the seller getting some water from the broken pipe in the gutter just outside the market.”
I kissed Noir’s head and ran in to tell my mum what I knew.
“Mummy! It was the pawpaw daddy ate! The seller sprayed dirty water on it! She was about to dismiss me, but she just stared and somehow, she knew I wasn’t lying. She mumbled “Cholera”. She grabbed her keys and took the remnant of the pawpaw from the fridge. We raced to the car and off to the hospital we went.
The doctors didn’t want to believe that we knew what it was.
“You can’t just drum up a diagnosis in your mind ma’am. That’s not how medicine works. Let’s wait for the stool sample to come in a few more hours. In the meantime, he is on IV fluids, being monitored and he isn’t getting worse.”
Mummy wasn’t having it though. “If we wait a few more hours then, he is going to be dead. It’s cholera. Trust me. The pawpaw was contaminated. If you refuse though, I’m suing the hospital if he dies here because you refused us service when I told you what was wrong already.”
The doctors didn’t have anything to say to that, but they collected the pawpaw and promised to test it immediately. I waited with mummy in the hall for any news on how he was doing, and we fell asleep cuddled together on the hospital chairs.
I woke up to my mum shaking me and calling my name softly. I rubbed my eyes and yawned. “How is daddy?” but I could already see the answer on her face. Her face was no longer red and blotchy. Her nose wasn’t dripping, and she had a smile. A small one but a smile still.
“The doctors said he is fine now. We can go and see him soon.” We sat together in comfortable silence until, “How did you know it was the pawpaw? I would never have thought about it.” I shook my head. I was afraid for Noir and her friends. What if they really got shipped off just like Lulu?
Mummy held my hand and pulled me close. “Don’t be afraid. Tell me the truth.” She wasn’t going to let it go. I gulped audibly. I had to tell her anyway. I couldn’t forget the promise I made to Noir.
“Fine. I’ll tell you how, but first, I made a promise before I got the information, and you have to promise to help me fulfil my promise or I’m never going to say it.” Mummy’s face was stern and I thought she wasn’t going to agree but she nodded.
I took a deep breath. “I spoke to the dogs. The street dogs. I also promised them that I would get Lulu back and we would adopt them. Please bring Lulu back and take the strays off the street. Without them, dad would be dead and probably everyone else who ate the pawpaw. So? What do you say?”
Mummy’s face broke out in a smile, and she said, “Let’s go get Lulu back.”
My heart could not contain the joy I felt as we raced across the city to rescue Lulu. We weaved through traffic and raced past streetlights to get to the church. It had already been a whole day since Lulu had been sent away.
When we got to the church, my hands were shaking from excitement. “Lulu!” I screamed. I ran in to see Lulu in a tiny and ugly cage. Her eyes were downcast but once she smelled me, she perked up and begged me to open the door, I was happy to do it and I hugged her tightly. “I’ll never let you go again Lulu. Never.”
The Revolving Mountain – Tanatswa Makara
I’m afraid of getting lost. I would never intentionally put myself in harm’s way. That’s how I know I’m telling the truth.
See, the trick to not getting lost is simple: You should always have a beacon. A lighthouse of sorts. The lights were mine. Deep in that mountain, the village lights were tiny stationary orbs, like resting fireflies. Their soft distant glow was inviting, reassuring me that this was the right direction. The sight of them overwhelmed me with both exhaustion and rejuvenation. A frustrated delight. I took out the pen-like map and pressed the only button there.
“You have passed the Takaz Mausoleum” the robotic voice repeated.
A holographic map leapt out from the tip of the pen. Of course, I had passed the mausoleum about twenty minutes ago. It was hard to miss. They had started building it when I was a child; in honour of the planet’s founders, the first human settlers on Takaz. That was before I left the planet. It truly is a marvel to see, especially in the tint of the setting red sun. Like a glowing castle sculpted into the mountain. But you already know that, don’t you, doctor? The red dot blinked on the still map. I was about ten minutes away from the village. I switched off the map and trudged my way down the mountain to the lights.
My grandmother used to take me up there when I was a child. When they were still digging the foundation. So, I know the mountain pretty well.
“It’s a good thing” she would say, leaning on her staff. “Honouring us like this. Having people’s hands – real hands – dig your grave is an honour. There is no sentiment or dignity in having drones do it. A spirit can’t rest in a grave void of the respect and toiling of the living. You’ll see when you’re older”
I wonder who dug hers. Yes, that is the reason I came back here. I received the news five days ago because of the transmission delay. The old woman in the hologram said she was one of her friends. She also said I was listed on her will as her only next of kin. There was a tinge of anger in her voice. Perhaps, Grandma had told her why we left her on this planet.
I had to stop after a while. My legs felt heavy. That was when I realized how dark it had gotten. Maybe I was truly lost. There were a lot more trees now than when I last came here. Maybe this was another mausoleum on another mountain. You never know. I took out the pen and switched it on again. The map illuminated the forest around me. The blinking red dot conjured pulsating shadows around me. I stared at it for a moment, waiting for something to change. The thing flashed at the same spot on the map. The exact same spot.
Silhouettes of familiar trees and rocks met my frantic glances. I looked down the mountain. The village lights remained tiny glowing orbs. How long had I been walking? Had I walked at all? I had asked beforehand, you see? At the station shop, I had asked them if their maps had been updated. I’m afraid of getting lost, you see. The staff there, that little boy, had said they were updated. He even gloated that the map’s A.I voice had been sampled from his. I didn’t trust him.
“Looks alright to me” the old man outside said when I showed him the hologram from the pen-map.
I should have just asked for a ride with him. He had been waiting for his shipment of cow embryos.
“Some kind of problem in orbit?” he had asked
“Sort of”
“I see” he tapped a hand on his leg. “Because my cargo was supposed to arrive a couple hours ago”
Well, the thing is— I know…Yes…yes. My point is the map was accurate. Didn’t you find me in that mountain? See? I wasn’t lost. The map was accurate.
The mountain was still. Eerily quiet. No animals. It almost felt like the trees had no leaves. Just looming towers of wooden labyrinths. I sat down, took out a bottle from my backpack and winced as the sour energy drink locked my jaws. I gave the map another look. Nothing had changed. The pen trembled in my hand. I rotated it, looking for a battery slot. Maybe, that was the issue. There didn’t seem to be anything you could pry open with your hands. I stood up and stared down the mountain. There it was. The village hadn’t moved an inch. I could see dots go in and out of the orbs of light. People. Or bots. It was hard to tell at this distance. Frustrated, I walked down the mountain.
I came up with a plan. I’d mark the trees whilst following the trail down the mountain. Just to confirm I was going the right way. I stuffed the pen-map somewhere deep inside my backpack. It might as well be broken. A weight fell off my chest when I saw the distant milky orbs grow with every few steps I made. The increasing brightness surrounding me assured me that I’d be out of the mountain after a few more minutes. In the distance, I could see two kids controlling a four winged cybernetic bird with their remote pads. There was a faint smell in the air too. Something fetid. Like rotting potatoes.
See, this is the part I struggle to comprehend. I was deep in the mountain again. It was as though I never left. I stared at my hands and heard my own trembling laughter. The leaves I had plucked from each tree as I descended were squished in my terrified grip. I had walked down the mountain! I had! My legs gave in and I tumbled to the ground. Sitting on this bed, I understand how it might sound to you. I do. The village was right there. It was right there. I’m terribly afraid of getting lost, you see. So, I did the only thing I could think of. I wept.
My grandmother had this belief, you see. Like most of the first settlers on Takaz, they had their superstitions. Imaginations they had carried from Earth.
“I’m looking forward to be amongst the first generation of ancestors” she laughed. “A place where the revered are buried is sacred.”
Back then, I had laughed too. But at that moment, I believed it. It was as if the mountain had been locked from the outside. With me inside it. I thought of many things and did many more. Most I choose not to say and some I remember very little of. At some point, I took out my bottle and poured some of my energy drink on the ground. I watched the liquid fizz into the ground and waited. It is not logical, I know. I know not what I was waiting for. Perhaps, I expected to somehow see a path I hadn’t seen before. An acceptance of my offering by the ancestors. When nothing happened, I staggered up enraged. I began screaming at the mountain, at my grandmother. You have to understand that I was frightened. I was lost and I didn’t know how. Or why.
“Is this why you won’t lead me home?” I rasped. “Is this why you called me here? I was a child. What did you want me to do? It was Mom’s choice!”
I was still ranting when I heard it. A hissing nearby. I glanced around. The night, previously animated by my screams, had fallen quiet. I strained my ear and squinted at the darkness hoping either would help. These sounds echoed again from within the darkness, only they weren’t hisses. They were whispers. Voices. I hadn’t realized that I had started jogging into the forest. As I got closer, the voices became clearer. That rotten odour had returned. Stronger this time.
“—always been proud—”
“—my son left the Milky Way to join the—”
“—when do you think she will—”
“—I thought I had more time—”
Perhaps, it was a group of people also lost in the mountain. Or at the very least, someone was playing a recording from the mausoleum. A copy of the first settlers’ last words. I was about to shout at these strangers when I stopped. A thought made me scurry behind a tree. There hadn’t been any footsteps. I waited, letting the night speak, but I heard nothing besides the voices.
“—I see a grander vision for our people—”
“—please…my child…”
The voices were a stone throw behind me. My head lightened at the sudden wave of an overpowering scent. Other sounds within the voices caused me to turn. Distorted noise. Low growls and laboured breaths. Almost human. Almost not. I watched and, as my eyes made sense of the moving silhouette, my reasoned fear morphed into visceral dread.
I saw it slither. Branches snapped as the thing squeezed itself through the trees. The dim night light caught fragments of the creature, revealing an endless wall of scales. I couldn’t see where, or if, it began or ended. My thoughts were lost in the noise. There was chattering everywhere. An abominable blend of hissing, creaking and voices. It spoke with the voices of the dead as it moved.
“—this not Earth—” it coughed. “—no dogs here—”
“—happy—” it sang. “—why am I happy—”
I heard a rustling, a sweeping of leaves nearby, and forced my eyes to the ground. Something like a chaffed rope drifted side to side beside my feet. I backed my feet to the tree till I was standing on my big toes. The rope glided lazily on the ground, brushing away twigs and dirt. The chattering seemed to be moving away from me. I felt my body relax as the creaking grew faint with each second. As the last of the lazy rope slid away, it tapped my feet and froze. The chattering stopped. Spasms shook my body as the thing’s antenna slowly snaked up my leg. The snapping of twigs became louder. More violent. My eyes blurred as the hissing and clicking raced towards me.
“—Leave me here—” a voice growled
I lost my legs and hit the ground. My vision skewed as I was hauled up. Before the clamour drowned out my shrieks, I heard laughter within the many voices.
“—my children—” Grandma cackled. “—generation of ancestors—”
I cannot tell you more than I already have because that is all I know. I don’t care whether or not you believe me but there is something on that mountain. I don’t know if it was something spiritual like my grandmother’s anger or something worse… Wait. Why don’t you seem surprised at all? Why are you looking at each other like that? D-Do you know what that thing was? Please…You need to tell me. Please tell me!
The Walls of Benin City – M. H. Ayinde
When the last of my water ran out, I knew I’d never reach Benin City.
It was almost a relief to lie down on the parched earth knowing I’d never have to rise again. Never have to worry about food or bandits or infected feet again. At the end, I was almost content. So I curled up, closed my eyes, and gave myself to my death.
“I have found the survivor,” a voice said, the shadow of its owner falling over me.
I opened my mouth to explain that I wasn’t a survivor, that I was merely a corpse in waiting, then I felt something cold on my lips, followed by a slow trickle of water.
“Administering rehydration fluids,” the voice said.
I opened my eyes. Saw a figure, black against the brightness of the sky. Then I surrendered myself to exhaustion.
#
“… And in the botanical gardens, we have samples of every plant on earth,” the voice said.
I drew in a raking breath. Every part of my body hurt, but I felt strangely weightless. I was moving, I realised. Bobbing...
Being carried.
“Good morning.”
I found myself looking into a face of living sculpture.
“Shit!” I croaked, flailing, and the bronze arms that carried me tightened their grip.
“Please do not be alarmed,” the sculpture said, twisting its face down to look at me. “My name is Eweka. I am a rescue bronze from the City of Benin.”
I worked my mouth. It was no longer so dry that breathing hurt; still, moving my lips opened the thousand tiny cracks that networked my skin.
“You’re … an automaton?” I said.
“Yes,” Eweka replied.
For a long time, I couldn’t summon the strength to speak, so, I just studied my saviour’s bronze face. Smooth eyes without pupils stared at the distant horizon. A perfect, wide nose tapered down towards a full mouth. A thousand tiny petals formed the sculpted cap of its hair, and as I studied them, I realised they were crafted from even tinier grids of hexagons. Across the bronze’s shoulders lay an intricate mantle of bronze flowers. I saw lilies and hibiscuses and tiny daisies and, as I looked deeper, I realised delicate bronze bees adorned many of the petals. It was like looking into an optical illusion; so dizzyingly perfect that I had to turn away.
“We will stop soon,” Eweka said. “And then I would like you to try to eat.”
Its voice – musical and resonant – issued from somewhere within its chest. Those shapely bronze lips didn’t move, and yet there was nothing sinister in their stillness.
“You’re … from Benin City,” I whispered.
“Yes,” Eweka said.
“Then…” Something in my throat tightened. “I made it?”
Eweka tipped its head to the side and said, “It is not far now.”
I closed my eyes, a thousand thoughts crowding my mind. Was I hallucinating? Perhaps I lay dying back there on the cracked earth, and my mind, in its death throes, had conjured up my salvation in order to soothe me in my passing. The last time I had been certain of where I was, I’d had at least three hundred miles more to cover, and even then I hadn’t been sure I was still heading in the right direction.
I must have dozed, because the next thing I knew, Eweka was shaking me lightly awake.
I lay on the ground, under a sheet of foil, the sun setting in the distance. “This is for you,” Eweka said, holding out a packet. Though the rescue bronze was seated, it looked regal as a king. Dozens of bronze bands encircled its slender biceps, and more bands fell about its neck and throat in widening loops of twisted metal. Its smooth, muscular torso tapered down to a skirt made of more interlocking petals.
I took the packet and tore it open. Shoved the bar into my mouth and chewed. Eweka watched me, and then opened a hatch in its stomach and removed a flask.
“Drink slowly,” it said, handing me the flask.
The bar Eweka had given me was tough, and tasteless, but it felt good to actually eat. I chewed between gulps of gloriously sweet water, and when I had finished the first bar, the bronze handed me a second, its face turned to me all the while.
“What?” I said, chewing.
“I thought you might like to talk,” Eweka said. “I find it helps.”
“Rescued many from the wastes, have you?”
“Yes,” Eweka said. “You are the seventh person I have saved.”
I looked away. “I don’t feel like talking,” I said.
“Then I shall go first. My name is Eweka. Before the great rescue began, I tended the botanical gardens outside the University of Benin. I like painting, and highlife, and my favourite flower is the night-blooming cereus. Now, you try.”
I stared. What was I going to say? That before the Reapers’ invasion of Earth, I had been a street thief. That while the world fell, I’d hidden. That I’d stood by and watched as the Reapers dragged people I knew into their ships, to take back to their colonies. That afterwards, when I’d emerged into the burned and barren world, I had done whatever it took to reach Benin City. Killed. Stolen. Abandoned the slow in our group. That even that hadn’t been enough to keep my family alive.
And that I didn’t deserve to be the last one standing.
“Maybe I don’t deserve rescue,” I said, looking away.
Eweka’s face couldn’t move, so how could I say it smiled? But smile it seemed to as it said, “But I was sent for you. Only for you.”
#
By the next morning, I had regained enough strength to walk, and so I trudged along at Eweka’s side, using its towering bronze body to shelter me from the sun. Even here, so near the heart of the civilisation, all was dust and dirt from horizon to horizon … The Reapers’ final gift to humanity before they fled, leaving behind a ruined world.
In my darkest days, when all the others had died, when I was completely alone and not even sure that I was going in the right direction any more, dreams of Benin City kept me alive. Of course, I had seen it on television – we all had, back in the days when television still existed and Benin City was hailed as the pinnacle of art and artificial intelligence and, of course, of energy wall construction. I used to imagine it shining on the horizon beneath the silvery dome of its walls, an untouched utopia, a Garden of Eden, the last preserve of humanity. But as the weeks and months went on, I found it harder and harder to visualise in my mind. It became a pipe dream; a fantasy. Towards the end, I don’t think I really believed it still stood; I just kept going out of habit.
We had been walking in silence for some time before I turned to Eweka and said, “What were you even doing out here?”
“Looking for you,” Eweka replied.
“No, I mean what were you doing out here before you found me?”
Eweka tipped its head in that way I was beginning to realise was one of its mannerisms. “I was sent to find you. One of our drones spotted you, and I was dispatched to retrieve you.”
“You don’t even know who I am,” I muttered.
Eweka straightened. “You are a survivor.”
As if that explained it all. “Isn’t it … a waste? I mean, how much are you worth?”
“How much are you worth?”
I studied its motionless face, trying to decide if it was joking. “Less than you, I reckon,” I muttered.
I slowed as I noticed a shape in the dirt up ahead. A body, I thought. God knows I’d seen enough of those on my journey. So few of us had survived the burning of the planet, and so many of us that had survived had died on the journey to reach Benin City. Sometimes it felt as though I was the only person left alive in the world.
“It is a warrior bronze,” Eweka said, striding forward.
I approached slowly. I’d never seen one up close before and had not expected it to be so … beautiful. It wore a complex armour of overlapping shells, and a domed, patterned helm. Its face was much like Eweka’s – serene, regal – though the left half had been destroyed, revealing the wires within. I found it hard to imagine a thing of such beauty shooting lasers from its eyes and missiles from its large, square hands.
The Reaper it had fought lay beside it, scarcely a skeleton now, its massive spine and skull lying amidst a nest of rotting flesh and dark blood.
“God,” I said, covering my nose with my hand. “It stinks.” But no flies swarmed the corpse. I hadn’t seen a single insect since the burning of the world. I forced my eyes away from the Reaper, back to the body of the warrior bronze, so glorious even in its shattered state.
“What are all those patterns for?” I asked.
Eweka looked over its shoulder at me. “Likely they were created by this bronze. We are, after all, primarily art.”
“Art?” I said. “A warrior bronze?”
“Yes. In Benin City, artists craft the most beautiful forms and personalities for my kind. Interaction with us is a form of consuming art. What is wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to rein in my laughter. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious.”
“The sculptor who created me gave me a body and the rudiments of my personality, and I have spent the last decade honing and perfecting all aspects of myself.”
“The last decade. While the world burns, you’ve been honing your art.”
Eweka straightened. “Your tone implies disapproval. You believe art should cease because the world, as you put it, burns.”
“Just seems a waste of everyone’s time,” I said. “And precious resources.”
“Do you know how many warrior bronzes Benin City sent to fight the Reapers?”
“No,” I said, looking away.
“Six million,” Eweka said. “That is how many artificial lifeforms we sent to drive the Reapers back.”
We moved on, walking in silence for a time while I thought about all those warrior bronzes finally repelling the Reapers. How many of them had burned when the Reapers left?
As the sun set, I curled under my foil blanket and watched the horizon. After a time, Eweka leaned towards me and said, “You are not sleeping.”
“I find it hard to sleep these days,” I said.
“Would you like a story, to help settle your thoughts?” Eweka said.
“I’m not a fucking kid,” I replied. Then closed my eyes. I couldn’t see Eweka’s face in the darkness, but somehow I felt I had wounded it. “Just … Just tell me about Benin City,” I said.
“Very well.”
#
It became a habit… I couldn’t sleep without the sound of Eweka’s voice, and so I had it describe Benin City to me each night as I drifted. It told me of the waterfalls that tumble from invisible energy fields. Of the floating street pedlars selling frozen yogurt and chin-chin. And of the bronzes. Of course, the bronzes, many of them as ancient as Benin City itself; stolen from their homes just as so much of humanity had been stolen by the Reapers, to be paraded as curiosities in their colony worlds. Bronzes stand on every street corner, Eweka told me, and plaques and sculptures adorn every sprawling, white-walled house. I fell asleep to dreams of those wide, beautiful streets. I woke up to the hope of them, just over the horizon.
Then one morning, I woke to find Eweka standing some distance away from me, facing the rising sun.
“Morning!” I called. Eweka didn’t turn, so I had my usual breakfast of ration bar and condenser-bottle water, and then pushed to my feet.
Eweka started walking as soon as I did, trudging silently ahead. When I caught up, the bronze did not look round.
“Did I annoy you?” I said. I touched the bronze’s arm, but it did not react. I supposed that even walking, talking works of art must have their off days, so I respected Eweka’s silence, but not long after the sun had reached its zenith, the bronze began to slow, and by mid-afternoon, it lifted its leg for a final step that it never took.
“Hey!” I said, waving my hands in front of its face. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
I could hear the soft whirl of the mechanisms within its body, but the thing did not move. “Eweka,” I said. I reached out tentatively. Touched its face. “Eweka. Eweka, please. Come on. You said it’s not far.”
But it simply stood there, unmoving, unresponsive. Only a sculpture now.
I wept bitterly all that afternoon. I clung to Eweka’s leg, sobbing like a child. The sun crawled down towards the horizon and I knew that I should move, knew I should carry on, but I couldn’t bear to leave Eweka’s glorious form standing there alone in the wastes.
When the sun finally set, I wiped my face and pushed to my feet. The wastes are cold at night, and I knew that the longer I delayed, the harder it would be to leave Eweka. I planted a kiss on its bronze cheek, warm from the dying light, and then continued. I did not look back.
#
Days passed. I saw no bandits. No bodies. No life at all. I was alone in all the world. In all of existence.
About a week later, the land fell away up ahead, and my heart soared. This is it, I thought. I’ve made it. I’ve finally arrived.
I couldn’t help it; I ran the last few metres, but when I reached the edge of the precipice, my stomach turned over.
Below me lay a city in ruins, its towers fallen, its roads cracked. The remains of its energy wall still flickered on and off, but it was a broken place now, empty and abandoned. So … this was the fate of Benin City.
I sat down on the edge. Had Eweka been gone so long that its city had fallen? Or had the Reapers returned and done this, determined to stamp out the very last piece of human civilisation? Perhaps Eweka’s programmed mind had erased the fall of Benin City, or perhaps it had always been a fantasy, created within its bronze body. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that there was no haven. There was no final outpost of humanity. There was no being saved.
I was so lost in my own despair that I did not notice the mechanical whir and thud of footsteps until their owner was nearly upon me.
“Hello again,” a voice said. I looked up to see a new rescue bronze looming over me. This one was different; though it stood upright, like a human, its head resembled a leopard. An intricate band of tubes encircled its head; like a halo … or a crown. Its lips were curled upwards in a perpetual smile.
“Shall we continue?” the bronze said. “It is not far now to Benin City.”
I shook my head, lost for words. Gestured mutely at the ruins in the valley below.
“That is Akure,” it said. “It fell not long before we drove back the Reapers.”
When I had collected myself enough to reply, I said, “Is… is that you?”
“Yes. It is me, Eweka. Do you like this form? It is one of ten I sculpted myself, back home.”
“I thought you died!” I said.
“We will retrieve the bronze I call A Confluence of Petals another time.Its most recent backup was sent only two hours before it fell dormant.”
“You mean … you’re a backup of Eweka?” I laughed. Covered my mouth. Laughed some more. “So what’s this bronze called?”
“Angelic Feline in Contemplation. Do you like it?”
“Yes,” I said. I couldn’t stop smiling. “Yes, I love it!”
#
During those final miles, I couldn’t stop talking. I didn’t think there was any hope left in my heart, but I felt such lightness as we crossed the wastes, such joy, that it just came spilling out of me.
I told Eweka everything. About what I was before the invasion. About what I had become after it. All my shame. All my despair. It poured out of me. I told it the names of my children, and how each of them had died. I told it about the people I had killed over a tin of food. And about how I had watched as the Reapers carried off my neighbour. Eweka listened, nodding sympathetically and offering no comment. And it was right. I did feel better, talking.
Then came the morning when we crested a hill and utopia lay spread out before me, and for several moments, I couldn’t speak.
I had forgotten what civilisation looked like. But even in the days when I had still known, civilisation had never looked quite as beautiful as this. Benin City filled the land before me, a vast, glittering spread of precious humanity. The city stood within the shimmering dome of its defensive energy wall, a shining oasis of glass towers and lush parks, of broad avenues and bowing palms. From this height, I could see down into its streets, into its gardens and piazzas.
“I can’t believe how… perfect it is,” I said. “How untouched.”
“This ground knows much about invasion,” Eweka said, and I’m sure I saw pride shining in its bronze eyes. “Once, long ago, the city that stood here was burned by invaders. Now, it is the only thing on earth that still stands.”
I shook my head. How long had I spent imagining this moment? And now it was here, it seemed unreal. Seemed like something from a dream.
“The ancient city that stood here once was also a utopia,” Eweka continued. “No crime. No poverty. A place of art and learning. Its walls were the longest to have ever been built on earth. Now, these energy walls are the earth’s strongest.” Eweka extended its hand. “Come. Let us go home.”
We descended the hill together, me stumbling and tripping as I could not tear my gaze from the city. A network of roads led towards it, radiating outwards like beams of sunlight, like arms extended to every corner of the earth. Calling humanity home.
I noticed a stirring where the energy wall met the dry earth.
“The wall’s moving!” I cried, squinting. Not just moving, I realised. Sowing. Tiny blades of grass sprang to life in the wall’s wake as it slowly ate up the barren land before it.
“Yes,” Eweka replied. “Every day, the walls of Benin City expand. Inch by careful inch, we will reclaim the planet. One day, our walls will embrace the entire earth.”
I felt a tightness in my throat. Slowly, very slowly, the people of Benin City were terraforming our planet.
I glimpsed more movement as the wall shimmered, and a number of figures marched out onto one of the roads, in neat formation. It was an army of rescue bronzes, and even from there, I could see that each was as different, each as intricately beautiful, as Eweka’s bronze bodies.
“More rescues?” I said.
“Yes,” Eweka said. “Each of them has been sent to rescue a single survivor we have detected.”
I felt a moment of vertigo. The world had once felt so vast and so empty to me, and yet each of the bronzes I saw now represented a human life. I wondered how far they would walk to bring people home. Eweka had travelled hundreds of miles and sacrificed a whole body to bring me to Benin City. Was the entire earth dotted with abandoned, exquisite bronzes just like Eweka’s Confluence of Petals?
I followed Eweka down the rubble of the hill, unable to settle my eyes on any single thing, unable to take in the glorious enormity of Benin City, spread out before me. It was only when we had reached the walls and I saw the line of people on the other side, all looking our way, that a sudden fear rooted me to the spot. I looked up at the shimmering expanse, thinking of all those people living peacefully within.
“What is wrong?” Eweka said, turning.
“What if they don’t want me?” I said softly, not meeting Eweka’s flat, feline gaze. “After everything I’ve done. What … what if—”
Eweka placed a bronze hand on my shoulder. Tiny shells decorated each slender finger. “They will want you,” it said. “You are human. You are family.” It turned its hand over. “Would you like to hold my hand?”
A month ago, I would have laughed at this. But I didn’t this time. Instead, I nodded and took Eweka’s hand, and together we walked through the shimmering walls and into Benin City.
###
The Water Dweller – Lazarus Panashe Nyagwambo
I cannot really say why I did it. Perhaps I have been around for too long. And these days, I have very little to do. Serves me right I suppose. I’ve been around long enough to know not to interfere with the world of men. They’re all so capricious. Fragile things. But it was such a small thing. And this, what we do, gets so repetitive. But there was no malice in my intent. If anything, I was trying to help. Not for any benevolent reasons as that word, help, usually presupposes. I don’t know, I guess after all this time, the urge to participate got the better of me.
***
I knew all of them. I knew them as well as I’ve known any other human. They passed by often on their way to and from school. They came to play in the afternoons while they were herding their cattle. They would throw their dirty, threadbare clothes on the gleaming rocks and their naked bodies would leap into the air. I liked to take a moment then to look at them, their utterly blithe indifference to the plights of life, limps splayed out wildly, the backdrop of a clear blue sky framing their frail silhouettes. Then they would come down, landing in the cold water with grimaces that seamlessly transformed into laughter. I would feel them. Touch them. Caress their scarred skins and listen to their hearts beat against the infinite symphony of the river. I would cling almost tenderly to them and marvel at the impudence of their youth.
This world does not have a name for me. Only a ritual. Chenura in this part of the world. An acquittal ceremony for the souls of the deceased. It is less common nowadays ever since that Jesu decided to take on a physical form and walk among men. And then they went on to write about him in that book. Oral tradition cannot compete with a book. Nowadays, very few people make the request to their children that they want the Chenura ritual to be done after they die. And even when they do, some of the children refuse, citing conversion to their newfound faith, the one that Jesu started. Nowadays there is only the funeral and then the Nyaradzo, the remembrance. It used to be that sending someone forth; to the realm beyond, to elevate them to the status of mudzimu, was requisitely paramount. Joining one’s ancestors was the highest form of transcendence. Now they call the ritual heathen. Dark. Unclean. I have to give it to him, Jesu was clever. But just as well. Maybe once I’m no longer needed, I can, to use a human term, retire. I will join the others that have been denounced.
I like the water. I like rivers to be specific. I like to listen to them and to watch them. I am intrigued by their continuous state of perpetual transformation. Always changing, never the same. Whether they are a trickle during the heart of the dry season, parched and emaciated and reduced almost to a whisper, or full and violent after the rains, roaring their might and making the banks quake in abasement. That is why I mostly dwell in the water until I am called to do my job. I am no longer as busy as I used to be.
There were four of them, all boys. I learned their names as they called out to each other while they dived and splashed and swam in the waters of the Mumvumira, one of the rivers I call home. Learnmore, Kudzanai, Tawanda and Decision. I learned their histories when I ripped their spirits from this realm. Kudzanai and Decision are – were brothers. They were inseparable. The villagers, the few still left who believe the things of the old world, said that it was because they had been born only one year apart and had drunk the same milk from their mother’s breast. All four of them went to Bemba primary school, Decision in the fifth grade and the other three in the seventh even though there was a four-year gap between the oldest and youngest of them. They lived in Nezambe, an otherwise insignificant village were it not for the fact that my river is etched into its valley. I only dwell in the ones that never dry up and Mumvumira is one of them. Even when the drought of `92 came and all the streams became no more than dry, cracked, skeletal appendages, Mumvumira’s waters continued to flow from the crest of Nyamhemba.
There is a quiet spot along her course. Hauntingly serene. The villagers call it Birira. Some of them believe it is sacred. Others that it is cursed. Whatever the case, I have nothing to do with it. Mine is not to curse or bless. Over the years, I’ve discerned that the superstition surrounding it stems from the several bodies that have been found caught between the rocks that are scattered all over that particular site. Eyes rolled backwards, skin wrinkled and grey, their facial expressions cemented by death and stomachs bloated with water. Broken things. Dead things. I watch idly when their relatives and neighbours forlornly uproot their bodies from the water and I wonder what emotion must be burning a hole in their chests. Anger? Grief? Musikavanhu forbid, joy? You never know with these creatures. But whatever it is they feel as individuals, I can always detect a communal feeling lurking underneath everything else. I smell it. Fear. Acutely pungent and suffocating. As if at any moment, they too might drown like their dead neighbour or cousin or brother or mother-in-law. The body movers always do their best to be graceful, but for all their efforts at sacralisation, I have been doing this long enough to know that there is no grace in death. And they are frequently too eager to leave, too rushed and unsettled to be delicate. On normal days, very few dared to venture anywhere in the vicinity of Birira. Except stupid children. Yes, stupid, for I cannot bring myself to believe that they were brave.
It was cold that morning. A ghostly layer of mist floated ominously above the icy water. The mukute trees that lined the river bank howled against the chilly wind and the reeds frantically shook the cold dew off their leaves. The sun was still shying behind Nyamhemba. What little of its light shone through was veiled by thick grey clouds that sat malignly in the sky, relishing the view of the shadows they cast on the world below.
It was Decision’s voice that drew me. It was close. Too close. The boys often crossed the river on the makeshift footbridge that was several meters upstream. I usually went there to watch them cross over the tree trunk that had been precariously laid across the span of the river. Sometimes they crossed silently, sleep still clinging stubbornly to their swollen faces. Other mornings they called out and teased as they went along.
“Iwe mhani, give me back my pen.” He sounded distressed.
There was a brief pause and then raucous laughter. The kind whose fringes are slimy with hostility. The laughter of a bully.
“I told you what you have to do mufana. Respect your elder.” It was not unusual for Kudzanai to tease his younger brother, but that morning, something in his tone made me think of the dark clouds above as their footfalls edged closer.
“I’m going to tell on you. I’m going to tell Baba.”
“Do that and see what will happen.”
Rightly noting that his threat failed to have the desired effect, the younger boy once again resorted to pleading with his brother who had become even more incensed by the attempt to coerce him.
Kudzanai was the first to appear through the reeds that flanked the riverbank. He wore their school’s khaki uniform underneath an oversized maroon jersey that had holes at the elbows. His twiggy legs rose out of undersized brown school shoes that had been to the cobbler a few times too many. A bag of Gloria flour and a length of string liaised to form an improvised satchel and hung from his shoulder, empty save for a pen, half of which had been chewed off, a pencil cut in half, the other with the younger brother and a lunchbox containing their shared break-time meal of cornmeal bread. He planted himself on a rock and waited for his brother to catch up. In his left hand he held a white pen, the words EVERSHARP 15M printed on its side in shiny gold. He held it out over the water.
Seconds later, Decision burst through the shrubbery and nearly tumbled into the river.
No one could mistake the two for anything other than siblings. They shared the same mango coloured skin for which their friends often taunted them, calling them masope. Their hair was a dirty reddish-brown with a sickly soft and curly texture as if they had kwashiorkor. The colour matched their eyes which discoloured almost to hazel when the sun shone directly on them. The only apparent difference between them was their heights. And their noses. Kudzanai’s was flat and wide like a frog ready to prance while Decision’s was more rounded.
Learnmore and Tawanda, their faces rigid, followed immediately after. I smelt the fear on them. Tawanda, the eldest of the quartet, looked around restlessly.
“Machinda we are going to be late for school. Stop playing around.”
“I am not playing.” Kudzanai’s resoluteness resounded in his chillingly calm tone. I was intrigued. I seldom got visitors and usually when I did, the occasion was always tainted by the morbid ambience. This was new. Perhaps that’s why I did what did.
“All he needs to do is say that I am the boss and I will give him his ballpoint back. Isn’t that right mufana?”
Decision faced a dilemma. Submit to his brother, get his new pen back and go to school, getting there in time to avoid incurring the wrath of their headmaster. Or…or call his brother dog shit and spit in his face.
Like I said, stupidity, not courage.
The pen landed in the water with a plonk. It had hardly begun floating away before I heard Decision yelp and then land in the shallow end of the river on his back. His brother stood over him menacingly, daring him to challenge him. Seeing the fire in his elder brother’s eyes, Decision opted not to provoke him any further in the absence of their father who could rescue him if Kudzanai started to overpower him. He also knew their two friends would either watch or leave them and continue to school. In the end, all he managed to do to salvage his wounded pride was mutter obscenities under his breath which he refused to repeat when his brother dared him to do so.
That should have been all. That should have been the end of it. A little spit, some wet clothes, a few heated but inaudible vulgarities, some wounded pride and a lost pen. But then they came back.
It was afternoon when I saw Decision again. An endless sheet of grey watched him along with me from above. I was unsurprised that he had opted to walk alone on the way back home, understandably unwilling to travel with his aggressor while the bruises to his ego were still so raw. Fragile things. I was a little amazed though, that he had dared to come back to a place that so many dreaded, on his own.
He stood hesitantly at the edge of the water, his face a stony mask, his lower lip quivering, oblivious to my presence, my captivated observation. After some time, he began to take off his clothes. His haste conveyed his intention to leave as soon as possible.
The pen was gone. I had watched it float away. It was currently bobbing in a small puddle some ways downstream. But he had come all this way. At the very least I found his effort amusing. That was all. I did not intend for any of the things that followed to happen. So, I fashioned him a new pen.
After Jesu, a few more of us did interact with the physical realm. It was always possible, only frowned upon. But he had taken so many believers that it necessitated a few physical manifestations to even salvage what little faith was left in us. Like letting the living see their deceased loved ones. Or granting their wishes. Even those that believed that it was us, the divinities of the old world, that had granted these things chose to hide it for fear of being castigated, being labelled as charlatans of evil. Our efforts only strengthened the belief in him. I personally had never done such a thing. Not until that day. If I had, I would have known that humans cannot handle the things of our world, I would have understood why interfering was frowned upon.
Decision waded out of the water, holding my gift in his hand, oblivious of its origins. He knelt in the sand and held it up to his face. I wondered whether in some small way, he knew that what he held was sub-natural. Or if the frozen grin on his face was simply joy. If the glazed eyes with which he glared at it was gratitude.
He remained that way for two hours. Completely naked and seemingly unaffected by the cold. Even when he heard his brother shouting his name he did not flinch. I must admit that I was more curious than concerned. I rose from the water, my interest piqued, thrilled by the anticipation of something looming on the edges of eventuality.
Kudzanai appeared first, no longer in his school uniform. Learnmore and Tawanda followed on his heels. All three of them halted immediately when they saw Decision’s motionless body, now huddled over, the pen gripped tightly in his hand.
Even though Kudzanai tried his best to sound intimidating, his voice trembled ever so slightly and the worry that suffused it was apparent. “Mufana, what are you doing here? People are looking for you at home and you are playing around here. Get up!” He took a step forward and placed his hand on Decision’s shoulder.
Nothing.
“Iwe…”This time he made no attempt to veil the concern that was beginning to prickle at him. It was not for the wellbeing of his brother. He did not want his father to find out about the morning’s events. The image of his head locked between his father’s thighs and the phantom sting of his sjambok landing on his bared bottom settled in his throat, refusing to go away even when he swallowed. He grabbed Decision’s arm.
In the amount of time it would take to hold your breath, Kudzanai was on his back, an anguished scream gushing from his gaping mouth. His hands clasped the right side of his face and blood oozed freely through his fingers. Decision was sitting astride him, pinning his shoulders down with his knees. He swiftly pulled the pen out of his brother’s eye and jammed it into his throat. I was transfixed by the crazed look on his face, the madness shadowed in venomous loathing.
Learnmore and Tawanda exchanged glances. In a brief silent debate, they argued over which of them would intervene first and eventually agreed that a simultaneous approach was the preferable choice. They approached hesitantly at first but threw all caution to the wind as the pen sunk into their friend’s throat once again, reducing his cries to gurgles. They both jumped on to Decision at the same time. The trio landed in the sand and for a few minutes were a mangled mix of groans, swinging fists, scratching fingers and kicking legs.
Tawanda eventually managed to extricate himself from the scuffle, leaving the now subdued Decision pinned to the ground by the physically superior Learnmore. Panting and caressing a gash on his left cheek, he walked towards Kudzanai, each step feeling heavier as he approached his friend’s twitching body.
The sand around Kudzanai’s head spread outwardly in a halo of blood. Tawanda’s heart thundered in his ears. He bent forward slowly and pulled the pen from Kudzanai’s neck with trembling hands.
“Kudzanai.” His voice caught in his throat, only managing to come out as a laboured croak. “Kudzanai, wake up.” He placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder and shook the body gently. Its head rolled limply to the side.
Decision, who had been struggling frenziedly to free himself, stopped suddenly. He raised his head and looked over at his brother. The surge of emotion that erupted inside him was punctuated by a sudden stiffening of his face. Not a gradual shifting of expressions but a concise and abrupt absence of them. Learnmore relaxed his hold on him warily.
When he spoke, the callousness in his voice had dangerously sharp edges. “Give me back my pen.”
Tawanda’s gaze fell slowly on the pen and then traversed the space between himself and Decision. He looked once again at it. “It’s…it’s mine. It’s my pen.”
Learnmore stuttered, “Tawaz, what are you doing?”
He was only momentarily distracted, but a moment was all it took. Decision twisted under him and succeeded in knocking him onto his haunches. He threw a fistful of sand into his face before he dashed towards Tawanda.
For the few minutes during which he hastily tried to wash the sand out of his eyes, all Learnmore heard were screams and splashes. By the time he was finally able to see again, Tawanda was already holding Decision’s head down in the water. The younger boy’s struggles were steadily waning.
Learnmore scrambled to his feet and started running towards them. In his haste and partial blindness, he tripped over Kudzanai’s body.
As I said before, humans are fragile things. Something inside the boy caved then, refused to comprehend the scene around him. He just sat down. He raised his knees to his chin and wrapped his arms around his legs. And he watched the river run by.
Decision solemnised his exit with a final weak jolt of his leg.
Tawanda stood over him, triumphant.
Above us, the dark clouds watched silently.
Time Says No – Praise Osawaru
The sky rumbled, drops of rain descending. A number of people—mostly residents of Ijoro—dressed in black, gathered around a brown coffin, black umbrellas shielding them from the rain. A man in black, wearing a white collar, stood inches away from the coffin. He held a bible in his left hand, his other hand swept the air as he spoke. A few seconds later, he shut his bible and bowed his head. Then a feminine voice emerged from the gathering, airing Amazing Grace.
Nadoese stood before the coffin, lowered into the ground. He kissed the flower in his right hand, and threw it atop the coffin. He turned around and walked away, his face boiling with a blend of anger and sadness. His mother watched, exhaling. Somewhere in her mind, she understood that he left to cry elsewhere. Her tears weren’t shy, they streamed freely. Her daughter had only breathed for a little less than a score before Ogiuwu uprooted her from the living.
Nadoese sat down, reclining on the bark of a tree, his knees drawn up. He took slow, deep breaths. Three days ago, his sister walked the earth. They talked and laughed about how Nigerians are quick to talk about racism when tribalism is buried deep in the country. Tears trickled down his face. In his right palm, a purple pendant necklace sat gracefully. It had belonged to his sister. He gripped it, closing his eyes, as he fell into a memory.
Finding Efe by Johnny Drille played from the Bluetooth speakers perched on the table in Eghe’s room. She sat before a mirror, while Nadoese stood behind her, his hands loosing her braids. White light bulbs hung from the ceiling, and the window was open, permitting the sound of birds and air to breeze in.
“Ekinadoese, be careful. Don’t cut my hair.”
“It’s not my fault I don’t know how to do this,” Nadoese responded, with a chuckle.
“Now, you’re learning.”
Eghe’s phone chimed, putting a warm smile on her face. She grabbed her phone with her right hand from the surface of the table.
“Who’s this person who keeps beeping you every five minutes like this?”
“Hey, mind your own business. Oya, go get a lover,” Eghe shot him a look through the mirror.
“Oh, okay, I’m won’t loose your hair again,” Nadoese responded, discharging a half-loosed braid.
“Wait. Can’t someone play with you again?”
He laughed out loud.
The tears trickling down his face brought him back to reality. He breathed out slowly, and wiped his face with his left hand.
“Ekinadoese?” A masculine voice emerged from behind him.
Nadoese’s heart throbbed, taken aback by the sudden intrusion.
“Sorry to bother you,” The man uttered, walking around until he stood before Nadoese. He appeared in a different kind of attire, unlike others who came for the burial. He looked to be in his late forties. And he wore a white shirt, brown pants, and a long, black coat. A loose Adire fabric-tie hung from his neck, and his hair was so low, he could be mistaken for a bald man.
“Um, I’m not in the right mood for a chat right now. This isn’t the time.” Nadoese stood up, tucked the necklace in his pocket, and dusted his pants.
“Believe me, this is the right time.” The man pulled out a black pocket watch, and opened it. Light blue clock hands ticked in the watch and a map of Africa floated above in blue lining.
“Whoa!” Nadoese staggered, nearly stumbling over a tree root.
“Easy there, Ekinadoese.”
“Who are you? And how do you know my name?”
“My name is Pamilerin, and I’m here to help you rewrite a past.”
“What do you mean rewrite?”
“Eghosa, your eighteen-year-old sister, was raped and murdered, and her body was found three nights ago. Time says no. According to Lira, there’s still a window to go back and save her without entirely altering the timeline.”
“What? Are you talking about time travel?”
“Yes.”
“Are you crazy or something?”
“I perfectly understand your lack of belief. You see, this here is African Time,” he paused, raising his pocket watch in the air, “with this device, I can visit any time period in the whole of Africa. I can read the time stream, and in very few cases, alter the timeline without making waves.”
“Okay. These all sounds like something from a movie. I don’t know if you know, but my sister actually died. She was raped and murdered, her body dropped by the fucking roadside!” Nadoese’s voice went a few decibels higher.
“Ekinadoese?”
“Get the hell away from me,” Nadoese waved him off, walking back to the gathering.
#
It was midnight. The stars peered out, and a half-moon hung in the dreary sky. The night breeze swayed, compelling Nadoese to wrap himself in a blanket. He laid in bed for almost an hour, unable to sleep. The words from Pamilerin were on replay in his head. He closed his eyes, hoping to purge his body of insomnia.
A few minutes later, he had dozed off, or so he thought.
“Leave me alone!” His sister’s voice reverberated.
Nadoese opened his eyes and found himself in a lit room, his sister held down by two dark-skinned boys. The first one smacked her in response to her scream. The other boy pinned her, parting her legs.
“No! No! No!”
“Shut up!” The boy who parted her legs yelled. “Gag her now,” he added, facing the other boy. Then he unzipped his denim pants, yanked out his penis, and slipped between Eghe’s legs without a second to waste.
She shrieked.
“No!” Nadoese roared, jumping up in bed, panting. His room was unlit. He felt his pajamas moist, a sign his body, too, mourned. He leaped out of his bed, walking towards the window to open it and receive copious air from the night.
“What the hell?” He saw a man standing, gazing at him. It was the same man from the burial, the one who sounded like an asylum escapee.
The man raised his pocket watch in the air, yelling, “Clock is ticking. The window will close soon. It’s now or never.”
Nadoese glanced around as if he was expecting a response from his room. He didn’t hear a sound. His parents were still asleep. He walked over to his closet, and grabbed a cardigan. Then he exited his room, creeping slowly to the front door.
Their home was a three-bedroom flat with his room situated in the middle, and he had his keys, so it was uncomplicated to sneak out. On opening the front door, he saw Pamilerin standing, waiting for him. He closed the door and stepped onto the porch.
“What do you want from me?” Nadoese snapped.
“I just want to help you. The window closes in an hour. If you want to save your sister, now is your chance.”
“S-s-so, like, you are a time traveler, and that pocket watch allows you to travel through time?”
“Yes.”
“Come on! And I’m supposed to believe that?” Nadoese chuckled.
“Well, maybe after you’ve seen it in action.”
Pamilerin waved his fisted right hand in the air and opened it. The pocket watch, laid in his palm, opened. For a few seconds, he stared at the blue clock hands. Nadoese wondered what he hoped to achieve until the map of Africa floating above the watch began to swirl. The hands of the clock ticked backward, then spun hastily as if about to unravel.
Blinding blue lights emanated from the watch, enveloping Pamilerin and Nadoese. Pamilerin snapped his finger, and the lights dissolved. Nadoese turned around, gasping. They were back at the cemetery.
“What the hell?” He uttered, as he gaped at himself, from across the field, speaking with Pamilerin by the tree.
“Do you believe me now?”
#
Two hours past midnight, Nadoese and Pamilerin stood at the backyard of Nadoese’s home, under the blanketing sky. Nadoese had changed his outfit. He wore a white shirt, black pants, shoes, and Pamilerin’s long coat and Adire fabric-tie. Pamilerin disclosed to him that it was necessary for the job, for the time travel. It was the attire for any traveler.
Pamilerin placed the pocket watch in Nadoese’s hand. A pin ejected from the side, piercing his thumb. It retracted with a drip of Nadoese’s blood, then it opened. The clock hands glowed blue, and a map of Africa appeared, hovering.
“So, what do I do now?”
“Regular people use ten percent of their brains. But people like you and me, we can push further. To use Lira, you have to picture the time and place perfectly in your mind. Stare at the clock hands and move it with your mind. And time will unfold before your eyes.”
“You say it like it’s simple. Are you sure you can’t do this or come with me?”
“He who wields Lira must go alone.”
“But you took me along the other time.”
“Quiet. Focus,” Pamilerin hushed him, instantly.
Nadoese raised the pocket watch, staring at the clock hands. He knew when he was going to—the moment after Eghosa left home to see her boyfriend without informing their parents. He stared for a few seconds, but nothing happened.
“I don’t think you want to save your sister. Or maybe you’re happy she’s gone. Maybe this is what you wanted, to be the only child. Then your parents’’ love would be focused on you alone.”
Nadoese fumed from Pamilerin’s utterances. He gripped the watch and stared; a fiery look stamped on his face. He exhaled. Eghe’s voice resounded in his head, and the clock hands ticked backward. He sighed softly.
“I did it,” he uttered, looking at Pamilerin who gave him a thumbs up.
Blue light emanated from the watch, engulfing him in a bubble of light. The light grew intense, causing Nadoese to shut his eyes. When he opened them, it was daytime.
“I’ll be back before Mum and Dad, okay?!” Eghe yelled as she boarded an Uber in front of their house.
Nadoese hid behind the tree, watching his past self, shut the front door. He exhaled slowly, flapping his coat. A white paper flew out, courageously, from the inside pocket. He paused. Then bent down to pick it up.
“Hi, Ekinadoese. Sorry to throw Lira on you, but I had to. For a thousand years, I’ve been the bearer, travelling through time, helping Africans. It’s been a long ride; one I can finally rest from. When Akello, the previous beholder, handed Lira over to me, I took it up, knowing at some point in time, I, too, would eventually pass the torch to someone else: you. Your journey begins with saving your sister, but after that, you can never live a normal life. You cannot spend over three hours in a time period. Eventually, you’ll have to forfeit your life. Like I said before, I’m sorry to throw Lira on you, but I had to. Save your sister. After a thousand years, you too will be able to hand it over. Sincerely, Pamilerin.” “Bloody Hell!”
Dust by Kwasi Adi-Dako
Alpha Smart Assistant online. The date is July 15, 2049. The location is Badu, Brong Ahafo Region, Ghana. Interview with Paa Kwesi Owusu, 80, is about to start. Please get ready to begin. Start recording in 3, 2, 1…
Good morning Mr. Owusu, thanks for having me in your home.
You are welcome. I don’t get many visitors.
Your place was a bit hard to find, it’s pretty far off the main road.
I value my privacy.
Right…well I appreciate you agreeing to talk to me. As I mentioned on the phone, I just want to ask you a few questions about your life growing up.
Alright. Go ahead.
Okay. Yes. Let’s start with your childhood. What was that like?
I grew up here in Badu in the 1970’s just a few minutes that way. It was an even smaller town than it is now. My parents were farmers just like all our neighbours and we mostly grew yam. As children, my brother and I spent most of our time either doing chores or playing outside. We weren’t that different from the other kids in the area.
And the weather? Seasons came and went?
They did, yes. We were used to Harmattan winds covering everything in dust from about late November to early March. There were only a few small houses in this area at the time so we knew all the other neighbourhood children. We all dreaded Harmattan because there were always so many chores. Once, my mother made us clean all the leaves in the garden because she didn’t like seeing them brown. Of course, by the time we got to the end of the bushes, the beginning was dirty again. It was exhausting, but I suppose I don’t need to tell you that.
That’s okay, please keep going.
Right. Rains would come in April and be pretty predictable until November. Then it would all begin again. We always looked forward to those months because we could play a whole new set of games. Avoiding puddles and things like that.
A lot has changed in 80 years.
And a lot has stayed the same.
[loud beeping noise]
Excuse me, I need to change the filters on my recycle tank.
Let me help you with that. You keep sitting, I can change it while we talk.
Fine.Thank you.
So… When did you start working as a community organizer?
[chuckles] In some ways I was one my whole life. My parents didn’t have much, but our farm was fruitful so we had more than some others. They always taught me to share as much as I could with those around me. I remember asking my mother if we could start packaging meals for some of my friends as a child, and I kept doing that into adulthood for other members of the community. There were already farmer collectives around and they sometimes organized community feeding programs. They also provided food for festivals and events. When there came a time for new leadership they reached out to me. This was around the early 2020’s.
When the Dust began.
Yes.
What was it like in the beginning?
Anyone you ask will give you a different date for when it truly started. For me, there was a Monday in May ‘24, when my brother was sitting where you are now, in tears. The Harmattan still hadn’t ended, and the crops he planted were all dying in the ground. The rains were so late. I assured him that they would be back, as I had done for months. After he left, I remember looking around this room and feeling the weight of the dust. I noticed how dry my throat was and the itch in my eye became oppressive all of a sudden. That was the first time I wasn’t sure that the Harmattan would end. For me it started that day.
That must have been scary. How did the people in your community react?
It was a difficult time. Everyone was confused. You have to understand that our town is in the Brong Ahafo region, which at the time was the nation’s breadbasket. Cultivating the land was a way of life that supported so many Ghanaians. People were desperate. At first the government stepped in with subsidies to support us but their money soon dried up. Then the international organizations came for a while and they forgot about us as well. We had to fend for ourselves. Many people did things that they were not proud of, but we survived.
What did people have to do to survive?
[silence]
Let’s take a break, young man. I’m tired.
Sure, no problem. Can I get you a hydropack?
No, they’re disgusting. Just go and open the window.
[Grunting noises]
You have to unlock the dust seal on the side there. The lever is under the orange flap on the left. The left. Yes there.
Oh yes, I see it, thank you. I haven’t seen one of these kinds of seals since I was a kid. Airlock tech is really taking over in Accra.
The seal works well enough for me. It’s simple.
Same for this recycle tank. How old is it?
I’ve had it for many years. The water tastes a bit metallic but it’s better than that gel. At least it’s water.
Right. You don’t mind the dust blowing in through the open window?
There’s air blowing in as well isn’t there? It’s too stuffy in here.
[laughs] I guess I’ve gotten used to breathing through filters.
Hmm.
[silence]
Young man, let me ask you a question. Why are you here? I have been here my whole life, even after many others left, and no one has ever taken an interest. I didn’t believe you would actually come after we spoke on the phone, honestly. Why come all this way?
[clears throat] I guess I’m interested in what life was like before The Dust. There aren’t that many people around today who went through that transition as leaders in their communities, and who are still around to talk about it. The Dust is all I’ve ever known but I watch movies and read books about life before it started. Your world was full of rolling green hills and dense forests; you could pick fresh fruits off trees and water fell straight from the sky. It seems like such a magical time.
[scoffs] A magical time?
Yes. I have lived in Accra my whole life and have only seen rain twice. I can’t even imagine having it fall as much as it did back then.
You think because we had rain, our lives were good?
I… I don’t know. I suppose.
[silence]
What did you mean when you said a lot has stayed the same?
What?
Earlier I said that a lot has changed, and you said a lot has stayed the same. What did you mean?
Oh. People are still suffering. It looks different now, but let me not pretend that life was easy. It was hard work, staying alive and taking care of the people around us. In the cities, you had more comfort, but here we have been exposed to the elements for a long time. There was panic for a while when the Dust began, but people got used to it eventually and are now surviving the best way they know how to. They wear masks and drink hydro packs and keep on living. It all looks the same to me.
[silence]
I’m sorry. I know that growing up in these times must be hard too.
It is.
At least you don’t have to deal with mosquitoes. Have you ever had malaria?
No, I haven’t.
Oh, it was horrible. You would feel too cold and too hot at the same time. Shaking and barely able to move. A pounding headache. Nausea.
That does sound horrible.
I once sat in front of a delicious bowl of light soup and cried for hours because I didn’t have any appetite. My body wanted it but my mouth was refusing.
[both laugh]
My whole family teased me about that for years. It was hard but we learned to live with it, as people do. The problems are different today but we keep trying to figure them out. We have learned how to conserve our water and plant crops differently. What else can we do? Of course, my heart breaks when I look around Badu today and see dry brown where there was once lush green. I dream about swimming in the river that used to flow just outside town. Now it’s just a ditch full of sand.
Not everyone decided to stay though, many people travelled as far as they could to search for new opportunities. Why did you stay?
Badu is my home. I worked my whole life to make it better and I did not want to leave it. It’s nowhere near what I remember growing up, but it’s here. We are back to fending for ourselves, but we are used to that. We aren’t going anywhere.
[Mr. Owusu coughs]
May I close that window?
Alright. Thank you.
Are you feeling okay, Mr. Owusu?
You can call me Papa K.
Papa K. How are you feeling, can we keep going?
I think I need to lie down. One day you will be an old man, and understand the meaning of that phrase.
Okay, I should start heading back then. Thank you…
I have some newspapers from the ‘20’s that you can look through while I rest. If you want.
Really? Oh, that would be incredible!
Just do it quietly.
Of course, Papa K. You won’t even know I’m here.
Alpha Smart Assistant has now ended the recording. If you wish for the recording to be stored to the public cloud as well as your private profile, please indicate by saying “store all”. If you are happy with the default settings, goodbye for now.
Kwasi holds a Bachelor of Arts degree from Columbia University in Psychology and you can find him on Twitter @ Tri_Solarian.
Omenana Speculative Fiction Magazine, Issue 19
English stories:
A CLOAK – Ubong Johnson
BAARTMAN – Nick Wood
BODIES – Chisom Umeh
THE INHERITANCE – Virgilia Ferrao
ODUDU’S GAMBIT – Albert Nkereuwem
Warrior Mine – Masimba Musodza
INHABITERS – Kingsley Okpii
French stories:
AUX PORTES DE LANVIL Lanvil – Michael Roch
NOIRE MATIÉRE – Rachid Ouadah