by submission | Dec 5, 2014 | Story |
Author : Feyisayo Anjorin
When I was a child growing up in Akure, surrounded by hills and tall trees, and green fields, I believed the book of genesis. The first book of the bible was said to be about the beginning of everything. The first things, the newness, the freshness, the revelation. If life indeed has an end, the beginning must be like the morning of it.
We know a lot about beginnings in this place. A beginning of growth, a beginning of rot, an iroko tree could fall for the need of a power; flowers bloom in their time and wither. We know those mornings of rosy dreams and bright flags, when we were drunk on hope, when we were certain of our reason to believe the best.
There was a time when Africa was reborn; a new Africa from the ruins of slave trade, colonialism, and apartheid. Like a baby, and later like a child, we had our excuses. And we could be excused. The misunderstanding of the differing tribes and tongues could cause wars and start fires; we followed our rulers slavishly while children starved and became skeletons, and vultures waited, looking down, waiting for our dead.
We were poor because of the white man’s oppressive system that we hope to change. Soon change is coming. Soon. We were sure.
Now we’ve gone a hundred years into the twenty first century life. Akure, Calabar, Mangaung, Monrovia, Gweru, wherever; we are all Africans because we can still count our giant trees and green fields. We still have a home for lions, and monkeys, and rhinos, and rats, and bats. We have a home for them without needing zoos. Not everybody is as fortunate. All some people have now are videos and pictures of “wildlife”. Sorry for mentioning that word; but this is Africa.
Maybe we are not really behind because we still have to import almost everything needed to be twenty first century savvy.
And then this issue of the law enforcement robots. It doesn’t bother me one bit. The police were a mess before them. There was a time some terrorists abducted over two hundred teenage girls in Chibok and it took the army over a year to get them back. Happy young girls; innocent and vulnerable. Some came back with babies, some pregnant, some came back with HIV and STDs; they had all been raped. They were all scarred for life.
The law enforcement robots were imported two years ago. To be sincere, I’m baffled by their human rights records because of their slavish dedication to the law. I’m not happy that the tossed the most revered Yoruba monarch into the car trunk. I’m against the injury inflicted on those alleged to be resisting arrests. I believe they do issue too many speed fines. They need to put a human face on these things.
But you can see clear signs of sanity here! There was a time when the law meant nothing to government officials and to citizens. It was chaos and we were getting too attached to lawlessness; which was toxic!
This is Africa and our peculiar problems need drastic solutions and adjustments.
The law enforcement robots of Africa have now been programmed to shoot dead any African head of state that tries to go beyond the term of office.
I was glad to hear it as the sun rose this morning on Radio Alalaye while sipping palm wine by the window. I waited there, listening to the online analysis on the benefits and ills.
I got more palm wine. This is just a beginning.
by submission | Apr 14, 2020 | Story |
Author: Lewis Richards
“What is it?”
“My boy, this is an Elephant.” The man responded, never taking his eyes from the animal.
“What does it do?” His grandson continued, Looking woefully unimpressed.
“Well, it eats, it drinks, you see those horns at the front? They’re called Tusks. Not many animals had those.”
The boy stared for a few seconds longer.
“Why is it frozen? Can’t they just walk around? The mechs in the hangar can walk everywhere and they’re much bigger than this.”
The man sighed. Taking a seat on an observation bench set back from the stasis tank.
“They are much more special than the Mechs and the construction bots and even us, Jacob. These are the very last Elephants. We thought they’d all gone. Then just as we were leaving, after all the fish and the birds were saved in our gene banks a man came to us, a very rich man.”
“He tried to buy his way here, bribing and blackmailing wherever he could, and then he showed us these. You see Jacob, the man didn’t want a place here for himself, he wanted to ensure his greatest treasure continued on.”
“What happened to the man? Is he here? Can we go see him?” Jacob asked, his interest growing in his grandfather’s story.
“I’m afraid not, see he knew that his wealth and the greed of people were what caused the Elephants to disappear in the first place And he didn’t want to carry that here with him.”
“He was offered a place, as he knew best how to care for the Elephants, but instead sent his Son on ahead, the boy had grown up watching these animals, and he was tasked with ensuring they were kept safe on our Journey.”
“So when will they wake them up?”
“Not just yet Jacob”
The man remembered his father fondly, and as he would probably not live to see his father’s dream come to fruition, he would leave that task to his own Grandson.
The ArkShip “Pan” would not reach its destination for another 17 years. The 2065 People, 12000 Human Embryos, a billion seeds and enough genetic samples to clone what was left of the Earth’s animal life back into being were the only survivors of the human race. The man looked at his grandson, too young to know yet that his life on a ship was nothing compared to what he would know when his feet touched the ground and the only thing above his was sky.
“Run along and find your mother now, you won’t want to miss the seed vault”
The boy looked at his grandfather, and then behind them to where his parents were wandering over to the exit of the zoological gene bank.
“Actually I think I’ll stay.” He said. “The tusks are pretty cool, right? They have kind if a weird nose though”
The man shuffled up smiling, making room.
“Let me tell you all about how they’ll use them”
“Awesome.”
by submission | Sep 9, 2014 | Story |
Author : Charles E.J. Moulton
William felt relieved, actually.
One more hour of digging and his hands would have lost all their flesh.
William threw down his shovel, straightened his back, stretching his muscles and positively felt his 50 year-old bones snap, crackle and pop inside his body.
The termite nests he had found proved it.
The small parasites had caused the fairy circles.
“One more picture,” William whispered to himself, lifting his Nikon D4 and pushing the button. He triggered utter panic down there. He loved watching the little guys. Was that mean? William didn’t know. The fact of the matter was that lonely William found himself at last in the position of being able to deliver the geological institute a definite solution as to why these strange fairy circles were appearing along the African coast.
Fairy circles? Why had William become so interested in these things at all? That Spanish ufologist came to mind, that dark guy with the dyed blond hair. A whole evening’s worth of discussion had commenced and prompted William to prove the Spanish guy wrong. Standing here in Namibia five years later, that damn sun transforming his skin into a wasteland of wounds, William remembered yelling at that guy that Africa was not the U.S. and that the American crop circles were not to be compared with the African coast.
Termites.
William reached toward his back pocket and took out his lukewarm water. The liquid felt cool trickling down his throat, cooler than the African sun. In comparison with that sun, the wind seemed chilly. In comparison with the heat, the water seemed refreshing. In comparison with the surrounding grass, these bare patches of wasteland seemed desolate. Eaten by parasites, devoured by insects, all life extinguished to serve one breed of vermin.
William took a few tired steps toward the large stone, throwing the bottle into his bag. Too many years now, too much research. It was time to go home now, take all his research, all those probes, all those little bugs, all that red sand, and give it to the institute in Johannesburg.
William wanted to spend at least a month just doing paper work at his office, eating pizza with his kids over the weekend, making love to his wife on Friday nights, enjoying an Orange River South African Pinotage red wine and a Bobotie dish of South African ground meat with an egg topping. No more than a few jotting of words in his notebook and he could call his wife and tell her to bring out the Scrabble game and pop the pop-corn for the kids.
No time for phone-calls, only time for the dropping of William’s notebook and pen. Had he not been seated, William would’ve stumbled.
The sun darkened because of the size of the arriving spaceships. William now knew what the Spaniard had described and how it was to see a UFO: the disability to move, the increased heartbeat, cold sweat running down a spine, the tingling of the nerve cells, the fear, then three alien ships burning three new dead fairy circles into the Arican ground.
When the alien walked out and took him by the hand, William didn’t protest. Questions were asked, information was exchanged and somewhere inside one of the ships he saw him: the Spanish ufologist. He smiled. It seemed, he belonged there.
William left the fairy circles forever, drove home, made love to his wife, gave up geology and became a painter.
William’s UFO-experience remained a secret for the rest of his life.
Termites remain the official cause of the circles.
by submission | Apr 12, 2024 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
If you’re a trillionaire, you can get powerful people to turn up when you call an informal meeting. It’s one of the perks.
As the Industrialist’s guests finished their excellent meal, the Diplomat put down his glass and said, “This is all very pleasant, but why are we here?”
“I’ve decided to help,” she replied. “Rising sea levels have put whole populations on the move in Europe; in Africa and Asia coastal communities have been devastated, and people are migrating, even though wealthier countries can’t or won’t take them in.”
Heads of assorted colours and genders nodded around the table. Whether with lies, bribery, asserting influence or applying outright violence, they were all dealing with it, one way or another.
“I and some partners want to help take some pressure off. We have commissioned plans for what we call MegaRafts – self-sufficient floating communities of ten to twenty thousand. Their energy will come from wind and solar power; yeast and algae farms will provide food, supplemented of course by whatever the residents can catch at sea. Satellite communications will mean remote working can generate income for whatever they find they need in the way of luxury goods, repairs and suchlike.”
“And who’ll pay for all this?” asked the Merchant Banker.
“We’ll make the blueprints available to all, for nothing. My friends and I will finance the first couple of dozen, and donate them where we think they’ll help most. A practical proof of concept. After that… governments? charities? public fundraisers? other philanthropists? Anyone really.”
“Ridiculous. You can’t make ships that size,” stated the Politician.
“Of course you can. The capacity isn’t much more than a modern cruise vessel,” said the Shipping Magnate, looking thoughtful.
“Pirates,” said the Admiral laconically.
“The MegaRafts will be equipped to defend themselves, obviously. But not so much that they pose a threat to littoral settlements. They’ll be neither prey nor predator.” The Industrialist smiled.
“Colonialism dressed up,” muttered the Warlord.
“Not at all. These will be independent entities, free to travel the high seas wherever they will. And not so profitable or strategically important that they’ll make it worthwhile occupying them.”
The discussion went on for a long time after that.
—
“Will it work?” asked her reclusive Husband, as they got ready for bed later that evening.
“Oh yes. They all see a way of getting rid of their problems on the cheap, putting them out of mind and literally out of sight – it’ll play well to the conservative voters, or buttress their own positions.”
“Are you sure?” He removed his shirt, displaying his a slightly misshapen torso in the dimmed light. Her gaze lingered on him.
“Yes. I’ve spent a lifetime getting us to this point, I’m not going to let the project fail now. Part of humanity is going back to the oceans. The landmasses are becoming unviable, they’d have to do it eventually. We’re just accelerating the process a little.”
“The bioengineering teams are ready?”
“Yes, they’ll embed with the refugees; de-evolution will need a helping hand. Our beneficiaries will get every physical advantage we can give them.”
“No regrets?”
“None. You’re proof that the idea works. We’ll take people with nothing to lose, and give them two-thirds of the planet’s surface.”
“And then what? Parallel species? Competition? A fight to the extinction of one or the other?”
“Who knows? That’s a problem for those who are left behind. We’ll just trust that the Old Gods will take care of their new people.”
Her Husband smiled, and clicked his gills.
by submission | Dec 2, 2023 | Story |
Author: J.B. Draper
The clanking of the elephantine chain binding Eru to Atria didn’t startle Gorman.
But as Eru passed through a rough bit of sea, causing it to sway, and in turn, making Gorman’s door thump, he bolted upright from his slumber. His chest heaved.
“There’s no one there,” he said, so tired of hearing his own voice. “No one, of course.”
In 2264, when the indefatigable destruction of the world could no longer be denied, humanity surrendered the myth of saving the world, and began to survive it. Using gluttonous amounts of the remaining resources, three islands were carved out of Africa: Eru, Atriah, and Sikora. They were named for the chief scientists who made the islands possible.
The great chain Whistler held the three islands together.
Gorman trekked to Sikora, whistling as he went. He’d tidied so much of the space, but there was much still to go. The bodies on Sikora were hardly more than bone, and much easier to toss into the sea than those he had years ago.
“I don’t know why I tidy. Doesn’t bother me if there’s rotten wood on Sikora. I live on Eru,” said Gorman.
“What if we have visitors?” asked Gorman.
Gorman paused for a moment, considering what he meant. “Don’t say that.” He carried on dumping debris into the ocean. He caught sight of himself in a dusty mirror and nearly had a conniption.
Life on the islands was prosperous for half a century. With so few colonies across the three micro-countries, there was relative peace. Everything was great. The crops took. The husbandry flourished.
Anyone who could accurately recall what caused the collapse of the nascent society was long dead. But something on the islands killed everyone, destroyed entire buildings.
Gorman retired to his shack on Eru. It had never been much, tucked away on the far side of the island near the reactors. But he never felt right about moving into the opulent apartments on Atriah. “Too small for a start,” he mumbled.
A good day’s cleaning used to mean eight hours and half an island to Gorman, back when he was a sprightly man, sailing off with the new world. These days, it was lucky to be half of one building.
As he was settling himself into bed, cursing his aching joints, Eru rocked and Gorman’s wooden door bumped against the jamb. Knock knock.
Not much scared Gorman. Even the encroaching threat of death couldn’t disquiet him.
But at night, the sound of the door scared him. Knock knock, it went. And Gorman could never convince himself one way or another whether it was the wind or the rocking waves or… something else that caused the door to thump.
After all these years of listening to solely his own voice, he longed for conversation. But he’d seen the bodies on Atriah and Sikora. He knew they were all gone. He hoped.
Knock knock.
