I

I maneuver within the rubble of the collapsed pedestrian bridge, earbuds stuffed in my ears and worn IDbands on my wrist. I push against a concrete slab and glance at my wrist and snicker quietly remembering Daddy’s constant complaint about the IDbands when they first came out: “this is the chain the government has put on our hands, in fact, it's the antichrist,” he would say anytime we had to use them. I wish the antichrist would come; that would be better situation than Nigeria at this point. 

  I come out on the other side of the road, dust my trousers, anchor my bag on my back and lightly skip between the kekes that hover over the pothole-filled road. The government tried to make us call them Hovercycles but the signature yellow, constant breaking down and brash drivers couldn’t make the name stick. I alternate between running and walking before jumping into a moving keke. Two people are at the background, the light from their commupods illuminating their blank faces. 

“Slaughter,” I say to the driver.

“Hope sey you get money for your band,” he replies and eyes my left wrist. 

I don’t answer him. I bring out my battered commupod and squint as the light hits my face. 

“You have three messages,” the familiar voice speaks into my ears. I read along with it.

Bring new wires for the AugReal we got ystrd. No tok sey u frgt abeg.

Shammah came to ask for his money agn. Said Odogwu dey vex.

Call ur aunty today and go and see grandpa. Don't forget.

  I rub my temples between my thumb and middle finger and sigh. Wahala truly no dey finish. The keke sputters as it hovers over the bridge, the water is black and contaminated with many things: spilled crude, industrial waste, refuse, and dead bodies. Fishing boats still dot the water, catching what they can—like that four eyed and eight finned fish I had to cook last week. 

“Oga, I dey alright.”

  I jump out before the keke groans to a halt and suspend my wrist over the cracked screen in the front. It blinks a sharp red as it declines my payment. I hover my wrist over the screen again and it declines yet again. Since the time of my grandfather, the First Bank of Nigeria has always been useless and still is. The keke driver is shooting me dirty looks and his hand is tucked under his seat maybe to bring out a rod taser in case I want to run. Man, Nigeria don spoil finish. 

  I put my other wrist over the screen and it flashes green and the driver retrieves his hand from under his seat. Body don calm down. A name that’s not mine flashes on the screen and fifty thousand Naira sits beneath it. Some days I wonder what happened to that man’s body. I was the last person who dug their foot into his belly and left him for dead, taking his IDband.

  No time to think of all that, abeg. I slink under the metal frame fence and my eyes meet the grand crime community that is Slaughter. The lights of people’s commupods clash with the green, red and blue lights from the dainty shacks here. A former abattoir (my grandfather used to tell me stories about him coming here to buy meat), Slaughter is now home for every kind of criminal—cyber and physical. The slabs where pig brains were once splattered on now had makeshift holoscreens, the pits where cow skins once burned now kept solar gens that powered the crime that coursed through Slaughter like circuits on a motherboard.

  Slaughter is always dark, even on days when the sun scorches. Its darkness is a cover for hands to exchange illegal things, for people to hover over the lights from screens. For gas masks filled with Igbo and other drugs. For finding a weapon to kill a man or a person to also kill a man. For remapping the neural link of an IDband. For any evil darkness can cover. 

  I won’t consider myself a particularly evil person sha. I mean, I beat a man till his last breath and took his IDband but that’s because he tried to steal from me. I also gave Shammah a fake meta visor but that’s because the guy who I got originals from was carried by SARS. Any bad thing I do has reason, all a means to a better end. 

   I move sharply between the shacks, greeting people as I move, making sure to shake them lightly if they offer a hand because in Slaughter if a thing can be touched, it can be stolen.

   I push open the dull red doors of my shack to reveal a small space. The walls are darkened by years of butchering and five people sit on reclined chairs. Their eyes are covered with battered AugReal sets that have wires sticking out their sides.  My boys glance at me and continue staring at the monitors beside the patients. Don’t worry, they’re not sick, just addicted. 

I walk across the small room and dish out orders.

“Up the charge on that one.”

“Rearrange the synapse pattern on this one, im body don master the one you dey use. We wan make im dey come back.”

“Na woman be that, start small make you no blow person head.”

  I pull out my CommuPod and cast it to the larger screen in the back, then I bring out the wires and new AugReal set from the bag slung on my back, drop them under the magnifier and begin to pore over them.

  The Mass Depression has been going on for years now and my job is to give the people what they want: happiness, no matter how fickle or fake. 

II

   I wasn’t alive for the beginning of the end of this country. I saw it happen through the memories of family, filtered by their remembrance and pain. A history not like the emotional emptiness of textbooks: numbers, dates, opinions made facts by the victors. Emotions weaved through this history my grandfather told me as we sat in the parlour under the shaky fluorescent bulbs. His voice would occasionally quiver, his fist would clench, his eyes would water. His body reliving the moments as he told me.

  The thing about Nigeria is that it evolves. Is that the right word? No, it mutates. It twists into the worst possible form that can survive. It thrives with no life force. An anaerobic existence. And its people twist along with it. Not because they want to but because they are forced to. 

   Everybody talks about the elections of 2023 that never happened as being the beginning. My grandfather disagrees. 

“This country spoil immediately them born am. As Florence Shaw call am Nigeria, e begin spoil.”

   Since the year 2023, elections haven’t happened in this country again. Every four years, we get some kind of upgraded android version of a leader, more removed from humanity as the years go by. His eyes empty and never blinking, his speech sometimes slurred, other times filled with repetitions and ticks like a digital Tourette’s. We’re currently in BHRI 32.1—at least that’s what we techies call him. 

  The man—is it even a man at this point?—has ruled us since 2015 and everything has gotten worse and worse. WHO declared the mass depression about ten years ago but, as usual, the report was tossed aside. 

“Nigerians are the happiest people alive,” the information minister said, “They are resilient in the face of challenges and I don’t know where WHO is coming from with this false report.”

  Like a Nigerian parent, the government dismissed the depression. Ignored with hope that by some magic it would go away. People found ways to cope, ways to filter out the suffering even if it was for a moment. New strains of Igbo were sold, stronger and able to take you further from your reality. Those who didn’t want that started abusing antidepressants. You would see people in corners, makeshift tourniquets held in their teeth so they could spot a vein, injecting IV Citalopram—called Ribena by the streets— into their arms. As if that wasn’t enough, then came AugReal. 

           Now, this is my jam. 

  The government imported the first AugReals for the military a few years back. The news reports carried their usual mindless adulation for the government, claiming the devices would help prepare the military better for the insurgents at the northern border. We saw them lined up in their dirty green camouflage, eyes covered by the brand new AugReals, ready to become better fighters and defend us. 

 Fast forward to today and nobody knows what happened to that plan. The insurgents still control the north but the AugReals control the nation’s mind. We now have US used AugReals, UK used ones, refurbished ones, AugReal copies (these ones have been killing people sef but that’s by the way), and the Chinese ones that everyone loves to bash in public but is still the cheapest and safest option. 

  Now, we know how the mind is so great at creating worlds? How we can close our eyes and conjure universes with striking details and intricate patterns. Reprogrammed AugReals harness that power and project a detailed virtual world that our minds latch on to and complete. The AugReals give our mind a framework and the rest is ours for the making. It’s like giving a climbing plant—Ugwu for example—an infinite length of stick to continue to thrive. The feeling is euphoric but euphoric feelings are often addictive. 

 There are many stories about the first reprogrammed AugReal: government conspiracy to keep us addicted, accidental discovery, Russian imperialism tactic. Whatever it is, I don’t care. My customers come into my dimly lit, musty shack, I hook them up for at least five minutes and they swipe their IDbands over mine. Transaction complete. 

III

  An unknown song comes on on shuffle and blasts into my brain as I continue to pore over the AugReal, my hand steadily guiding a wire into a port on the side. 

“Boss, Shammah is here again. What’s gonna happen?” Dubem asks.

  I raise my head and my eyes meet a tattoo on his right arm: a digital green line of code that changed as he spoke. These body modification guys don’t ever rest. 

“New ink?” I ask, pointing at his arm with the soldering iron in my hand. 

“Yes boss.”

 His voice is confused with a tinge of irritation. I’m sure he’s wondering why I’m not answering this Shammah talk.

“Boss, how far nah?”

“Tell him to come and take his money back, abeg.”

   I can see Shammah standing at the door, only his right eye blinking as usual and his hair dyed hot pink. 

“Odogwu say make I no collect the money back oo. Im say you must give am the stuff.”

“And I no get the stuff now, so how we go do?” I yell towards him.

“Odogwu don talk im own sha.” 

  Shammah disappears into the varied and dim lights of Slaughter, his threat from Odogwu remaining in the room with us. I break the silence.

“That man’s time has finished, commot am.” 

“ Boss, you no go talk about this Odogwu thing?” Tonye asks, speaking for the first time since I came in.

“What do you want me to say? I should remove a meta visor from my ass? The old man doesn’t want his money back. Lemme even use it and drink.”

  The room quiets—except the hums and whirring of the machines—and the man who is being unplugged stops and stares. I look around and realize I was shouting. Shit.

  I toss the soldering iron still in my hand on the table and barge out of the shop, my shoulder hitting against Tonye’s. 

  My charge continues till I find myself in front of my grandfather’s house. The roof slanting and missing parts, the gate welded at too many places, and the lamp holders filled with cobwebs. Decrepit, but it is home. 

IV

  I push open the gate and hear the familiar AI voice inside the house say my name: Daraima. The accent was heavy with foreign inflections, twisting my name in all the wrong places. I remember Grandpa unhooking the voice set from a Home Box we bought from Okrika at Oil Mill market. Foreign home boxes were cheaper but difficult to unhook and reprogram. Any small mistake, it goes up in flames. Everyone knows someone whose house burnt—partially or fully—because of a reprogrammed Home Box.

  Our home is a web of many discarded things. Things that were supposed to be tossed in waste pits found solace between Grandpa’s fingers as he touched and tinkered, making them light up in a second life. So, as I walk through the house, into the room, everything has a story that causes my chest to clench countless times. The rhythmic hum of the air conditioning reminds me of nights we made up tunes to it, the screen that floated in the parlour reminds me of when we watched Big Brother reruns from 2020—Grandpa screaming in support of Erica like his excitement could change the outcome. 

  This house, with parts and pieces from places far and near, is my home. Things that might have meant something to someone somewhere in a country in Eastern Europe, imported into Nigeria, now mean something to me. Pieces of tech moving through time, finding meaning in new places and with new people. Sometimes I just want to be like that, finding purpose in whatever people wanted me for. It’s definitely less stressful than this.

   I enter the room and get de-sterilized by a cloud of mist as I walk to the bed in the middle of the room. I look at Grandpa on the bed and sigh. I wish I can look into his eyes right now, the softness and peace that rests in them is covered by an AugVisor: an AugReal and meta visor hooked together intricately for a more potent (and deadly) virtual experience. 

  I reach the chair beside him and hear the familiar soft hum of the bed. He built it as best as he could as he fell sicker and sicker, his instructions becoming more irrational, his memory failing him and me because I trusted his stories. 

“How you dey grandpa?” I ask as I reach for the AugReal on the chair and fix it on my eyes and wrap it behind my head. I am plunged into a stuffy darkness before a soft blue light slowly fills my horizon and I am back in the house but everything is brighter this time, passed through some sharpening filter. 

  I see my grandfather, this time he’s standing over his tool box and humming a recognizable melody. I watch him for a while before speaking.

“Grandpa.”

“Dimaaa,” he replies, stretching the end of my name in excitement.

The tension in my throat dissolves in relief. He can still remember my name here.

“How’re you?”

“I’m fine, my eyes are paining me small sha. And this home box I’ve been repairing is giving me issues.”

   I put my hands over his shoulders and peer into the open home box with him, pointing my finger at different places and asking him questions.

 The Home Box was never going to be fixed, it was like a rigged Rubik’s cube—that’s how I programmed it. The doctor said his brain needed activity while being hooked up to this false reality.

“I’m beginning to think it can’t be fixed,” he says and laughs, “But I’ll get it done, I’m sure.”

I laugh away his suspicion and go to sit on his bed while he works in silence.

“Your mother doesn’t come and see me again.” 

I perk up and lean towards him, I feel my insides flutter with panic. Does he know he’s hooked up? 

“She’s busy nau. You know how your daughter is.”

“Ehh. But she should try. Talk to her for me, everytime I try to call her, the phone just rings and never stops.”

“She’ll come, don’t worry.”

Silence.

“What’s her name again?”

  A few days back, I had to remind him the name of a tool he’s used all his life, today I have to tell him his daughter’s name. It’s getting worse and I still have no solution.

“Imabong,” I say softly. 

“Hmm.”

   He continues working and I wonder what piece of this man I will have to put back the next time I’m here.

  Humans, at their most basic, are version 1.0. Our functions are limited by biology: walking a distance and getting tired, seeing only as far as our eyes let us, punching only as hard as our fists allow us. But you see Odogwu? He’s like version 10.0.

  Nobody really knows how many mods he has. The skin on his hands is tense with wires traversing them, his eyeballs roll back for him to spot people miles away and there are rumours that his latest mod allows him to last eight hours in bed without stopping. I feel for the men and women he’s sleeping with.

He towers in the distance and I steady my legs because I can’t show any sign of weakness. 

“Where my stuff dey?” 

Silence.

“I said, where my stuff dey?!” 

   He charges towards me and the whirring of his mods fills me with fear but I don’t move. He stops in front of me, his eyes piercing mine and his chest heaving. His beard is well oiled, framing his dark skin; and his breath is moistening my face. 

“You’ll get it soon.”

“Soon no be time. You dey try me, this boy.”

My eyes remain steady on his as my heart pounds in my chest. Which kind problem I don get like this? 

“I’ll get it to you in a week's time.” 

“That na nonsense, if I don’t see it tomorrow anything wey happen take am like that.” 

 We stare at each other in silence and then he raises his hand quickly and  I scramble to the ground, my hands over my head to shield me. The blow never comes and I hear everyone explode into laughter. All my effort to hide my fear crumbles on the ground with me. 

V

  Finding a meta visor in twenty-four hours is impossible, let me just put that out there. Stealing one on the other hand, difficult,  but not impossible. 

  News is already getting round Slaughter that I need a meta visor and for some reason (I know the reason sha) nobody even wants to sell no matter the price I offer. It’s so bad, I offered this guy four loaded IDbands and a literal human kidney and he still rejected the offer. 

  I know if I steal from someone in Slaughter, I’d be caught so I’m going across town now to find one. Ikoku Spare Parts Market is my next option.

  My bag bounces with the weight of my tools as I dart past shops closing for the night. They secure their shops with many layers: fingerprints, face reg, voice reg, some even have some high end DNA thing because in this town everyone needs a part for something and they will go to extreme measures—like me scaling this building so I can get a good vantage point.

  On my way here, I made a mental list of the five shops I would check out. Three of them were owned by my guys but Odogwu’s wrath is thicker than bonds forged by illegal trade. They’ll be fine.

   It’s dark already but I need it to be darker—ink black till I can’t even see my hand in front of my face. Getting caught isn’t an option.

  Finally it’s dark enough. I swing from the second story balcony I’ve been sitting on and land awkwardly on a roof. It's been ages since I stole like this. It reminds me of a time I had no control of my life and I hate that Odogwu has taken me back to that time.

   I pull out a small metal stick from my bag and twist it with my two hands in opposite directions and a small bright beam shoots from it and steadies. Quickly, I stick it into the metal of the roof and watch it slowly melt away till there’s a hole big enough for my body. 

         My head goes in first with a small light in my mouth as my eyes dart around the shop. Former me would have goosebumps of excitement looking into this shop, but there is no meta visor here so the spoils I am looking at are doing nothing for me.

   I pull my head out and look into the darkness for any sign of movement then I pack up my bag and jump on the next roof as lightly as I can and repeat my routine on the first roof.

          I stick my head inside the shop and my light hits a meta visor sitting on a shelf.

          Correct.

            My body slithers through the hole and I land on the floor with a thud. 

          I don loose form.

  I take the meta visor, use my shirt to clean it, pull the light from my mouth and cast it on the transparent screen at its front. This is what Odogwu wants to kill me for. 

  I sit on the ground monk style and bring out a wire from my bag and hook the visor to my commupod. Let me know if someone’s used it before so I can wipe it. My commupod blinks white for the longest minute of my life and then turns green. On point, Odogwu loses this round. 

 A sound pierces the silence before a light passes through the darkness over my head. I pause and listen, my heart pounding in my mouth. Footsteps patter scatteredly outside the shop till they silence with distance and the darkness returns. 

   I wait for a few minutes and heave myself up by my hands through the hole in the roof and make for the balcony I came from without looking back as if doing that will actualise someone chasing me.

  Odogwu didn’t say what he would do to me if I failed but the relief I feel is proof of the danger that filled his silence.

VI

  I walk into Odogwu’s complex in Slaughter with a pep in my step and a smile forming at the corner of my lips. 

  “Where is he?” I say to one of the men at the door, confidence dripping from my words.

   He says nothing and leads me to where Odogwu sits backing us. I swerve my bag off my back, unzip it and bring out the visor.

         “See your stuff here.”

  There’s a suspicious silence in the room but I shrug it off.

         “My boyyy, tomorrow started by 12 am and I needed my mask immediately so I had to get it.”

   My brows furrow in confusion. Wetin this guy dey talk abeg. 

  Odogwu turns to face me and I see a visor in his hand. How come? Did he get another one or something?

  He raises the mask towards me and I squint my eyes before they widen in horrific realization. I see the familiar blue straps that wrapped around my grandfather’s head and fall to my knees, tears blurring my vision.

     “WHAT THE FUCK, ODOGWU?”

My double vision catches his grin as he walks towards me. 

      “Remember that man you killed and collected his IDband?”

I continue to sob in silence, giving him no reply.

       “Next time you won’t touch Odogwu’s anointed.”