Remote Control

by Nnedi Okorafor

  “Hello,” someone said from directly below.

  Fatima hugged the branch she was already clutching even tighter. When she looked down, she saw that it was the man in the white kaftan. He was tall and even with his kaftan she could see that he was quite muscular, like one of those men who guards superstars. He had a black patch over his right eye and he was grinning up at her with the fakest grin she’d ever seen. His shoes reminded Fatima of walnuts.

  “Good afternoon,” Fatima said, still frowning.

  “Your mother told me you like roasted goat meat and she gave me some to give you,” he said, holding up a brown paper bag. “Why don’t you come down so we can talk?”

  “I’m fine up here, thank you.”

  “Don’t be afraid, it’s not a big deal. You found something buried here some time ago. Your mother and father told me.”

  Fatima suddenly wished she could jump out of the tree, dodge the man and run to her room. She’d slam the door and lock it. Then she’d grab the box with her seed and climb out the window. But she didn’t think she could escape this man. So instead she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” In her mind she added, And I didn’t find it, it was given to me. It’s mine.

  “Why don’t you come down and we can properly talk while you eat this?” he said, smiling grandly as he held up the bag again. “Your parents said I should ask you about the box, since it’s yours.”

  When Fatima refused to move, his smile dropped from his face. “This is a waste of time. We’ll find and take it. It’s of better use to us than you. When my boss wins the election, even your little backward village will benefit from his policies. I was just being polite because I’m in such a fine mood.” He turned and walked away. Fatima could barely contain the horror she felt, but she stayed where she was as he strode into the house through the backdoor.

  Standing in the doorway, he suddenly whirled around and called up to her, “Do you believe in aliens?” he asked.

  Fatima shook her head.

  “Me, neither,” he said. “But the LifeGen Corporation does and they can locate and track things using satellite and radar. Things like that odd meteor shower two years ago. They’re inventing, but they’re also always looking, watching, hoping. They pay good money. Money for campaigns.” He brought a hand-sized device from his pocket and it immediately started pinging softly. “Ah, this will be easy.” He turned and went inside the house as if he lived there.

  Fatima waited for ten whole minutes. Then she leaped down the branches, tumbled to the ground, jumped up and sprinted for her room. Inside, everything was exactly as she had left it. Except her box was gone. She ran to the front of the house and stopped in the doorway. Her parents and the politician with the gold shoes were laughing, talking, discussing. But Daddy hates that politician, she thought, utterly confused. She had never seen her father behaving like a completely different person before and it hurt her eyes. And there was her box, in the famous politician’s hands.

  Fatima shuddered as desperation and upbringing fought a violent battle within her mind. Upbringing won; a child was never to interrupt when adults were talking. And so in this way, six-year-old Fatima watched her father and the famous politician walk further up the road to discuss the sale of Fatima’s box and the seed within it. She wasn’t even called to say goodbye to it.

  Later that night, her father said, “Fatima, don’t sulk.” He was beaming with glee. “That old box with your dried date in it, if you knew what Parliament Member Kusi paid for it. He’s a terrible man, but his money is good.”

  “I think it was some kind of ancient artifact,” her mother said, laughing as she set bowls of rice and stew on the table. “Fatima, be proud you dug it up. Maybe you’ll be an archaeologist when you grow up and this will be the story you tell about how it all started.”

  “I didn’t dig it up,” Fatima insisted. “My tree gave it to me.”

  “You and that tree,” her father said, laughing.

  “It was mine! Now it’s … it’s out there in the world like a lost dog or…”

  “That’s enough, Fatima. I’ll buy you that new dress you wanted. You’ve helped the family so much.”

  Fatima tried to hold her frown but she lost it at the thought of that wonderful blue dress Mrs. Doud had on display. It had flared sleeves and an embroidered collar. Fatima’s frown melted into a pout and then to a smirk.

  “See?” her mother said, poking her in the side. “It’s good that we sold it.”

  “What about me?” her brother Fenuku asked.

  “Were you the one who found it?” their father asked. Fatima grinned as her brother sulked.

  “I’ll buy you that tiny drone you wanted,” their father said.

  Fenuku’s happiness was so brilliant that Fatima grinned even wider. As she bit into some roasted goat meat that her mother had prepared, though she still missed the seed, she felt better. It was for the best. Her father was right to sell the box. Fatima fell asleep quickly, her belly full as she clutched the plush brown rabbit her mother had bought her that evening. Still, she missed talking to the seed in the box. The plush rabbit didn’t seem to hear a word she said.

  Then came the strange news late that night. She only heard about it because she’d woken up and been unable to go back to sleep. After tossing and turning for two hours, she’d gotten up to play with her plush rabbit. “You are very nice,” she told it as she sat on her bed. “But you’re not like my seed.” She paused, listening with her six-year-old ears.

  “It’s not my fault,” the rabbit responded in a soft baby voice.

  She smiled. “I know. But it doesn’t change the fact. Adults never understand.”

  “Come on, let’s play spaceship,” the rabbit said.

  And Fatima and the rabbit shot into space for a few minutes. The rebellion of playing with her new toy when she was supposed to be asleep gave her a bit of satisfaction. And for several minutes, she giggled amongst the stars. She froze, hearing footsteps outside her door. Then low voices. Frantic voices and then the sound of the front door opening and closing several times. Grasping her rabbit, Fatima jumped out of bed.

  She peeked out and crept up the hallway to the living room. No one. But she could hear voices outside. She ran across the room and peeked out the open window. Her parents and her father’s best friend Kwesi were standing outside talking energetically.

  “Are you sure?!” her father asked, clearly fighting to keep his voice down.

  “I have a delivery man, Gustavus, who is stuck right now in traffic because the guy robbed Kusi right there in his car. They were stopped in the middle of the road!” Kwesi said. “A shiny black SUV. Gustavus showed me footage before the police arrived. You see the thief running away!”

  “My goodness,” her mother said. “Well, Parliament Member Kusi certainly has a lot of enemies.”

  Kwesi was shaking his head. “From my sources on the ground, it was his driver/bodyguard, that man you said was wearing the white kaftan. He took Kusi’s credit cards, bank card, their phones, that thing you sold them, he even took Kusi’s gold shoes.”

  Her father snickered. “I can just imagine him standing there all alone on the road in his socks. Serves him right for all the people his policies have harmed.” He snickered harder. “I hope someone got photos.”

  Fatima leaned against the wall, stunned. Robberies existed, but as her father liked to tell her brother whenever he went outside to hang around with friends, “You’re safe if you are not stupid. Know where to go and where not to go. And don’t run around at night.” But this man had just been at their house in broad daylight; her own father had willingly handed him her most prized possession. Now her box, the seed that had been gifted to her and no one else, was truly lost to the winds. Her father was still laughing when Fatima sadly slunk back to her room.

  Fatima tried hard to forget the box with the mysterious seed inside. To put it all behind her. The politician never returned to demand his money back. That money bo
ught a new truck to help haul shea fruit to the market, all her and her brother’s school fees were paid off for the next four years. It was a dream come true, really.

  Fatima was young and happy and if that had been that, she’d have forgotten the gift her favorite tree had given to her. Children heal quickly. However, that was not that.

  CHAPTER 3

  MOONRISE

  Sankofa forgot her real name on the day that she lost everything. She was seven years old, a year older than she’d been when the box with her seed inside it had been sold and then lost. She’d been feeling hot all day.

  High up near the top of the shea tree that grew beside her family’s house, she’d been sitting in her favorite spot reading her favorite book, World Mythology. She’d read the book many times in the last year and today she was pretending to be the goddess Artemis and that her tree was a dryad. She tucked her book in the crux of a branch and climbed to the top of the shaggy tree. She gazed over the leaves. She could see the Zayaa Mosque from here. She could see her brother playing football in the field with some boys. She could see far and wide, possibly beyond her town of Wulugu. She’d never been outside of Wulugu, so she wasn’t sure, but she liked believing what she saw was beyond it. The very idea of seeing beyond where she’d physically been made her feel powerful.

  A wave of heat shivered across her skin and she felt a little weak. She looked down; it was a long way to the ground. Her mother was inside preparing dinner. Her father was across the dirt road visiting with friends. Neither of them liked her climbing the tree, even though the tree’s fruits had been picked last week.

  “I’m strong like Artemis,” she whispered, looking down. This usually worked. But not today. She didn’t even think it would work if she pretended to be the thunder gods of Shango, Amadioha or Zeus.

  She dropped her book to the dirt and then climbed down, slowly, lightly resting her bare feet on the low oddly growing branch that made climbing the tree possible. She paused for a second as another wave of heat and light-headedness passed over her. As soon as it was gone, she moved faster. Best to get down before the weakness came back. A few feet from the ground, she jumped, landing silently.

  She saw something red run off and shot a glance toward it just in time to see a flick of the animal’s tail as it bolted around the house. She giggled. She’d seen the red-furred creature many times now, hanging around the tree. It caught and ate mice, lizards and other small creatures who lived amongst the shea trees, but it also liked to eat the shea fruit from her tree when they fell. Once or twice, she’d even seen it climb and sleep in the tree.

  Fatima waited for the light-headedness to pass. She watched to see if the animal would peek around the corner as it often did after it ran away, but this time it didn’t. When she felt better, she went looking for her mother inside. She smiled to herself; she’d been in the tree for an hour and no one would ever know.

  “Mommy, I feel hot,” she complained as she stepped into the kitchen, clutching her book. The smell of the soup made her stomach grumble. Her brother had caught a fat grasscutter and today they would feast on fufu and light soup with chunks of the rodent’s meat.

  Her mother pressed the back of her hand to her child’s forehead. “I hope you are not coming down with malaria again, Fatima,” her mother muttered. “Thought those days were over.” It had been nearly two years since the last bout. She turned her hand over and pressed the back to Fatima’s forehead. She flipped it and tried the back of her hand again. “You don’t feel warm, praise Allah. Off you go.”

  Fatima put her book in her room and then went to find her brother. She wasn’t surprised her skin didn’t feel hot to her mother. It wasn’t malaria at all. Malaria’s fever felt like the heat came from within. Deep in her body. From her heart, lungs and tummy. This heat lurked on her skin, like warmed slick oil. It prickled and surged as if it would incinerate any malaria-carrying mosquito who had the nerve to try and bite her.

  No, this was not malaria.

  Nevertheless, what had been happening to her over the past year began to happen more intensely. Right now. Fatima stood at the edge of the field and cupped her hands. “Fenuku!” she hollered.

  Her older brother turned at the sound of his name and the boy he was grappling with stole the football and took off with it. Fatima giggled as her brother stamped his foot hard on the dry grass and probably cursed. She was too far to hear exactly what he said. He still looked annoyed as he came jogging over. When he saw the look on her face, he froze.

  “It’s happening again,” she said.

  He put his hands on his hips. He was ten years old and tall for his age. Fatima’s father always joked that when Fenuku was born he took all the height with him because Fatima was very short for her age.

  “Oh yeah?” Fenuku asked, frowning at her as he caught his breath.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I feel real hot today.”

  “Ok, come on.”

  First Fenuku had her grasp a wasp. It always started with a wasp. She hissed with pain as she felt it sink its stinger into her hand. She squeezed, feeling its rough body burst. The heat she felt flared with the pain of the sting. From the mosque’s minaret, the muezzin began calling people to prayer. Her eyes shut, she focused on the muezzin’s voice.

  “Well?” she whispered after some moments.

  “Yeah,” her brother said, breathlessly.

  “Oh goodness,” she said. She didn’t need to open her eyes, though. She could see it right through her eyelids. The green light. She could see the veins in her eyelids glow with it. Her skin felt as if every part of her was being gently grazed with needles. She breathed in and breathed out as she listened to the muezzin’s soothing monotone prayers.

  “Catch another,” Fenuku suddenly said.

  “Fenuku, it hurts so bad,” she moaned. “Look at my hand.” The swollen welt on her palm was an angry red.

  “I know,” he snapped. “But how else can we find out? Next, we’ll try putting pepper in your eyes.”

  A part of her knew that her brother’s requests were not right. She wasn’t a science experiment. And she hated the pain. However, she was also curious. The same part of her that was curious to see what was outside of Wulugu was curious to see why whenever she felt this strange heat, pain caused her to … flare. Fenuku said that he could see it happen to her. He said that she flashed a deep ugly green like a diseased moon and would pulsate a heat that reminded him of standing too close to a cooking fire. When she got like this, only slathering shea butter soothed her skin.

  She looked at the hive, spotted a slow-moving wasp and caught it. It struggled in her hand, trying to escape. This wasp didn’t want to harm her. She yelped as it finally stung her in the flesh between her right thumb and index finger. She moaned and opened her hand, letting it fly away. Her eyes watered.

  “Oh!” her brother said. “That was a big one.”

  She met the dry eyes of her brother. After a moment, they both started laughing.

  “Fenuku! Fatima!” their father called. He was on his way to the mosque. They ran over. Fatima made a fist with her swollen hand, not wanting her father to see it. She wiped sweat from her face.

  “Come! Come!” He reached into his white robes and handed his mobile phone to Fenuku. “Buy me some cigarettes at the market,” he said. “Pay attention to which you buy. You know the kind I like.” Her father’s only vice. It made Fatima want to both frown and smile. She loved her father, but she knew what her teachers taught her in school, too.

  “Ok, Papa,” her brother Fenuku said, taking the phone and slipping it in his pocket. He looked at Fatima and gave her a stern look.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything,” she said. She wasn’t.

  “Just come on,” he said, grabbing her arm.

  As they walked to the market, Fatima thought about the mosque. She was glad that she wouldn’t have to participate in salah for another few years. Not until she hit something called The Puberty. It was hard for her to sit
still in the mosque. It was hard for her to sit still anywhere except up in the shea tree.

  But today, she wanted to be in the mosque. The women and girls were always on one side, the men and boys were on the other. She’d have had an excuse to get away from her brother. Plus, she wanted to speak to Allah in his house. She needed to pray.

  Ever the Most High, Mighty One, tell me what the light is, she thought as she followed her brother. What does it do? Is it because of the box the tree gave me? I didn’t sell it, Papa did. She passed a hut inside which two women were laughing really hard as they took a package from a delivery drone. One of them wore jeans and a white frilly blouse. She looked like a been-to. Fatima wondered if this was why the woman could laugh so hard and freely, because she’d “been to” other places, seen new things and the world was that much more enjoyable because of it.

  Fatima envied her. She wanted to see what it was like outside of town, too. She often saw airplanes fly across the sky and she imagined just how far she could see if she stood on top of one of those as it flew faster than a dragonfly. Fatima would later understand that these things she thought as she walked were indeed prayers. Final prayers.

  Her life was about to change.

  The market was across the street from the only busy road that ran near Wulugu. Two lanes of pot-holed decades-old concrete. Fatima loved crossing it; it was like a game. The market gave her and her brother a reason to cross it fairly often, too. She grinned watching the cars, trucks and okada zoom this way and that, throwing up dust, garbage and exhaust. One day she’d be on one of those going who knew where, when she was older and had a job. But she didn’t want a husband like the other girls. If she had a husband, she wouldn’t be allowed to travel much. I’ll get my husband when I’m very old. She giggled at her thoughts, despite the fact that she felt like she was melting and she could still feel the stinger in her hand.