by Amir Naaman
No one understands the alien psychology—no one’s even seen one. Attempts to communicate via radio waves, sound and music, smell/scent, mathematical formulae, every language on earth all failed. Not a single response except more bombing?.
Covered the attacks for twenty years and know every hypothesis postulated for their actions: Invasion-then why haven’t the aliens colonised the planet? Why are military installations not deliberately targeted? Targets seem haphazard and arbitrary, mega-cities, ships at sea, bicycles, campsites, empty deserts, etc. There is no discernible pattern to the attacks whatsoever. Jets scrambled to intercept the aliens met with no resistance. Their ships seem to be made of some material that allows projectile missiles to penetrate and pass through harmlessly. Controlled detonations in the proximity also seem not to cause any harm. Almost as if they are attacking from a parallel dimension. Plus the aliens haven’t taken any resources from the planet. Punishment… wouldn’t the punisher want the punishee to know what they’d done wrong so they could correct it? Tied in with Radiowaves/ Bad TV and/or Porn hypothesis which speculates the aliens are somehow affected by our interstellar transmissions and are retaliating. They hate our TV shows/ porn and are punishing us for it. If these were true then why aren’t transmitters and satellites deliberately targeted?
An attempt to cease broadcasting for six months was only met with more attacks. Warnings to stop human space exploration—space centres not targeted. Clean streets hypothesis—to date the only country that has not been attacked is Japan which has the cleanest streets, therefore the aliens are reacting to littering. Puh-lease.
Turn the volume up. Wozniacki is warning of the next big one: “The aliens have tested our defences, and they know we’re weak. The next attack will see them use their biggest weapon ever, possibly on a continental or even global scale…” The kids. Oh God, my kids. Pull over and stop Jeep Wrangler (YJ), low tech for max survivability, coated in foil. Losers driving by as if we’re not at War?, as if somehow ignoring problem will make it go away. No it won’t.
Have to get my kids, protect them, keep them safe. If their mother and her stupid partner want to die, that’s their problem. Leave MY kids out of it.
U-turn across the tarmac. Ignore blaring horns. Drive back into Harare. Light traffic. Wozniacki playing audio of Joint Earth Defence General Adebayo, declaring victory on Armistice Day: “We identified the enemy as emerging from Europa. Since we nuked that moon, there have been no more attacks. Our actions and our resolve showed the aliens that Earth was not to be messed with. That we could strike back and hit them hard where it hurts. We now keep a barrage of rockets in orbit, aimed at Europa for future deterrence…” Blah, blah, blah. Suckers lap up the Kool-Aid. It’s the same thing General Viljoen said after he blew trillions nuking Titan. Then we got bombed the very next day. So he sent more nukes halfway across the heliosphere to blow up a dead world. Then we bombed Mars. Yeah right! These guys are coming from halfway across the galaxy. Their ships just pop in through wormholes, they drop a few bombs? and before you know it, they’re gone again. They glow eerie red, like they’ve come out of hell itself, tendrils waving about, hypnotic like a redhead in the ocean. No discernible body to the craft. Just long, ropey bits dangling. They can’t be from the Solar System. But there we are, celebrating every time a multi-billion dollar nuke hits some barren rock in our neighbourhood.
And they say I’m the crazy one?
Driving along Enterprise road. Headed out to the Grange where ex and her doctor fellow live. Keeping to the speed limit. Whiz by the Newlands shops. Beyond is the Harare Bomb? Crater and Memorial Centre. Slow down, drop into second. Hot under the tinfoil. Sweaty balls—yuck. Was here when it happened in ’59. Alien ship appears in the clear blue sky out of nowhere. People taking videos on their phones. You don’t see anything drop from the craft, not even a photon. Three minutes later, you hear a buzz, like the refrigerator, and everything from that side, right up to Vainona is gone. One massive, perfect cup, like Nicki Minaj sat on it with half her ass. 27,342 casualties. Victims of the War?. No bodies, no smoke, nothing but bare brown earth, sloping inwards. Wrote an article about it full of banal platitudes for Chimurenga. A few years later the wise men from the city council decided to turn it into a lake with a remembrance garden, the names of the dead written onto stones in the footpaths all around.
Get to the house on Gletwyn Road. Mansion. Eight foot electric fence. Take my Ritzer 43 from the glove compartment, make sure it’s loaded and step outside. Blast the lock on the electric gate. Two for the Alsatians guarding the house. Feet crunch over gravel. Scanning around for threats. Can still hear Wozniacki telling the truth on the radio. One to open the front door. Maid pissing her pants in the kitchen. Room to room search. Systematic. One to open the locked main bedroom door. Ex on the floor, covering her head.
“Where’re my kids?” speak, cool, calm, collected.
Weepy weeping.
“Gonna count to three. One, two-”
“Daddy no!” Littlest one breaks out from the wardrobe.
“Don’t worry, angel, daddy’s not going to hurt mummy. Where’s your brother?”
He emerges from the laundry basket. So handsome. Those ears, the nose. He looks like me when was younger. No time for sentimentality.
“You can’t take them,” she cries.
“Got to protect the kids. Can protect you too if you want.”
“Please…”
“You want to stay out here and get killed by aliens, fine. Taking the children to a safe place.”
“Please…your medication. You’re sick.”
Tremor in my hand. Breathe. Mustn’t scare the kids. Mumble, “Everything’s gonna be alright.” Take the kids and lead them towards the front door. Sirens outside. Police helicraft. Plan B. Barricade the bedroom door. Can beat the aliens, can beat the police. If they won’t understand, that’s their own funeral. This is War?. Right here, right now, the four of us, we’re a family again.
T.L. Huchu’s fiction has appeared (or is forthcoming) in Interzone, Space and Time Magazine, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Electric Spec, Kasma Magazine, Thuglit, and the anthologies AfroSF and African Monsters. He is a creative writing PhD student at Manchester University. Between projects, he translates fiction between the Shona and English languages. He is not to be confused with his evil twin @TendaiHuchu or on www.tendaihuchu.com.