The Year's Best African Speculative Fiction (2021)

by Oghenechovwe Ekpeki

  Next, we come as heroes. Shining armour, arms unafraid to swing, tools of mass destruction that fit in the palm of our hands. We invoke the gods of our people, and they descend and stand beside us. The people see their hands outstretched upon our shoulders, their eyes shut in blessing. Godly garments turned inside out so that all of the bloodstains they bear, vestiges of their pasts—we can smell the red wetness of them, this close—may stain their skins, but the fore of their garments, that which is in view of the people, glisten white. That is not for us to judge—these bloodstains were earned in battles like this, after all, long, long ago. Too long, faded from common memory. Of what use is such old knowledge to today’s people? Let them worry about today’s problems. So we keep the eyes of those before us from straying too far, keep them on today’s prize. For our freedoms! we scream, and we strike down mercilessly, bolstered by the bloodthirsty cheers of our kin.

  Then, we come as saviours. People line up in the streets to cheer our victory. They bear our names and battle cries on their banners, on their tunics, on their hats, in their hearts. They radiate a hope not long witnessed in this land. There are more hopes, too, clung to by others, but those are distractions. Some hopes are more important than others. We let the songs of praise wash over us, drown out any voices of discord. Today is a day of victory, and there will be room for nothing but that.

  Afterwards, we come as merchants. The people need a firm hand to represent their interests, to protect them from alien forces of disrepute. We rip what we can from the land for collective gain, but first, we must shell it out to whoever will fork out the most. We must do this to satiate the endless pits. No, not of our bellies—there are no pits in our bellies; who would think such?—but in the hearts of those we serve. Pits so endless they have become an abyss. But no matter. There will always be something to be sold, something to feed back into that abyss. There will also be enemies, within and without, who remain unsatisfied with this good work, but again—no matter. We shall hunt them down and remand them. They shall rot alive until they call out to their gods. Our gods. And yes, they do answer, our gods, and they descend again—not with outstretched hands of blessing this time, but with questions we cannot answer. We tell them just so, and they understand because they, too, did not have answers in their time. So they leave us be, and we continue to fight for the people. We decree laws. We impound, incarcerate, protect. Their cries are hysterical, but we silence them with the good solutions we know are best. We keep our people safe and secure. We keep our people. We keep.

  In time, we come as ghosts. In the moments after we bite off the final poisoned apple—that which banishes us to a life outside of this one—we are besieged by Death’s messenger. He comes to our door in our moment of failing and stands there, staff in hand. Silent, watching. We go berserk, call for our household, tell them, Can you not see? But they hold up their hands, say, Are you going to leave us like this? They blame us for our sickness, yet in the same breath, inquire about where we have placed our bounties. So, it is with relief that our bodies surrender, that we escape the sting of tears and anger cast our way. Only Death’s messenger remains to taunt us as we exit, saying: You and I are the same. We are the harbingers of something that ends all in its path, yet we may not always deal the striking hand. He never leaves, Death’s messenger, even after we do, lingering on for the next, and the next, and the next.

  In our final days, we come as gods, just like those who once stood beside us. They invoke us now, the people, praying us to bless their new hero preparing for battle. Now we stand beside this hero, our arms outstretched, garments inside out so that the white is clear, and the bloodstains from our conquests remain invisible. The red wetness presses our garments to our bodies, causing an itch we cannot scratch and a smell we cannot escape. But no matter. The people sing our names anyway. They want this hero, just like they once wanted us. Soon after, they will want another again. So long as they live and we exist, they will always want another.

  And so we oblige. We stretch out our hands and bless.

  25

  “And This is How to Stay Alive” © Shingai Njeri Kagunda

  Originally Published in Fantasy Magazine (Issue 61, November 2020)

  Baraka

  Kabi finds my body swinging. I watch my sister press her back against the wall and slide to the ground.

  My mother shouts, “Kabi! Nyokabi!”

  No response.

  “Why are you not answering? Can you bring that brother of yours!”

  My sister is paralyzed, she cannot speak, she cannot move, except for the shivers that take hold of her spine and reverberate through the rest of her without permission. She is thinking No, no, no, no, no.

  But the word is not passing her lips which only open and close soundlessly. Mum is coming down the stairs.

  Pata – pata- pata.

  Slippers hitting the wooden floorboards in regular succession. In this space between life and after, everything is somehow felt more viscerally. Mum is not quiet like Kabi. Mum screams, “My child… Woiiiiii woiiii woiiiiiiiiiiiiii! Mwana wakwa. What have you done?”

  She tugs, unties the knot, and wails as I fall limp to the ground. She puts her ear on my heart. “Kabi. Call an ambulance! Kabi- I hear his life; it is not gone, quick, Kabi quick.”

  Kabi does not move; cannot move. She is telling herself to stand, telling her feet to work but there is miscommunication between her mind and the rest of her.

  Mum screams at her to no avail. Mum does not want to leave my body. She feels if she is not touching me, the life will finish and the cold will seep in. Death is always cold. She wraps me in a shuka. It does not make sense but she drags my body down the hall to the table where she left her phone. “Ngai Mwathani, save my child.” She begs, “You are here; save my child.”

  She calls an ambulance. They are coming— telling her to remain calm. She screams at them, “Is it your child hovering between life and death? Do not; do not tell me to stay calm!”

  She calls my father. When she hears his voice she is incoherent but he understands he must come.

  * * *

  The hospital walls are stark white. There are pictures hanging on one wall, taken over sixty years ago, before our country’s independence. White missionary nurses smiling into the lens, holding little black children; some with their ribs sticking out. This is what fascinates Kabi— she cannot stop staring at the black and white photos. The doctor comes to the waiting room area and Kabi looks away. She knows it in her spirit; she cannot feel me.

  It is not until my mother begins to wail that the absence beats the breath out of her. Kabi feels dizzy. The ground comes up to meet her and dad is holding mum so he does not catch Kabi in time. The doctor keeps saying, “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

  For Kabi, the sounds fade but just before they do, somewhere in her subconscious she thinks she will find me in the darkness. Yes, she is coming to look for me.

  But I am not there.

  * * *

  Funerals are for the living, not the dead. Grief captures lovers and beloved in waves; constricting lungs, restricting airflow, and then when and only when it is willing to go does it go. Kabi tries to hold back tears— to be

  responsible

  oldest

  daughter.

  Visitors stream in and out. She serves them tea; microwaves the samosas and mandazis that aunty made then transitions into polite hostess.

  “Yes, God’s timing is best.

  No, as you can imagine we are not okay but we will be.

  Yes, we are so grateful you have come to show your support.

  No, mum is not able to come downstairs. She is feeling a bit low but I am sure she will be fine.

  Yes, I will make sure to feed her the bone marrow soup. I know it is good for strength.

  No, we have not lost faith.”

  But sometimes; sometimes she is in the middle of a handshake, or a hug, or a sentence when grief takes her captive;

  binding
her sound,

  squeezing her lungs,

  drawing her breath.

  She holds herself. She runs to the bathroom or her room or anywhere there are no eyes and she screams silently without letting the words out…

  her own private little world out.

  Nyokabi

  “Wasted tears.” The lady, one of mum’s cousins: second? Or third? Clicks and shakes her head. How long has she been standing there?

  I am confused by the question; have no time for old woman foolishery. Already there is Tata Shi shouting my name in the kitchen. “Yes?” I answer because I must be

  Responsible

  Oldest

  Daughter

  Always in that order. No time for my grief, no time for mama’s cousin, second? Or third? To sit with and dismiss my grief. The first ‘yes’ was not heard so I shout again, hearing my voice transverse rooms. “Yes Tata?”

  And the response: “Chai inaisha, kuna maziwa mahali?”

  How to leave politely, because respect; to mumble under my breath something about going to make tea for the guests.

  “You have not answered my question.”

  I sigh, in a hurry to leave, “What was the question?”

  “Gone, child— these terms that talk circles around death: gone, no longer with us, passed away, passed on— what do you think they mean?”

  “NYOKABI?” Tata is sounding irritated now, she is trying not to but you can always tell when she is.

  “COMING!” I scream back, and to the woman in front of me, “Gone is… not here.”

  “Aha, you see but not here does not mean not anywhere.”

  This woman is talking madness now. I mumble, “Nimeitwa na Tata Shi, I have to attend to the guests now.”

  She smiles. “I know you are trying to dismiss me Kairetu but here, take this.”

  She slips a little bottle into my hand just as I widen the door to leave. She says, “a little remedy for sleep. There are dark circles around your eyes.”

  I slip the bottle into the pocket of my skirt and run to the kitchen, no time to look or to ask, no time to wonder or to wander, no time to be anywhere or to be anything but the

  Responsible

  Oldest… only?

  Daughter.

  Baraka

  This is how to not think about dying when you are alive: look at colours, every colour, attach them to memory. The sky in July is blue into grey like the Bahari on certain days. Remember the time the whole family took a trip to Mombasa, and Kabi and you swam in the ocean until even the waves were tired. Kabi insisted that you could not go to Mombasa and not eat authentic coast-erean food, so even though everyone else was lazy and dad had paid for full-board at White Sands Hotel, the whole family packed themselves into his blue Toyota and drove to the closest, tiny, dusty Swahili restaurant you could find. It smelled like incense, Viazi Karai, and Biryani. Are these the smells of authentic coast-erean food?

  This is how to not think about dying when you are alive: take note of smell, like the first time you burned your skin and smelled it. The charring flesh did not feel like death; in fact it reminded you of mum’s burned pilau; attach feeling to memory.

  “Tutafanya nini na mtoto yako?” dad never shouted, but he didn’t need to.

  “What do you mean? Did I make him by myself? He is your son as well.” Mum was chopping vegetables for Kachumbari.

  “Yes, but you allowed him to be too soft.” Her hand, still holding the knife, stopped mid-air, its descent interrupted, and she turned around to face him, her eyes watery and red from the sting of the onions.

  “Too soft? Ken? Too soft? Did you see him? Have you seen your son? The fight he was involved in today… he can barely see through one eye. How is that softness?” Baba looked away, mum’s loudness overcompensating for his soft-spoken articulation.

  “Lakini Mama Kabi, why was he wearing that thing to school?”

  She dropped the knife. “Have you asked him? When was the last time you even talked to him Ken? Ehe? ”

  Quick breaths. “We went to the church meeting for fathers and sons. I spend time with him.”

  “Ken, you talk to everyone else about him, and you talk at him but you never talk to him. Maybe if you were here more…”

  “Don’t tell me what I do and do not do in my own house Mama Nyokabi. Do I not take care of the needs of this house? Nani analipa school fees hapa? You will not make so it looks like I do not take my responsibilities seriously. If there is a problem with that boy it is not because of me!”

  Smoke started rising from the sufuria. You reacted, pushing yourself from behind the door, forgetting you were not supposed to be in such close vicinity to this conversation. “Mum, chakula chinaungua!”

  She rushed to the stove, turned off the gas, and then realized you were in the room, looked down, ashamed that they were caught gossiping. The smell of burned pilau.

  This is how to not think of dying when you are alive. Move your body; like the first time you punched Ian in the face.

  Whoosh!

  Fist moving in slow motion, blood rushing through your veins, knuckles-connecting-to-jaw-line, adrenaline taking over: alive,alive,alive,alive,alive. This is how to be alive. This is how to not think about dying when you’re alive.

  Of-course this was right after Ian had called you shoga for wearing eyeliner to school and then said, “Ama huelewi? Do you want me to say it in English so you understand F-A-

  “Go fuck yourself!” you screamed and punched simultaneously. And of-course this singular punch was right before Ian punched you back and did not stop punching you back over and over and over but God-knows you kicked and you moved, and you were alive.

  Nyokabi

  On the night before the funeral,

  I am exhausted but I cannot sleep. There is shouting upstairs. I close my eyes as if that will block my ears from hearing the sound. A door is banged. I hear footsteps shuffling down the stairway.

  I should go and check if everything is okay but I do not want to. I cover my head with my pillow and count one to ten times a hundred but I still cannot sleep.

  I switch on my phone: so many missed calls, and “are you okay?” texts. I see past them, my mind stuck on a thought. Could I have known?

  * * *

  Google

  How to know when someone is suicidal

  Offered list by WebMD:

  Excessive sadness or moodiness

  Hopelessness

  Sleep problems

  Withdrawal…

  Things I have now, things everyone has at some point. I can hear them whispering in the hallway. The main lights are off so they do not know I am in his room. Mum has been looking for every opportunity to pick a fight with anyone and everyone since Baraka…

  I switch on the bedside lamp, look around the room, and feel the need to clean, to purge, to burn, everything reminds me of him. I notice the skirt I left on the dark brown carpet, tufts fraying in the corner of the fabric, a bottle peeking out—bluish with dark liquid and I remember the old lady; mum’s cousin, twice removed, or thrice? What have I to lose? I pick at the skirt, unfolding its fabric until I get to the bottle stuck in the pocket. It is a strange little thing, heavier than it should be. I try and decipher the inscrutable handwriting on the white label. One teaspoon? I think it says, but can’t be too sure. I open the lid, sniff it, and wrinkle my nose. The scent is thick, bitter; touching the sense that is in-between taste and smell. All I can think is I am so very exhausted and I do not want to wake up tomorrow. Can I skip time? I throw my head back, taking down a gulp. Its consistency is thick like honey but it burns like pili-pili.

  At first, nothing. I close the lid and drop the bottle. I should have known, probably nothing more than a crazy lady’s herbs. Could I have known? I should have known. I should have bloody known. I punch the pillow and fall into it, exhausted.

  Time

  And this is how it went. On this day that Baraka came home from school with a dark eye and a face that told a thou
sand different versions of the same story, on this day that mama Kabi burned pilau on the stove, on this day I begin again.

  They wake up on different sides of the same house with different versions of time past. Kabi, with her head a little heavy, feeling somewhat detached from her body, hears singing in the shower and thinks she is imagining it. Her bed, her covers, her furniture. “Who moved me to my room?”

  Smells wafting from the kitchen and mum is shouting, “Baraka! You’re going to be late for school, get out of the shower!”

  Has she finally gone mad? Hearing voices… a coping mechanism? Two minutes later the door is pushed in and there he is with a towel around his waist, hair wet, and the boyish lanky frame barely dried off.

  “Sheesh Kabi, you look like you’ve seen a ghost! It’s just eyeliner, what do you think?”

  She cannot move and she thinks this is familiar, searching her mind for memory, and then she thinks this is a dream. Closing her eyes she whispers, “not real, not real, not real, not real,”

  “Kabi, you’re freaking me out. Are you okay?

  Kabi?”

  He smells like cocoa butter. A scent she would recognize a kilometre away, attached to him like water to plants on early mornings. She opens her eyes and he is still there, an orange hue finding its way through the window sill, refracting off his skin where the sun made a love pact with melanin, beautiful light dancing, and she makes a noise that is somewhere between a gasp and a scream.

  “Muuuuuuummmmmmmmmmm! Kabi is acting weird!”

  “Baraka stop disturbing your sister and get ready for school, if the bus leaves you ni shauri yako. I am not going to interrupt my morning to drop you!”

  He walks towards the mirror in Kabi’s room and poses, “Sis, don’t make this a big deal okay. I know you said not to touch your stuff but I don’t know, I’ve been feeling kinda weird lately, like low, you know? I just thought trying something different with my look today would make me feel better.”