When it reached 1:11, it all went black. Force sat back down on the couch. “Have a seat for a second.” As I sat beside him, windows began to open up all over the screens. Three-hundred-sixty degrees of current news. It was so overwhelming that I laughed out loud. All the people speaking, all the images, all the motion, all the urgency, all the emotion, from all over Africa. Now now now. It was so similar to what it was like to close my eyes and reach out, except for one thing; I was looking, seeing, hearing, but no one was looking back at me as I did so. And I couldn’t interact.
I was in the middle of one of Africa’s worst disasters worrying about being hunted down by one of the world’s biggest corporations and my own government. Yet, the rest of Africa was going about its business as usual. Elections were being held in Ghana. There were protests for gay rights in Kenya again. The latest Oracle Solar farm, this one in Chad, was now online. There was a new rap group in Algeria taking the world by storm. Drone deliveries in Mali were going so well that this was the fifth month without a single mishap.
We were both quiet as we caught up with the rest of Africa. And that must have been how I saw it. Out of all the hundreds of stories all around me, I saw it. A smaller box. Maybe because the male newscaster was standing in a place so empty, sand dunes behind him. A familiar sight. It caught my eye. “。 . . this small nomadic village could never have seen it coming,” the newscaster was saying. Without thinking, I brought it forth and expanded it to a size I could see clearly.
As the anchorperson spoke, I zoomed the focus in on those behind him. As I did it, I held up my hands and parted them as if I were opening up a large map. There. “That’s DNA’s mother,” I said. She looked confused and her hair was in disarray, her skin dirty with soot.
“At approximately 2 AM this morning,” the anchorperson said, “。 . . this village was set upon by their own. It is believed that this is the home village of the fugitive herdsman at large, Dangote Nuhu Adamu. In these remote parts of Nigeria, as we saw from yesterday’s failed capture of the herdsman Adamu and the murderess Okwudili, it is difficult for authorities to quell lawlessness. Bukkaru, the United Fulani Tribal Council elders, a godchild of the organization known as Miyetti Allah, authorized this attack. And there were casualties. This small village was razed to the ground. And still, Adamu was not caught . . . .”
Behind the anchorperson, DNA’s mother was being hugged by, yes, DNA’s journalist brother. He too was dirty with soot. Where was DNA’s sister? “DNA will be angry,” I muttered.
“I’m sure,” Force said. “And this makes three groups that are after you two now.”
“Do they ever go after the actual terrorists?”
“If Ultimate Corp can pay people off to stop living the way they’ve been living for hundreds of years to, instead, plant trees in the parts of the north that aren’t engulfed in the Red Eye, they can pay off the Bukkaru to go after one of their own.”
“We barely escaped them,” I said. “My God. What would they have done to us?”
“Necklace you, watch you burn, and then thrown your bones in the Red Eye to fly forever.”
I stared at Force, my mouth hanging open.
“I’ve heard of desert folk doing that to their worst criminals,” he said with a shrug. “At least you can rest easy knowing they won’t come here. Tribals don’t come to the Hour Glass unless they’re outcast.”
I got up. “I have to tell DNA.”
Force raised a hand and all the screens popped away and we were back to being surrounded by the outdoors. “Yeah, let’s get back.” He paused. “I’m sorry, AO. For both of you. Neither of you deserves this shit.”
I looked into his eyes and then turned to the door. “It’s all right,” I said, my voice husky. If I had looked at him a moment longer, I’d have burst into tears. The days when I leaned on Force were long gone. Still, as we headed down the stairs, my chest was tight with grief. No, neither of us deserved this shit. “When’s the last time you saw the sun?” I asked. I needed to change the subject.
“Real or artificial? There are sun dome restaurants and small parks with lights that create sunshine here that looks even more real than the real thing.”
“When’s the last time you saw the real sun?”
“About five years.”
I thought about this conversation well into the night.
CHAPTER 17
Milk
When we got back to Force and Dolapo’s space, Dolapo had a full spread of dinner waiting for us, and DNA was sitting at the table beside the stone hearth, eating from a plate of groundnuts.