Ннеди Окорафор - Remote Control

Sankofa walked past all this, holding the woman’s hand. They walked through another door and emerged in back of the building. Here, more people milled around. These ones wore suits and ties. The women wore American-style dresses and pants, too much makeup and fake-looking long-haired weaves with those blue glowing tubes Sankofa saw women in commercials wearing. And it was clear that many of the women flash-bleached their skin, a practice that Sankofa, someone who glowed a dangerous green every so often, could never understand. There were about thirty of them and they all stopped talking when they saw the woman holding Sankofa’s hand. When they noticed Sankofa, the whispering began.

“Alhaja,” one man said, stepping forward. He carried a glass of what looked like beer and wore a tan suit that looked cartoonish in its perfection. “Do you know who that is??”

“Yes,” the woman said. “Mind your business.”

She smiled at them all as she led Sankofa to another backdoor and then up some stairs. The stairway was narrow, but the walls were painted white and the air in here was cool and smelled like the inside of a mosque.

“My name’s Alhaja Ujala,” she said over her shoulder. “You can simply call me Alhaja.”

They ascended four flights of stairs, then Alhaja opened a door. Sankofa had been feeling a bit nervous. She didn’t like being in buildings surrounded by what could turn into a mob. Plus, the place was two floors off the ground. Not that anyone could harm her. She just didn’t like feeling trapped. When the woman opened the door, she forgot her misgivings.

Mosque-scented air wafted out in a cool plume, giving way to a high-ceilinged blue room. Blue as the morning sky back home. A jelli telli was stretched across the entire wall on the left side of the room. Sankofa stumbled back, hesitant to enter. The woman laughed. “You have sharp senses.”

“Isn’t that what you expect from the one guarded by the Angel of Death?” Sankofa said, staring at the wall covered with faces. Masks. Ceremonial masks. At least thirty of them. “What is this? Are you a cultist?”

“I’m a collector, ” Alhaja said with a chuckle. “I read a book when I was a child where an old witch had a wall full of these. They would smile, frown, make faces. I always loved that. And I also wanted to grow old and wise like that woman, so you see?”

Sankofa frowned, still skeptical. “So… where are they from? What do they do?”

Alhaja shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Carefully, Sankofa entered the woman’s home. “So you’re used to bringing things you don’t understand into your home.”

A large window took up two thirds of the far wall. Sankofa went to it and looked at the crowd outside.

“You’ve arrived on the busiest day of the year,” Alhaja said, stepping up beside her. “And the most dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“Mine is the only shop that gets the first shipment of the latest models of jelli tellis and portable devices in all of Ghana. And it arrives tonight.”

“Oooh,” Sankofa said, understanding why the woman had so happily brought her here. In her first year on her own, a bicycle seller had asked her to stay with his family for two nights to scare away thieves who’d been circling his shop for days. It had worked. “Why here and not Accra or someplace bigger?”

“Because it gives the whole practice some mystery,” Alhaja said. “They leak it on the internet and only the most ambitious leave Accra and sometimes as far as places like Lagos, to come here. Want some orange Fanta? Something to eat?”

“I would.”

“Come,” Alhaja said.

Sankofa sat at the lovely blue wooden dinner table and ate from a blue plate and drank Fanta from a tall blue glass. Alhaja sat across from her the entire time, taking the occasional call on her mobile. She got off the phone and answered the question Sankofa asked minutes ago, “My second husband won the Visa Lottery to America and, instead of taking me, left with a woman willing to give him half a million cedi.”

“Oh my goodness!” Sankofa said as she ate her last piece of goat meat. “But… why don’t you just find another husband?”

“You see how old I am,” Alhaja exclaimed with a laugh. “What man will marry me?”

“A smart one,” Sankofa said, biting into a slice of fried plantain.

Alhaja threw her head back and laughed heartily. Sankofa snickered. Alhaja’s mobile beeped and she tapped the earpiece in her left ear. After a moment, her face grew gravely serious. She looked at Sankofa as she spoke, “When?” She nodded, picking up the mobile and rubbing a finger on the surface. The face of a young dark-skinned man appeared, the focal point of the camera falling on his wide-nostriled nose. He wore a green veil and seemed to be in a moving vehicle that was driving over a rough terrain.

“They won’t know when we come, Alhaja, don’t worry.” He smiled. “And everything is traceable and locked. Even if stolen, no one can use them.”

Alhaja sucked her teeth and dismissively waved a hand. “You don’t know what these young hackers and rippers are capable of. How far are you?”

“We’ll be there in an hour,” he said. “Stay outside and wait. I’ll flash you.”

When she hung up, she leaned against the table. “Sankofa, why don’t you get some rest.”

She showed Sankofa into another blue room just beside the kitchen. “My daughter’s old room,” she said, stepping aside. “She’s in Singapore working on her master’s degree in thermodynamics. She won’t mind.” Everything in the room, the walls, bed sheets, dresser, table, was a light shade of blue. Sankofa slowly entered, looking up at the high ceiling, which was like the afternoon sky.

“Pretty,” she whispered. Just standing in the room made her feel at peace.

“How old are you?” Alhaja asked.

Sankofa nearly gave her usual answer, which was, “How old do I look?” But she caught herself. Alhaja wasn’t just anyone. “Thirteen,” she said. Then she gazed into Alhaja’s eyes and waited. People always had something to say about her age.

“Old enough for honesty,” Alhaja said. “You look younger than that but I know you’re older than your years, so I’ll be upfront. I need you.”

A smile spread across Sankofa’s face and she laughed. “I know. I’ve done this before. Fear of death is a powerful weapon.” This was a line from a book she’d once read whose title she’d long since forgotten.

“They’ll come with guns,” Alhaja said. “They’ve already sent us a text warning of their coming and instructed me on where to leave the merchandise so that no one is killed. They’re bold.”

“Oh,” Sankofa exclaimed. “Have they come before?”

“Other towns, never here,” she said. “They call themselves the Bandit Boys.”

Sankofa walked to the bed and eyed its blue sheets. She sat down and ran a hand over the surface. Soft and cool. She slipped off her sandals and said, “One hour?”

“About that.”

“Will you wake me up when they come?”

Alhaja smiled, but her eyes were hard. “Definitely.”

Sankofa was lying in the forest on a bed of grass and leaves, glad to be alone back in the wilderness, again, with the fruits and trees and Movenpick skulking nearby. She was completely at peace, no pull from the evil seed in the box. But someone was shaking her. She curled herself tighter and then she awoke. Sky blue. Sky blue ceiling.

“Oh,” she said, looking wildly into Alhaja’s eyes. “They’re here?”

Alhaja handed her a cup of hot coffee. “Come.”

Sankofa slipped her sandals on, took the cup and looked into it. Something fluttered in her chest and she shut her eyes. On the surface was the pull of the seed, which she ignored easily. Nothing could make her return to that search. But beneath that feeling was a yearning for the forest, again. The quiet, the escape. She sniffed the coffee and the smell brought with it a very clear image of her father. He loved coffee and her mother made it for him every morning. The smell would permeate the house and she and her brother would always come to sniff it, but their father would never ever let them taste the coffee. Her father hadn’t been a tall or muscular man. She’d encountered many tall muscular men since leaving home; she knew them well. Her father was slight, and kind, and gentle and he loved coffee, prayer and cigarettes.