She stepped closer to the table, closer to the man, locking eyes with him. Angry. Oh, she would have this box, one way or another. If he tried to take the box away, there would be death today. She brought her light to her face, feeling it warm the skin of her cheeks. He was close enough to see it rush forward from deep in her flesh, like a hidden spirit deciding to show itself. When she saw his eyes widen and start watering, she smiled. He pushed the box toward her. “Take it.”
“Where did you get it?” she asked.
“Another seller, who got it from another seller, who got it from some guy,” he gibbered. “It’s one of those things that’s sold, stolen, found, sold, so on. Someone said it even belonged to the Minister of Finance, you know the Man of the Gold Shoe? I-I don’t know what it is. Just.… just some useless thing.”
Sankofa reached into her pocket for her wad of bills. She held it up and split it in half. She slapped half on the table in front of the man. “I will pay for it,” she said. She put the rest back in her pocket.
“Oh. My. Wow. Thank you, Ma’am,” he said, looking at the money, then at her and then back at the money. “I wouldn’t have sold it for this much to even a Big Man. You don’t have to—”
“Stop talking and be grateful,” she said, taking the box. Yes, this was the box. She knew it as soon as her hands touched it. The wood of the shea tree from home. The smell of it. The pull of it. Her hand fell on it more heavily than she meant it to. It seemed smaller than she remembered, but then again, she’d last seen it years ago, when she was smaller. Sankofa turned away and walked out of the textile section into the place where they were selling vegetables. She turned to one of the wooden dividers and held up the box. Slowly, she opened it. There it was. A seed is actually a lot like an egg, she thought. She quickly shut it, feeling the rush of tears cloud her vision. She leaned her head against the wooden divider and exhaled.
Sankofa bought some fried plantain and kenkey and walked to a quiet spot between two trees to sit and eat. Shutting her eyes, she spoke a prayer to Allah. She touched the box deep in her pocket, the one not heavy with the rest of her money and sighed. Could it even be destroyed? She brought out her jar of shea butter and rubbed some on her hands and neck. She cupped her hands to her nose and inhaled the nutty scent. She leaned back against the tree trunk, pulled her hijab closer to her face, opened the warm foil and pulled a juicy plantain slice from it. Her denial-fueled peace was interrupted by a soft whirring sound.
The palm tree and bush behind her gave some privacy from the busy market. Privacy where human beings were concerned. Robots were another issue. The drone hovered feet away, this time, at eye level. Sleek, black and insectile. It had four propellers on each side and Sankofa could feel the air from their spinning. It was square shaped with dull angles, glinting in the late afternoon light. The glinting was from its many tiny camera eyes embedded all around its edges. As it hovered, the eyes smoothly rotated this way and that.
All Sankofa wanted in this moment was some privacy. To be away from watchful, curious, judgmental, prying eyes. Just for this little moment. She needed to be still and alone… and unwatched. And here this drone was spying on her with its many tiny embedded cameras. She scowled at it and muttered, “Come a little closer, you nosy thing.” Her heart was beating fast, the irritation flowing into her blood. For so many months, the drone had been following her, spying from afar. Now, it had grown bold and was disturbing her delicious meal. This was not the time.
And still, it came closer. Three feet away, now. Two feet. A foot. Sankofa dropped her slice of plantain and grabbed with both hands, making sure to avoid the propellers. Within a moment, it stopped functioning, dead in her grasp. Sankofa grunted with satisfaction, then she felt a sting of guilt.
“Hey!” a man shouted, stepping closer. He was carrying a large bunch of green plantains on his shoulder. “What have you done?”
Sankofa opened her mouth to speak, but she had no words. What had she done?
More people came around the bushes and tree to see. Sankofa threw the drone down, grabbed her food and leapt to her feet. “You see that?” the man was telling another man who’d come running over.
“Eh!” a large woman, carrying several bags said, stepping up. “Sankofa, what…”
“I… it was in my face,” Sankofa said.
“What is that thing?” another woman asked.
“It’s one of robocop’s eyes,” someone said. “Oh my God, it looks dead. She’s killed it.”
“The thing that flies like alien ship?” someone asked in English.
And that was when they all heard the loud crash from the other side of the market square. From the street. People turned to look and without a word, everyone rushed to see what had happened. Sankofa threw off her hijab, grabbed the drone and took off for Alhaja’s house.
As she ran, the world around her blurred from the tears in her eyes and the fact that she could barely breathe. Why am I carrying this thing? she vaguely wondered. But her hands wouldn’t drop the drone. She passed more people, all running in the other direction. When she arrived at Mr. Starlit, people were just leaving the store.
Alhaja was behind the counter. “Sankofa, what happened? I heard there’s been an accident at the intersection! First in decades. Is it true?” She blinked. “Where’s your hijab? You can’t—” She’d noticed the drone Sankofa carried and her eyes grew large.
Sankofa dashed past her, to the back of the store, out the back and up the stairs. She locked herself in her room and sank to the floor. Suddenly very sleepy, she calmed enough so that her tears stopped and her breathing slowed. Then, for the first time in nearly a year, it rushed into her—her light. She laid down right there on the rug, sighing as it washed into her like heavy warm water, uncontrolled, gradual, loose, free. If there had been anyone, animal or plant, around her, they’d have been dead.
Someone banging on her door jarred her awake.
“Open up,” a man’s voice said. “Now! Witch.”
She slowly opened her eyes, as the banging continued. She was still curled on the floor, cradling the drone. The banging grew harder and then someone tried to open the door. She threw the drone she still carried aside and got to her feet.
“Sankofa,” she heard Alhaja say. “My dear, are you there?”
Sankofa ran to her closet and pushed the clothes Alhaja had bought her over the months aside, including the brand-new school uniform Alhaja bought two weeks ago. After nearly a year, the local school had agreed she was safe enough to join her mates in getting an education. Sankofa had really been looking forward to it. She grabbed her green and yellow wrapper and matching top, shrugged out of her pants and T-shirt and put them on.
“We hear you in there,” the man said. “Don’t make us have to destroy Alhaja’s home by breaking down this door. You’ve done enough da—”
“I’m coming,” she said. “Let me dress.”
She took her time tying her bright green head wrap. When she finished, Sankofa looked around her blue room with the blue ceiling and the blue soft bed she’d come to love so much. She grabbed her satchel and slung it over her shoulder. By this time, she had noticed the noise of the growing mob outside. Voices and the shuffle of feet.
“So stupid to come here seeking me,” Sankofa muttered. She rubbed her face. “I’ve been here too long.”
She opened the door. The five people waiting for her knew not to grab her.
A child had been killed at the intersection. The seven-and-a-half-year-old had been crossing with his mother and two other people. All four people had had mobile phones on them, yes, even the child. Their names were Mary, Akua, Ason and Kweku. They all lived in RoboTown. The robocop had plenty to scan and read on them. None of them were mysteries. Yet at some point as the four of them crossed, the robocop had made a mistake. Some said it had not “been paying attention.” Its head was turned toward the market, many said. And as it had looked toward the market, it had shown a green light while it told the people to cross. The man who’d run over the seven-and-a-half-year-old said he had not seen the child.