New Suns

by Nisi Shawl

  The history of Atropos has made us accepting of a wide variety of choices. We learned to take sadness in stride, to find the freedom within what others might consider oppression, and we know that despite whatever diagnosis you may have received there is still joy for you to be found in our smiling faces and cheerful eyes.

  [Note: here our employers wished us to insert a specific clip of natives dancing in the street around three elderly, wheelchair bound euthatourists. I have to admit that the dancers seemed more than just welcoming and supportive. There was something... gleeful? Yes, that might be the right word. They seem too happy. Isn’t this a little inappropriate? Can we not find some alternative images? C.K.]

  Narrator: Here you will find the shepherds you have sought to lead you to your destiny, from the moment you step off the plane or cruise ship near the docks, as so many of our ancestors did prior to reaching their final destinations, working in the Americas—

  [Note to Image library: is Gone with the Wind in public domain now? There are some great possibilities there. Can we license?]

  NARRATOR: —or enjoying any number of wonderful opportunities in Central America. Whether enjoying the sunshine raising cotton and textiles in the Carolinas, or treasure-hunting for gold and diamond deposits in the mountains of Brazil’s Minas Gerais, these migrant workers left their homes centuries ago with hope in their hearts, and were rewarded beyond their imaginings. We invite you to celebrate their first view of the New World from the same perspective.

  [Note to Image Library: We need shots of the transport ships arriving. Happy workers disembarking, eager for adventure. It shouldn’t look EXACTLY like “vacation,” but let’s stretch the analogy as far as it can go, shall we? And for the Brazilian mines, can we find pictures of black kids digging in sand at the beach? Let’s keep it light, while respecting historicity, please.]

  NARRATOR: Our people happily perform dances and rituals celebrating these arrivals and departures, playing their roles with practiced ease, and the weight of their papier mâché chains is lightened by the twinkle in their eye, knowing that as in all such delightful play, the slave is actually the master, forcing their supposed captors to provide all food and shelter and entertainment, allowing them to enjoy life as few ever have, or will again. But we hope to give you a tiny taste of their joy!

  [Image library: Use your judgement. We need a variety of images of the beautiful people of Atropos, and the hospitality they can provide. Certainly we can find some who don’t look hungry? And no amputees, please.]

  NARRATOR: Surrounded by love and comfort in air-conditioned buses, you will tour our beautiful island. You will of course see the extensive hurricane damage you have heard of. Do not be alarmed by the lack of water and power to these regions: our people are resourceful, and although your leaders felt it would be best for us to rely upon our own resources, our people feel only welcoming toward you, and will cheer you on your way. And considering that obesity is a plague of the modern world, you will be delighted to see so little of it here. In fact, the World Health Organization recently declared the Atropians to be among the least obese people on Earth.

  You will see closed factories due to American embargoes and power outages, but as your great philosopher Napoleon Hill once said, “In every disaster is the seed of an equivalent benefit.” “Think and Grow Rich!” Had we but known that was all it took! We are a resourceful people who can be trusted to find other means of generating revenue. You are “living” proof of this yourself!

  You will have the opportunity to visit the many locations where our ancestors learned to work in the sun through long hours and with modest caloric intake. Not for nothing are we called “The Spa of the Caribbean”! Our fortunate forebears found plenty of opportunities to learn the new chattel system, the one where our work could be transformed into good hard American money. What luck that we, who had not developed such systems, were able to take advantage of preexisting structures. What a blessing to simply slip into them, receive our new names, languages, and religions, say goodbye to the cares and woes of personal responsibility. How can we possibly show our gratitude to the descendants of these wise ones?

  The depth of that gratitude cannot be expressed in mere words. At the end of your wonderful day you’ll be taken to your hotel, where you will have an opportunity to meet more kindred souls on a similar journey. Those still ambulatory enough to enjoy dancing may do so, while others can listen to our local musical troupe Los Muertos until dawn, or be wheeled out to watch the sun rise while savoring specialized tropical drinks with our well known coconut-pineapple phenobarb infusions, a new spin on an old favorite! Holothane inhalation and ketamine injections are also available on request, as well as trademarked Tetrodotoxin specialties hand-harvested from the “Zombie Cucumber” sea urchins for which our island neighbors are so famous! By special request we can also provide Acepromazine, Propofol, or Medetomidine, in combinations guaranteed to usher you gently to your eternal reward.

  While our trademarked concoctions can protect your taste buds against any bitterness inherent in the medications offering the relief you crave, we respect that some are conflicted, and wish the bite of Socrates’ hemlock, an old favorite given a modern twist, served in a coconut shell with a tiny festive umbrella. For those even more convinced that voluntary exit is a sin, concoctions infused with potassium chloride can help purge your soul with intensity even a martyr would envy. We promise a truly stimulating passage.

  Custom-designed exits are also available, and our expert staff is eager to consult with you on any refinements you may desire.

  A variety of ministers, priests, and even a rabbi are on call for your prayer needs. We accept all major credit cards, but require cosigners for other deferred payment plans, of course.

  Watching one final sunrise, you’ll be able to close your eyes knowing that you have ended your pain and suffering in the hands of those who have much reason to wish to assist you.

  Isn’t it time?

  The Fine Print

  Chinelo Onwualu

  RED DUST SWIRLED about the black vehicle as it slid silently into the village. Nuhu was sitting among the other men under the giant flame tree in the village square, sipping sorghum beer and gossiping aimlessly. He watched with dread as the driverless car hummed to a stop just beyond them. Its clean, glossy lines looked out of place in the desiccated landscape. A crowd of children gathered to look at the car, but scurried off when the door opened.

  The woman who emerged was not exactly what Nuhu was expecting. Tall and fair, she wore a modest red hijab and black abaya. It was not until she was close that he could tell that her kohl-rimmed eyes had no irises or pupils.

  “Who is Nuhu Aliyu Danbatta here?” she called out. Nuhu’s beer turned to mud in his mouth. The other men suddenly found reasons to be elsewhere and crept away hastily. He was tempted to feign ignorance and pretend he was another, but that never worked. The question was merely a formality; she knew exactly who he was. They always knew.

  “I am he,” he said, standing.

  She regarded him without expression. “I am your final notice,” she said. Nuhu felt the cold hand of despair grip his heart. His legs felt weak and he forced himself to remain upright. “You have three days.”

  “Wait, wait, let’s discuss this,” he said, unashamed of the note of desperate pleading that had crept into his voice. “Please.”

  “There is nothing to discuss. The terms of the contract are clear.”

  “But he’s my son...” his voice trailed away as he stared into her blank face. This was futile, he realised. How could she, a spell made flesh, possibly understand? She turned to walk away and a surge of anger rose in him.

  “This is not fair!” he screamed at her retreating form.

  She paused and turned back. A flicker of something passed over her face.

  “Fair?” she echoed. There was an air of detached anger to her, as if the ire that briefly distorted her features was not her own. Nuhu knew he was hearing th
e voice of the elemental being that animated her. “How is this not fair? When you sealed the contract, just what did you think would happen?”

  A sudden hope surged through him. This was the first time any of them had ever spoken to him beyond their protocols and he lunged at the slim chance this invited.

  Crossing to close the space between them, he dropped his voice to a pleading whisper. “Please, ask me for anything else; I will give it. Don’t do this.”

  “Three days,” the spell said. “Give him up peacefully or I will be forced to fulfil my mandate.”

  The woman strode back to the driverless car and got in. With a near silent whoosh, the car drove off.

  Nuhu’s stomach roiled and a wave of nausea overcame him. He barely had time to lurch to the space behind Mallam Bello’s hut before he vomited the sorghum beer. Wiping his mouth with the edge of his keffiyeh, he began to cry.

  GRANDFATHER’S HOUSE WAS hard to miss. Its three stories of whitewashed marble dwarfed the mud brick-and-thatched-roof homes around it. Built in the style of the old masters, it boasted a red tile roof and marble pillars over the veranda. One had to look closely to notice that more than a few tiles on the roof had already rotted through—they were unable to withstand the heavy deluges of the rainy season—and that the white plaster was peeling and cracking. The date palms that lined the long driveway looked majestic, but provided little shade.

  As Nuhu walked up the long drive, the noon sun reflecting harshly off the grey flagstones, he remembered the massive fruit trees that had once surrounded his grandfather’s compound, before the Catalogues came. He and his friends would spend hours climbing them and picking mangoes, cashews, guavas, and oranges, each in their own season. As beautiful as the palms were, he could not recall any of them ever bearing fruit.

  Grandfather was seated among the other elders of the town in the main room of the house. The floor was covered with colorful carpets of the finest weave, and the old men lounged on leather cushions decorated in gold and silver thread. One did not have to look closely to see that the carpets were already going threadbare in parts and the leather was cracked from use.

  Nuhu greeted the men, performing obeisance at Grandfather’s feet. The old man wore a djellabiya of fine white cotton, and his beard was freshly oiled and trimmed. Like the others, he was fat and sleek with good food and care, and Nuhu lost the resolve that had brought him here. Instead, he exchanged pleasantries with the old men, asking after their health and families. He thought to leave quietly, but his plan was forestalled by one of the elders.

  “I hear you received your final notice today,” said Mallam Garba, shifting his bulk as he adjusted the voluminous sleeves of his sky blue babban riga. Nuhu nodded glumly. “You should not wait so long to make your payment; you might lose your next Catalogue.”

  Nuhu could not think of what to say to this. Instead he turned to the man who had raised him after his parents’ death and asked: “Grandfather, what does the Djinn want of us?” He fought to keep the tears out of his voice.

  “Wants? The Djinn wants nothing. He is the benevolence of God. His only desire is to serve mankind,” said Grandfather in his deep, sonorous voice. The old man settled into his seat and lit his fine clay pipe. Nuhu recognised his storytelling pose and sighed inwardly—he would not be leaving for hours. “You know, I was there as a child the day the Djinn first came among us. I saw him with my own eyes. A wanderer from the land of spirits, he had been trapped by an evil being and forced to do great harm to mankind. When he was finally set free of his prison he sought only to serve and make amends for the wrong he had once done. So he asked us each to name our single deepest desire, and in return he asked each for only one thing—a gift of his own choosing.

  “You do not remember the cruelty of the masters, Nuhu. How their thugs would raid our humble village, beating men and dishonoring our women, taking our food and animals under the pretence of collecting taxes. Those were dark times, my child. We were slaves, forced to do the bidding of those no better than ourselves. Worse, for the masters did not know God.

  “I remember the day the last of their machines were driven from our streets, never to return. The Djinn had set us free, Nuhu. And do you know what he asked of us in return?”

  “A cow—”

  “A cow!” thundered Grandfather, continuing as if Nuhu hadn’t spoken. “A single cow in exchange for our freedom. No more would our women be incited to disobedience and prostitution, filled with the false ideas of the masters’ teachings. No more would our young men labor under the yoke of another’s desires. And after he freed us, did he abandon us to the vagaries of fate? No! He remained at our service, offering us his protection and benevolence. And today we have the Catalogue,” Grandfather hefted the enormous book that appeared on the doorstep of every man once he turned sixteen, “that once a year we may come to him with our deepest desires. And in return what does he ask?”

  “A boon,” Nuhu whispered.

  “A boon,” Grandfather lowered his voice. “A thing so small, it would not trouble you to give it. After all he has given you, would you deny him this?”

  “But my child—”

  “Nuhu Aliyu!” Grandfather called out in his booming voice, “Are you the first man to give a child to the Djinn?” Nuhu shook his head. No one knew exactly when the Djinn had first begun to ask for children. It was usually a girl child—unfortunate, but since every family had sons these days, not too much to bear. Though there would be no dowry for the child taken, a man could always have more daughters. Plus, it was one less mouth to feed. The mothers did not always agree, but then women were unnecessarily sentimental about such things. On the rare occasion that a boy child would be taken, it was always a youngest son—the kind who would only cause trouble for a family by disputing his inheritance, or bring shame by running off to become an entertainer.

  “Besides, what will become of such a child?” asked Mallam Daudu with his characteristic gentleness. “A child that cannot even be brought out for its Naming Day?”

  Nuhu hung his head in shame. A son’s Naming Day was normally a time for celebration. The family would slaughter a goat and there would be village-wide feasting. But his own child’s naming ceremony had been a quiet one: no feast had been held and none but Grandfather had attended the blessing. This was usually reserved for children with deformities—and girls.

  “Nuhu, think of what your father would say,” Grandfather pitched his voice low and placed a warm hand on Nuhu’s shoulder. “You were his greatest wish—his only desire. Is this how you want our line to end? In the hands of that…child? Fulfil your contract and the Djinn will ensure that you always have more sons—just as he did with your father.”

  This was a familiar refrain to Nuhu. For as long as he could remember, Grandfather never hesitated to remind him that the responsibility for continuing the family lineage lay solely on him. His elder sister had died at birth, and though his father had married and divorced many other women, Nuhu was the last of his living children, and the family’s only son.

  He could barely speak, and Grandfather took his silence for assent. Satisfied, Grandfather clapped his hands and his newest wife entered the room balancing a tray of delicacies. At sixteen she was in full bloom, with round cheeks, clear skin, and straight white teeth that spoke of robust health and good feeding. She even had the luminous, blue-black complexion that was all the rage these days. But her beauty was only human. In a few years Grandfather would tire of her. By the time next year’s Catalogue came out he would be finding fault with her and eyeing the newest models. Nuhu doubted she would see her eighteenth year in this house.

  Grandfather was right; the Djinn had indeed given him a great treasure. His own fox bride had only been offered once—not before and not since.

  There were none to compare with her, Nuhu thought wryly.

  IT WAS GRANDFATHER who first told him about fox brides, when he was still a child. After dinner, when the women were clearing away the dishes and the
men of the household settled down to smoke their clay pipes, the old man would regale Nuhu with tales he himself had heard from the masters of impossibly beautiful women who never aged, never spoke out of turn, and cooked and cleaned without complaint. Women who looked upon their husbands with absolute devotion and birthed only sons.

  And so when Nuhu had gotten his first Catalogue on his sixteenth birthday and saw her entry, he knew exactly what his wish would be. He had placed the order and she had arrived by shuttle bus within the week. Of course he had been warned that her cost would be high—he had signed the contract after all—but nobody ever reads the fine print.

  Everything Grandfather had said was true, Nuhu mused as he trudged up the hill to his house. Hana was the perfect bride. Five years later, she still possessed the same otherworldly exquisiteness that had captivated him in the Catalogue. Her flawless complexion was still porcelain-pale, her large black eyes never needed kohl, and her tiny bow mouth was perfection itself. Beneath her hijab her hair was a straight black waterfall, and she would always be as slender as the day she arrived. Yet as he spied her waiting for him by the low mud wall of their compound—she waited for him whenever he went out—Nuhu felt a familiar weariness settle in his bones.