by E. C. Osondu
R. was tapping him on the shoulder.
“This one is not good. We cannot pay for this one,” R. said.
“Why, what is wrong with it?” he asked.
“Nothing is wrong with it. It is just that we don’t find this type useful. People are not interested in this. It is somewhat generic, if you know what I mean. Someone gets his ball stolen by a bully and he fights to get it back. Think of something else. Go to that room over there, get a cup of coffee or a ginger ale. Try and relax for a few minutes and I am sure something useful will come to you, OK,” he said.
He went into the room and poured himself some ginger ale and added ice. He felt like someone who had failed his exams. What could be so hard about coming up with some good memories? But why did the store not have a list of memory items that they accepted and those that they didn’t?
He sipped the ginger ale and told himself to calm down. He had not liked ginger ale as a kid. He thought it tasted too much like an adult drink. It was not sugary enough, not like the other kinds of soft drinks. As an adult in America it had become his favorite drink. He liked the austere taste.
His mind became clear and he remembered the day before he left for America. Yes, that should be a good memory. He left his half-drunk cup of ginger ale on the table and went to meet R.
“I see you are ready to try again, my friend. Let’s do it,” R. said.
He remembered his last day before he traveled to America. The house was filled with more people than it was accustomed. There was food and lots of it. People were eating and drinking and talking. In the background there was music playing aloud. He was not quite sure who the musician was. For some reason he remembered the title of the song. It was called “Ace.”
His grandmother had refused to eat and was crying. He had told her to stop crying, that today was a happy day. She held on to his hand and repeated the words he had just said to her. She had paused and then resumed with the crying.
“I am not leaving forever. I am going to come back soon and when I come back I will build you a bigger house,” he said to his grandmother.
She had stopped crying to listen to him.
“Not even your grandmother knows the secret of living forever,” she said and continued to cry.
He decided to change tack since this approach was not working.
“I don’t want to remember you like this. I don’t want my last memory of you to be your weeping face,” he said.
This seemed to have touched her and she had wiped her face with her headscarf and asked for some food and drink.
“Perfect, see I told you to take a break that you’d come up with something that we can use. It worked. This is a good one. Here, take your card. You did a good job,” R. said to him.
He bought a fridge with the card. It was a gray fridge with double doors. It had a different compartment for every item. He had always thought that every fridge must come in a white color, but had been thrilled by the fact that they came in all kinds of colors these days. He had told the guys who delivered the new fridge to take away the old one but they refused. They said it was against company regulations. He had told them that it was free and that they could sell it for money since it was still working and in good condition, but they had said no. So the old fridge sat mutely beside the new one like an unwanted guest.
It was the 26th of December. It was the anniversary of the passing of his grandmother. He thought that even in her choice of the day of her death, his grandmother had been her good old considerate self—the day after Christmas was hard to forget.
He sat before his television. He had turned it off. The fridge was humming distinctly but unobtrusively.
He wanted to spend some time thinking of his grandmother and honoring her memory. He sat still and tried to picture her gentle, smiling face.
He drew a blank.
He could not remember his grandmother’s face. Nothing was coming to mind.
He panicked a little. But he recalled what had happened at the Memory Store. He opened the fridge and poured himself some ginger ale into a cup and added ice. He sat down and took a sip.
He thought hard.
His grandmother’s face did not come up.
There was nothing.
How to Raise an Alien Baby
Rules are rules. They exist for a reason. They are meant to be obeyed.
If, for instance, you are going to adopt or foster an earthling child you have to obey certain rules. Yes, certain requirements must be met. Your home must be clean, at least on the day of the inspection. You must be at least 21 years old, because babies can’t look after babies. You must have some source of gainful employment. Why would you think fostering an alien baby is any different? The rules ought to be even more stringent, really. It is good manners to host visitors as you would family, or perhaps even better.
The first thing to know about taking care of alien babies is that you must have a large, well-manicured lawn. What for, you ask? Well, sooner or later an alien baby must return to its mother planet and the mode of transportation to that planet is the mother ship. It is expected of you to know that and keep it in mind. You are the alien baby’s earth mom, it has many other mothers elsewhere. So yes, on the subject of lawns: keep it freshly mown with well-trimmed edges so that when that mother ship arrives—silently in the night, with its deep unearthly glow—you will not be ashamed when your neighbors come out of their houses, wearing robes and shoddy slippers. Even drowsy eyes can pick up a mess. You will not be ashamed by the photographs in the newspapers. Your lawn should be photogenic, prepared for media coverage.
Another rule: your house must not have any satellite dishes. You know those things that look like turned out giant’s ears, eavesdropping into every terrestrial and non-terrestrial conversation? Those are a no-no. Studies have shown that even unused and abandoned dishes retain their pings. This is a well-known phenomenon in Rocket Science: even when satellites die their pings do not. You don’t want your alien baby using your house as a transmission center for sending messages back to his mother planet. Though we welcome the alien baby we would prefer to keep communication to a minimum. Always remember: country first, our planet first.
And remember this too: no television antennas either. Perhaps a close friend or family member installed those for you? Perhaps they fell to their death in the act. Now is not the time for a moment of silence. If you would like to commemorate the many who have fallen while installing those spiky, dozen-fingered blighters, please take that moment at a later time. Those antennas are useful for sending back information to mother planets. Our alien guests will grab and twist every antenna-finger to tell their people sensitive things about us, if we let them. If they are living with you they will certainly know all sorts of things about you. They will know your favorite cereal—whether you are a sweet cereal type or a cheerless, unsweetened, heart-healthy kind of person. They will know about your bowel movements too, how regular you are and if you tend to get discombobulated when you feel backed up. Yes, of course they’ll know all that stuff, you probably don’t want an entire planet knowing these things.
But that is not what we are talking about here; we are talking serious business. Let’s say we plan to attack their planet tomorrow, to seize it and make it our own, to force them to come harvest our potatoes, our almonds and tomatoes, our oranges and grapes, and so on and so forth. As you well know, in warfare, surprise attack is the mother of victory. So here we are, planning to strike with the utmost surprise, and your house guest—your innocent alien baby gets a hold of this information and decides to give his people a heads up. What do you think they’d do if they get this actionable piece of information? Of course they would strike our planet. And you bet they wouldn’t show mercy. Before you know it, they’ve annexed our home—our dear mother Earth—and taken us to their red, dusty planet and forced us to break rocks all day while we sing “By the Rivers of Babylon.” Please, no antennas on your roof.
You must also be sensitive in
your choice of entertainment. You don’t want to go about hurting the feelings of our little alien baby. No Syfy channel on your TV please. And none of your old DVDs and space-themed movies from yesteryear. You know the ones I’m talking about. Those boxed-up video cassettes in the basement: Star Trek, Star Wars, Space 1999, Planet of the Apes, Logan’s Run. Get rid of them, every single one. It would be regrettable, if per-adventure they stumble upon them. You don’t want your guest seeing itself through your eyes. Think about their feelings. Do you realize that most of these movies—yes, most—never portray aliens as kind and generous and loving? Well, some do, but they are mostly portrayed as humorless savages, creepy and wide-eyed, just braying, “Take me to your leader.”
You should know that your baby will experience … perhaps we don’t have the word for it. Surely, the Germans do—they have a word for everything. I am talking about nostalgia for the mother planet, otherworldly homesickness. Your alien baby will definitely get this feeling sometimes, no matter how much of a good earth parent you try to be. Don’t worry too much about it. It is in no way a commentary on your parenting skills. What your alien baby needs is simply for you to sit them down and gently sing this folk song:
Papa went to the market eeya
Mama went to the market eeya
Papa will buy some savory moin-moin
Mama will buy some savory akara
On their return I will say Papa welcome
On their return I will say Mama welcome
And we shall feast igomiligo
And we shall feast igomiligo
By the time you are done your alien baby will be fast asleep, snoring slightly, an odd, peaceful smile on his face.
What kind of atmosphere do you need for your alien ward to thrive? Think of your alien baby as a fruit. Grapes need a certain type of weather and soil to do well. Alien babies, contrary to what you might think, do not require any kind of special climate, so please, do not interfere with the room temperature. No air conditioning, no fan. The occasional mild breeze should do the trick. Just keep your home free of dust mites and dander, and any furry dust balls that might trigger a sneezing fit. You probably don’t know this, but here is a useful fact: when alien babies start sneezing, nothing can stop them except the finely ground feathers of the alien bird Okanukapi. When you touch the feather dust ever so lightly, patting their nose three times, the sneezing will stop. But how many people have Okanukapi feathers in their medicine cabinet? If you keep your house free of dust, you’ll both breathe easier.
What kind of games should you play with your alien baby, you ask? Definitely not hide-and-seek. They can hide, but when you seek them you can never find them. When you get tired of seeking and plead for them to come out, they won’t come. Soon it will no longer be a game and you may need to go to the authorities. Follow-the-leader is also out because they will always follow the leader. They don’t know how not to follow the leader. You will never stop playing, you will be old and gray and still in the same game of follow-the-leader. More on this later, but just let’s avoid it for now. Tag is not such a good idea either because being called “It” is not good for an alien’s self-esteem.
Another question you may have: what to feed an alien baby? Mars Bars, of course! But corny jokes aside, what on Earth do alien babies eat? You can feed alien babies practically anything. They have the constitution of an ox.
While we’re on the subject, you’ll be relieved to know that an alien baby is very much like a self-cleaning oven. They do not need a daily bath. You need not towel them dry, nor powder their necks. They are low maintenance babies. The dreaded stinky diaper is not something you need to worry about. Alien babies are pretty much self-contained. They have an industrial blender where their alimentary canal should be.
Here’s what you need to worry about, though: play dates. Unfortunately, alien babies don’t play well with others. There is something about them that unnerves our Earth babies. It is something the Earth babies sense instinctively. They immediately begin to point and yell. It’s like they’re looking at something crazy! Like a dog with two heads. They usually don’t stop yelling until their moms remove them from the scene. This is strange since Earth babies are not ordinarily a discriminating group, but there we have it. A quiet neighborhood without Earth babies would be an ideal location to raise your alien baby.
In what faith should you raise your alien baby? This is a really complicated question. The truth is that no one knows whether aliens have souls. Many theologians have spent years examining this question from different angles. Many have asked, If aliens do not have souls, does that mean they do not sin? If they do not sin, does that mean there are no heavenly consequences for their actions? If there are no heavenly consequences, then should we take it upon ourselves, sinners that we are, to hold them accountable for any violent acts they may commit? This is like asking whether there is more sand under the sea than in the desert. Of what use are such questions? Have you exhausted the sand in the desert? Teach them to help an old lady cross the road, to raise their hat when a lady passes by, to never spit on the street, to pause when a funeral procession goes past, to say “Yes, sir” and “Yes, ma’am.” Teach them to never look down at any individual with disdain or look up to any fellow in fear. The alien will never be human. You are bound to fail but here’s the good thing—an alien child never forgets what he’s been taught.
While our emphasis here is more practical, we will grant that you do have a certain responsibility in this direction. You shouldn’t just abandon the baby and run off to church, or the mosque, temple, ashram, or meditation center. Just teach them to worship in the way you worship. Look at the world we live in today. Very few follow the religion in which they were raised. Don’t worry that your ward may proselytize, return to their little planet up there and try to convert their kin to their new faith. All the things of Earth belong to Earth and the things of space belong in space. What do they bow down to? How many times a day do they pray? And if they do not pray at all, has it made them any worse or better than humankind?
It is impossible to raise a child without having to discipline them. As we all know, discipline comes in different forms: the raised voice, the reprimand, the ruler on the knuckle, the time-out, the confiscation of electronics, the demand for an apology. These are the most dreaded aspects of parenting that neither parent nor child look forward to. But you do not have to worry about this because your alien child does not need you to discipline them. They will never break the rules. Yes, that is a fact and you can take it to the bank. You are never going to catch your alien ward with his hand in the cookie jar, literally or metaphorically. They will not sass you back or slam the door.
This might surprise you. Some parents have even found this fact to be frustrating, and have actually started to wish that their ward would break the rules. Some even look for ways to make them break the rules so they can feel they are actually fulfilling their parental duty. Indeed, many have concluded that their only real function as parents is to correct their children when they stray from the straight and narrow path. It comes as a surprise to them when they discover that alien children don’t need to be disciplined. Their society follows a strict command and obedience structure, you see.
Sit, you tell them, and they sit.
Do not ever open that door, you say, and they’ll never touch it.
Always tuck in your shirt, you say, and they always will.
Always say please and thank you, and they’ll say it without fail.
Always tidy your bed when you wake up in the morning. They will tidy their bed without fail.
Don’t forget to always keep that door closed, and they never forget.
Alien babies know how to obey rules. They thrive on rules. The worst thing that you can tell an alien baby is that they are free to do as they like. Do not be surprised if they beg you to tell them what to do. Free will makes us human and it is the absence of free will that makes an alien an alien. For them, the chain of command is imp
ortant. An alien child is never going to test boundaries or try to see how far they can push you. You set the rules. Tell them what to do, and how to do it.
Finally the day comes. You always knew it would, though you didn’t realize that it would come so soon. Your alien ward must return to their mother planet. The ship lands on your well-manicured lawn. Your eyes grow misty, but perhaps it’s just your seasonal allergies, triggered by the freshly cut grass. Your alien baby runs to the spacecraft. You linger at your front door. You wave, and they wave back. You watch the door close. The spacecraft takes off. You wave again, and keep waving at your alien baby until the spacecraft has completely disappeared. Your hands do not feel tired. You feel no ache and so you close your eyes and continue to wave.
Visitors
So my wife in her typical do-gooder fashion has volunteered to host this new alien family that moved to my little village. People have been talking about them ever since they moved into our village. Almost every person who lives here was born here and we never leave. There is nothing special about our village though we love it. We still wonder why anyone would move here. Like I said, people asked questions about them:
“Why did they decide to move here? Not that there is anything wrong with our village, but if I were an alien looking for a place to move to, this wouldn’t be my first choice. Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing the matter with our village in my humble opinion.”
“They should have moved to a big city. It is quite easy to hide in a big city. Not that I think they have any reason to hide, but you never know. There are not many of us here and it is quite easy to stick out.”
“We’re all like family here. We all know each other, both the good and the bad. We know those who steal and the drunkards and those who have a family history of deafness in the left ear. But this new family? We know absolutely nothing about them.”