The Apex Book of World SF 2 (5 page)

"Sorry, Father, it's
been a long day," Tamuka said, hanging his head.

"So I heard from
your mother," his father said. He paused for a moment to gently lift up Tamuka's
chin. "Look, it's not like I don't know how rough it can be for you at times. I
do remember what it's like to be twelve. Now, this kid that's been bothering
you…Tiny, is it?" Tamuka nodded gravely, and his father continued. "Have you
thought that perhaps Tiny has never been alone without his Geneform, and yet
here you are now without Mr Goop." Tamuka's eyes widened as he realised what
his father was saying.

"That's right, here
I am, alone!" Tamuka said, hatching the beginning of a verbal attack that he
could use at the next taunting session.

"You got it, kiddo.
And if you are wise, Tiny might just never bother you again." His father said
and ruffled Tamuka's short spiky dreads as he ambled past.

"You must understand
how important school is, Tamuka," he said while wrestling with what seemed like
a very heavy crate. "When your mother and I were growing up there was no
schooling, only day to day survival. Now when I was twelve, I—"

"—Was in a mass
exodus that crossed the seaward wasteland deserts, walking five thousand
kilometres to return to the homeland of our ancestors, during which time you
met mother. Yes I know the story," Tamuka cut in impatiently, still plotting
exactly how he would aim his verbal darts.

His father
unexpectedly burst out laughing and soon had Tamuka in a fit of sympathetic
giggles, although he was not altogether sure why his father was laughing. Their
laughter attracted a glare from a management type, standing over a computer
terminal at the far end of the warehouse. His father choked his laughter down
to snorts of air through his nose, but grinned happily at Tamuka, before he resumed
working. Eventually their laughter died down to a long comfortable silence, in
which Tamuka just watched his father at work. As always, he marvelled at the
way his father seemed to effortlessly flip up the crates and position them
within the larger crate.

Tamuka knew those
crates were probably very heavy; he'd never managed to budge one. They were all
shapes and sizes. His father had once explained to Tamuka that in his mind he
held a map. One that he created by first looking carefully at the smaller crates
designated for the larger one. He then played a quick game in his mind. In this
game he played every possible combination of smaller crates to fill up the
larger crate. When he won the game with the best possible arrangement of small
crates, he had a final mind map. This meant, added to his immense physical
strength, he loaded up the crates with an incredible speed and efficiency that
kept him gainfully employed.

His father's job,
like his mother's, was a position normally reserved for Geneforms or the rare
and expensive robots. His mother cleaned apartments, capitalising on those who
could not afford either, while his father was assigned to deal with items
requiring special care during packing, such as the delicate but heavy ion metal
sculptures that were the specialties of the Mbare artistic community, or
anything to do with Mbare's Mayor, the shady Mr Isaac Gondo. So his father was
never lacking for this type of work, and it afforded him some liberties since
he was nearly indispensable. Liberties such as Tamuka being allowed here while
he worked, without much objection from his manager. Still, Tamuka knew, the
wages were hardly great, and his parents struggled each month on their combined
income to pay the mortgage, something they had both taken pains to explain to
him at various points in his life. Mostly as the final "No" when he incessantly
nagged them about having a Geneform of his own.

"I think you'd
better think about going home in a bit, Tamuka," said his father. "It's best
not to make your mother wait too long. Even today."

"But, Father!"
Tamuka started, and he wanted to protest further, but his father simply looked
at him briefly. And wordlessly he said, it's time to grow up son, not too much,
just a little, enough to show you are worthy of our trust. So Tamuka kept
quiet, and his father carried on packing crates. Timing it carefully, Tamuka
quickly nipped in, hugged his father and then scampered off. He thought he
could feel his father's glance and loving grin, warm on his back. But he did
not need to turn around; it was enough to just feel it there.

 

Mr Goop wasn't
looking at all well when Tamuka got back to the apartment; its skin was even
paler, almost translucent. It still refused to come out of its coffin-sized
capsule, but at least the hatch was open.

 

"See to Mr Goop,"
his mother said from the kitchen, "Before you even think about having dinner."

At first, Tamuka
just stood near Mr Goop's capsule, but when he saw tears roll down Mr Goop's
expressionless face, it all fell into place. Tamuka immediately crawled inside
the capsule with Mr Goop, something he had not done for years. It was much
smaller than he remembered. But he managed to eventually wriggle his way into a
snuggle on top of Mr Goop's chest. Once there, he lay still and waited for Mr
Goop's reaction.

With a slight
sniffle, Mr Goop wrapped its arms around Tamuka, just as it had done many years
previously. Tamuka sighed happily. He realised that it had been afraid for his
life. For Mr Goop truly loved him in its own special way. The idea of losing
Tamuka must have been a great shock and, followed by the strenuous sprint to
get Tamuka home and safe, Mr Goop was simply tired and upset.

Tamuka felt quite
adult, not only for realising what ailed Mr Goop, but also for being adult
enough to put another's feelings above his own and take the best course of
action to help. His mother poked her head in and smiled at them.

"Dinner on the table
when you want it," she said and left them alone.

Tamuka had the
notion that this was probably the last time he would be able to fit into the
capsule with Mr Goop, so he decided to enjoy the moment a little longer, and
right then he felt as if he would burst with his love for Mr Goop. And one day
probably, he dreamily mused, so would his own child.

But perhaps sooner
than that, Tamuka could ask to go to school without Mr Goop.

 

Trees of Bone
Daliso Chaponda
 
Malawian Daliso Chaponda is a
stand-up comedian as well as a writer, with shows such as
Feed This Black
Man
,
Don't Let Them Deport Me
and others performed in Canada, South
Africa and the UK. He was a Writers of the Future finalist in 2002 and has
been short-listed for the Carl Brandon Society Parallax Award for the following
story.

 

1

The sound of his bedroom door being opened woke Katulo. "What is it?"

 

"It's Chama, he's dying." Eyo's voice was an agitated whisper.

"Get the clinic ready."

Eyo hurried off and
Katulo dressed. He snatched his walking stick and stepped into the humid night.
This had been the hottest summer Burundi had seen since 2072. In the last two
weeks, Katulo had treated a record number of patients for dehydration and
angazi
fever. As he walked, he tried to call up a mental image of Chama. He could
vaguely recall a loud boy with mud-brown skin who had been terrified of
syringes. Chama's father was the chief of village police.

When Katulo neared
the clinic, he heard shouting: "We can't wait for that stupid old man." He
recognised the voice.

"Just wait. He's coming," Eyo replied firmly.

It made him proud
that his apprentice was standing up to someone twice his size— especially a
person as intimidating as Osati. Osati's nickname since his teens had been "the
leopard". It suited him. He was tightly muscled, and his motions gave the
impression he might lash out at any moment. Eyo, on the other hand, had a body
that looked like a collection of twigs.

Osati swallowed his
response when he saw Katulo enter.

The clinic was a
circular hovel with little space. In the daytime, patients were received in the
yard outside. Eyo and Osati stood between two unpolished wood cabinets and the
sleeping cot. Lying on it, Chama's body looked like slaughtered game.

"Fill a basin with
water," Katulo ordered. Eyo scrambled to do as he had been instructed. Katulo
turned to Osati. "Bring me bandages and my operating kit. You remember the
layout of the clinic?"

Osati nodded. He had
been an apprentice five years earlier but had left prematurely. Katulo still
felt anger at his decision. He had shown so much potential. His memory had been
impeccable, and he had been able to make terrified patients relax with only a
few words. He would have been a gifted healer.

Katulo worked
intently for the next twenty minutes. He cleaned and sterilised the wound in
Chama's side before stitching it closed. The boy's breathing went from shallow
sporadic bursts to a smoother, though still uncertain, rhythm.

"Will he live?"
Osati asked.

"Maybe, I have done
all I can. How did this happen? This wound was not caused by an animal." It was
a single, deep, horizontal slash. A machete?

"It was those Hutu
bastards," Osati spat. "I swear by my ancestors they will pay for this."

The oath made Katulo
flinch. "What happened?"

"They attacked us
for no reason. We were at a rally in Bujumbura." It was because his passion lay
in politics that Osati had left Katulo's tutelage. "Some Hutus were watching us
and laughing. We ignored them. After the rally Chama, Dengo and I were walking
back here alone and they attacked us."

"Where is Dengo?"

"He is coming. I ran
here carrying Chama. "

"You ran here all
the way from Bujumbura?"

"We were about half
way."

Still, that was a
two-hour walk without carrying a wounded man in your arms. Katulo now noticed
that Osati was covered in sweat and blood. His lips were parched and his
breathing was irregular.

"Sit, I will bring
you some mango juice."

"I have no time. The
people of the village must be awoken."

"Why?"

"They nearly killed
him. You said he may die."

"And rousing the
village will do what? Impress the ancestors so much they will help Chama?"

"You joke about
this?" Osati's disgust was unconcealed.

"If your friend
lives it will be because of me. Do me a favour in return. Let your anger cool.
There is nothing you can say tonight that you can't say tomorrow. After the
wedding…"

"After this, the
wedding will be cancelled."

"Love is a good
reason to postpone anger. The opposite is not true." His words were just
aggravating Osati. "Please, hold off. After the wedding I will go to Bujumbura
and speak to Minister Kalé. With his help we shall apprehend the ones who
attacked you and deal with them. You, Dengo and Chama will all testify."

"Kalé is one of
them; it's a waste of time."

"Kalé and I have
been friends three times as long as you have been alive. Kalé is wise and his
word is respected among the Hutus."

Osati dipped his
head but he was clearly insincere.

Katulo sighed. "I'll
tell you how he's doing at the wedding."

Osati left without a
word of thanks.

"This is called an
anaesthetic," Katulo said as he put the half-empty bottle back into his
operating bag. "It dulls the body's responses to pain."

"You want to teach
me now?" Eyo was flustered. He was looking out of the window.

"What better time is
there to teach?"

Eyo pursed his lips.
He shifted uncomfortably. "It…it's late. I'm tired."

"What is the truth?"

"I told you…"

"The truth might
change my mind."

"I want to see what
Osati does. I think he will wake up some people and they'll talk about this."

"I should have
known. Learning is more important. Long ago healers used to have to rely on—"

"You can teach me
any time."

As good as he had
been at soothing people, Osati was better at working people up into a frenzy.
Katulo didn't want Eyo to be exposed to that. He tried a different approach. "Have
you ever seen a Waking?"

The question took
Eyo by surprise. "No, of course not. I am not yet sixteen."

"I will let you go
now, no teaching, and if you go straight to bed, then tomorrow, when all the
other children are sent away, I will make sure you can stay and watch."

"Really?" The idea
of watching a secret meeting paled in comparison to the chance to see a
mystical ceremony.

"Do you promise?"

"I promise." Eyo's
index finger mapped out a cross shape over his chest.

Katulo knew that Eyo
had no idea what the origin of that gesture was. The worship of that tortured
white saviour had faded from Burundi. "Good. You may leave."

Katulo continued
cleaning up. He got out an old rag and mopped up the blood. When he was
finished, he threw it and Chama's rent shirt into the dustbin. Finally, he blew
out the gas lamp and returned to his house. It took a long time for him to get
back to sleep. When he finally managed, he dreamt.

2

As with most young
boys, obedience did not come naturally to Katulo. When his father had told him
to stay behind with the women and other children, he immediately chose to do
the opposite. He was too clever to be fooled by his father's placatory, "They
need you to protect them." Katulo was fourteen, two years away from his
initiation ceremony. He was too old to stay where it was safe. When he asked
about the fighting, his father always told him, "You're too young to
understand." This angered him. He knew this was about those Hutus. Fenke at
school was a Hutu. He was stupid and Katulo knew it wasn't his fault. He couldn't
be blamed for being born that way. The fighting is because the Hutus are
stupid. What was so hard to understand about that?