She goes off on a litany of things she’s done, her family, her brother working on the Underworld Project, her friends who’d never left what was left of Yoff …
“What about you?” she asks, all pearly-smiled enthusiasm.
“Good. Everybody’s good …”
And then blank.
She misinterprets my silence.
“Miss ’em already, huh?”
I nod. I do miss them, I really do, but I also can’t remember the past two months. Nothing at all. I should remember my mother’s cooking at least. Who forgets that? And I must’ve kicked Djibril’s ass at least once. But nothing, not a single thing …
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
She holds onto my arm tighter.
“It’s okay. I miss them, too, and your little brother’s bound to be around somewhere. … Come on, or we’ll be late for class.”
“I hate this stupid class.”
“It’s the first time we take it,” Sokhna whispers back.
“That’s great, but if I wanted to train for the Underworld Project, I would’ve played Virtual Underworld in high school.”
“You know what they say: All the roads lead to Underworld.”
And they probably do. Twice the available space of the surface dug underground. A giant terrarium to relocate two-thirds of the surface population. Fifty billion here, fifty billion there, enough space to spread your legs, grow plants and vegetal proteins. No need to recycle corpses anymore.
“Bullshit. It’s a plot to resettle people then drown us all.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
Maybe I don’t, but too many people do; and what does she know? She’d never lost anybody in there. Somewhere so deep they never got to see the sun again. She hadn’t heard that her father was dead before getting a week’s worth of free food rations. Maybe it had even been him. Nice and spiced up. It had tasted awful. Her dad had died a hero. Mine, an afterthought in Underworld.
“Doesn’t matter what I believe.”
“That’s right. What matters is that you try your hardest.”
“Oh, I do …”
“Underworld’s a vital part of our future.” Professor Diop’s drowsy monotone goes on, “In fact, it’s our only future. Who knows why?”
“Because we only have one planet,” someone answers eagerly.
That’s what everyone says, only this planet. Having one planet never stopped us from ruining it in the first place. Why would Underworld be any different? Someone’s bound to screw up, wanting more of something—more sunlight, fresher air, or misses the taste of human flesh for whatever reason—and try to tear the roof down and have the whole thing collapse. An unsatisfiable species convinced that we’re special, that’s what we are, without the guts to look extinction in the face and say fuck it … But then I’m here, right? Trying to get laid and get ahead, so who says I’m better?
Focus, one more punch and I’m beating this level …
“Djibril!”
Inside the Virtual College: athletics simulation, Djibril’s punch slipped past his opponent’s nose, and he tossed the helmet off in disgust.
Why does she always do that?
She had a sixth sense, his mother, and then a seventh and an eighth. Every time he would make progress, she would call him. He couldn’t blame her. His brother hadn’t been back all summer. Maybe she thought he wouldn’t come back again. Who would stand to lose her husband to mining operations and then a son to college? She didn’t want to lose him either, but what did she think was gonna happen?
I gotta make something of myself, too …
“Laamb lou reyna!”
Being friends with the Mighty Ablaye Gueye really has its benefits.
You can draw the humanity out of people until they’re nothing but shadows of their former shell and yet. It’s the vibrancy of the crowd. The electric tingling of static bouncing from every hair even if it’s only to watch two giants bashing each other’s heads in. The staccato of sticks on drums and the wrestlers in their colored robes dancing a choreography, leg stomping right, arms flowing left, heads bobbing, and grigris wound tightly around their biceps. Ready to fight, even ready to kill.
I’m not looking and don’t care, been seeing this since I was a kid, and the only thing I can focus on is Sokhna’s hand caught in my palm, her pulse beating fast, and trying to get to our front row seats before the fights start.
“You’re gonna tear my arm off,” she says.
If only it could be your clothes …
“Better me than those gorillas out there,” I answer, nodding at the arena.
“Jealous much?”
I’m not, though I would be if she ever paid them any mind. Everybody else is jealous, though. Most guys, that is. Who doesn’t wanna be so big you never have to worry about anyone or practically anything? Getting extra food rations and the adoration of all the ladies on campus and every competing campus? There’s a catch, though: if you lose your bout, you’re out. And then your strength might get you a bodyguard gig and keep you fed; but there’s a lot of hungry people out there, and enough of them will take you down and save themselves a few trips to the food banks. Still, some would try their luck because who doesn’t believe they’re invincible?
Ablaye sees me sitting down with Sokhna and waves and winks without losing his hundred-mile stare of pure focus.
Sokhna is sweating a little, the drops running down her temples glowing brown with her skin, but she’s excited. You can’t help but let the tension work its way into you. Even I’m starting to feel it, my left leg beating uncontrollably. Sokhna rests a hand on my knee and stops it.
“Easy now.” She says, “Hasn’t even started yet.”
A classmate, Youssou, recognizes us.
“Sokhna! Naka soube si? Bougouma! Dafa nice? Just saw your little brother, man. Can’t have been more than a minute ago …”
I face-palm while Sokhna pats me on the back. Damned kid. He should be in school or training on some virtual sim of his choice instead of running around campus.
Some people believe they’re invincible, but perhaps Ablaye truly is.
Sokhna has fallen asleep, her head on my damp shoulder, wisps of her hair tickling my ear.
Ablaye is on his fourth and final fight, the final as it turns out, and he’s barely broken a sweat. I nudge Sokhna awake gently.
“Hey, it’s almost over. I’ll never get front row seats again if Ablaye catches you sleeping.”
She raises her head grumpily.
“I’m only here because you insisted.”
“Exactly, make me proud.”
Ablaye and his opponent, a Guinean named Alpha Diallo, only a couple of inches shorter than him, are testing each other, slapping each other’s hands away as they try to lunge for a grab or a punch to the face.
Ablaye seems nervous. He usually moves in much quicker, but Diallo keeps him easily at bay, grinning confidently.
“Ablaye should’ve landed a few already …” Sokhna notices as well.
“Yeah, that guy’s good.”
Both fighters interlock, twisting sideways, trying to force the other to his knees, and failing. Backing off, Diallo lands a sucker punch to Ablaye’s nose.
Blood gushes to cheers from the Guinean’s team that soar over the silent ring.
Ablaye wipes his nose staring at the blood. His nervousness turns to anger. He grabs Diallo at the waist and throws him to the ground. The arena roars.
“That’s more like it,” Sokhna says, but I’m not convinced. Diallo doesn’t seem phased at all, as if he’d let that happen to give Ablaye a false sense of confidence.
And it’s working, Ablaye flexes his muscles at the audience, his smile already spelling victory while the Guinean gets in position and the dance begins again.
Ablaye’s showing frustration, his attacks getting stronger but less targeted. The Guinean slips, losing his footing. Ablaye aims for his nose, but Diallo was faking and dodges his overpowered blow, grabb
ing him at the waist, lifting him off the sand, Ablaye’s face twisted in disbelief, slamming him to the ground with the resounding crack of his spine echoing across the wrestling grounds.
Sokhna leaps up and screams.
Junior Year
Have you ever been to college? There’s something fun about freshman year. A sense of novelty, I guess. But as a junior, it’s all played out. It’s like high school again—like probably everything afterward. Maybe for the better. Creatures of habit need just that. Growing in your shoes is the only place to grow, but fuck, don’t you wish there were other spaces to grow and maybe other plains?
“You’re back!”
Sokhna’s arms around my neck, making me forget everything as the wind blasts from the yard. The wind that is our oxygen, the wind that is our death. I don’t care, and why should I; they are softer than silk …
“I am always …” I try to muster a little cheerfulness, but Ablaye’s death is a lump in my throat. The big lummox had it coming. We all lose eventually, but I’d expected it to be much later. As a champion, with enough credits to look into whatever future with confidence. The crack resounds in my head like thunder trapped in a cave, making it hard to hear anything, feel anything …
“Hey! Hey!” Sokhna’s shaking my arm, trying to kick me out of my daymare. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I guess. Ablaye, you know?”
“Who?”
The thunder stops rumbling. Sokhna’s looking up at me, her beautiful eyes puzzled.
“Come on, girl, that’s not funny.”
She just shakes her head.
“Ablaye?” I insist. “Gigantic guy? Wrestler? You screamed when he died?!”
Sokhna’s face freezes and blurs … It’s gotta be the wind, her usually soft features wrinkle and change, her nose grows a little, her lips twist, her right side smiling, the left frowning, dark blue eyes glowing yellow, and then it’s gone. Barely a second but …
She’s suddenly contrite, her hand caressing my arm.
“Of course, I remember. How can I forget?”
Her tone is off. Her face is nothing but honest, but she sounds like she’s reading from a script.
“Anyway!” she exclaims, back to her cheerful self. “How was your break?”
I never knew Sokhna to be bipolar … Must be the grief. Funny how we deal with it in different ways.
Take me, for instance. Can’t remember a thing again, only my childhood friend getting smashed into the ground on a loop.
“All right,” I answer, shrugging, trying to keep my cool. “Yours?”
She starts talking, not a care in the world. I can barely hear her, but something is off again. I get this sense of déjà vu, which makes perfect sense. We’re basically having the same conversation we had last year, but it feels like her words are exactly the same. The same inflections, the same giggles, the same pensive pauses. Damn, my head is really fucking with me.
“Miss ’em already, huh?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“It’s okay. I miss them, too, and your little brother is bound to be around somewhere. … Come on, or we’ll be late for class …”
“Does Diop teach everything?”
“He’s the best. What more can you ask for?”
“The best at Econometrics, Underworld, Applied Physics, Climate History, and Arts and Crafts? I mean, please.”
Sokhna sighs.
“Can’t you ever be happy?”
“I haven’t been happy in months.”
She points at the mobs of students marauding the hallway.
“Well, this oughta cheer you up. Isn’t that Djibril over there?”
I lean forward over the clutter of undergrads, trying to recognize my sibling’s features.
Not a chance … But in a flash he appears leaning against a locker, whispering into a little freshman girl’s ear.
No way! When did he get so big?
The kid is taller. Taller than me and much wider. Solid muscle, too. What the fuck? I guess whopping season is over.
For the first time in two years, I let go of Sokhna’s hand and start rushing down the hallway, shoving students out of the way.
“Djibril!”
Truth is, I’m really happy to see him. Ecstatic, actually, if only because I was starting to doubt my sanity with everybody else seeing him on an almost daily basis.
“Djibril!” I yell again, but he doesn’t seem to hear me, moving swiftly down the hall with the girl while students cram the way, making it harder for me to get to him.
He turns around a corner towards the cafeteria, but by the time I get there, he’s gone.
“Djibril! Djibril!”
Djibril drops his sim mask and rushes to find his mother.
She’s never sounded this panicked …
“Yes, mama!” he screams, barging into her room.
She looks up surprised.
“Well, that’s a first!” she says, smiling. “You have me on your mind don’t you, now?”
“You mean, you didn’t call me?”
“Afraid not,” she says. “But while you’re here …”
“You sure you’re all right?” Sokhna asks me before I shoot myself back to the dorms.
“Of course,” I say, going for nonchalant, but I can hear it in my voice and so can she. Her no-nonsense look says it all. Not quite seeing Djibril has shaken me more than I can say. It’s normal, I suppose. Coupled with Ablaye passing and Sokhna being oddly flippant about it, it would’ve been good to see family.
“I’ll be all right. Promise. I just need rest. I’ll be fine tomorrow. You’ll see,” I insist, forcing a smile.
She nods wearily, grabs my face, pulls it down, and kisses my lips.
“Okay, I believe you. You’ve never lied to me … So I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“For sure.”
She nods and walks away towards wherever the girl’s dorms were.
The trip back to the dorms is not through the shitter again. I’d asked why once, something about it being public restrooms and insalubrious. I mean, shit for shit …
Anyway, it’s kinda like a cannon. There are several docking ports, you lay on your stomach, and once you’ve crawled all the way in: snap! There goes the rubber band and the disintegration and the million, million Yous again until you land in your bed …
Something’s wrong.
Something’s wrong.
Something’s wrong.
Something’s wrong.
Something’s wrong.
A million other Mes echo back the same thing. The tunnel shoot is open, but I can’t cross it. I can see my body on my bed, shaking in one giant epileptic seizure, my eyes flipped backwards, foam dripping from my mouth and urine slowly staining my pants.
What the …
One of the million egos takes over:
It’s high school graduation. The entire graduating body of Dakar is gathered outside the city. It’s impossible to count us all. I know my family’s somewhere out there, probably cheering me but more likely wondering where the hell I am in the formlessness of late teenage hood waiting to be sorted for college.
I turn to find them, but the sea of students never ends, stretching ahead, behind, east, and west to every horizon. The sky is uncommonly cloudy, dark with what should be storm clouds. There used to be a name for them, but it doesn’t matter. The atmospheric weather drones have taken care of that. What little humidity’s in there will evaporate into the atmosphere and slowly dissolve. The air is heavy with the acrid smell of nervous sweat. This isn’t what I’d expected. Not at all what the intro to Virtual College looked like. No robes, no hats, no tassels, nothing. This feels more like triage.
“Congratulations, graduating class of 2178! You can be proud of yourselves! You’ll be given indications on which route to follow to retrieve your diplomas and shipped directly to your assigned institutes of Higher Learning. You are the pride of our nation. Un Peuple, Un But, Une Foi!”
The slice
of me carrying that memory melts and reintegrates my shell. Another takes over …
It’s hard to remember where I am. It’s even harder to remember who I am. My nights are foggy with vivid dreams more vivid than the moments of half-life between them. Maybe it’s daytime, I don’t know. The last dream was something about class. A pretty girl I never met. Or maybe I have. I don’t know anymore. She’s really pretty, and she looks like she really likes me. Beautiful eyes, dark blue and sharp as a knife. I must know her, she feels more real than my memories, if that’s what they are at all. And I keep thinking I’ve lost a close friend for some reason, a hulking dude. That can’t be real either, but the grief feels real.
The helmet is uncomfortable, but at least the restraints tying me to the bed are off. Apparently, I shake a lot in my sleep, but that’s because I’m not sleeping. It’s the dreams. It’s like they’re trying to switch me for them.
The door is open on the hallway, a dark grey thing with a series of doors probably for other students. Not that I’ve met anybody since being shipped here. No one I can remember, anyway. But it’s not the gloom that hits me. It’s the smell: warm and metallic with an aftertaste of liquid shit like a decomposing body; and the sound, the heavy motion of a grinder.
Where is everybody and why did they let me out? Maybe I’m still dreaming.
The smell and the noise get worse as I walk down the hall. The stink makes my eyes water, and the grinding makes it hard to think; but there’s a light, more light than I can remember in weeks.
There are things dropping into the light from a chute above. Elongated, heavy things by the whooshing sounds they make against the opening before the grinding takes over and the smell explodes in redolent bursts down the hall. Bowels. Guts. Blood. Those words flash in my languid brain, and I miss a step, my hand landing on the wall, and someone catches me.
“No need to go there, Bougouma. Not yet, at any rate.”
“What is that noise? What is that smell?”
“Nothing to worry about. A few more days and you’ll be ready to graduate!”
I want answers, but I’m too tired to understand. They’re doing something to me, to all of us, but I won’t let them have all of me. I won’t forget it all …
Sunspot Jungle Page 7
