AFRICA 2070

“They killed grandma today. They said she was taking up space.”

I pause, praying that Alile will break the silence with a laugh and reassure me that she was joking.

“Adesina, did you hear me? They killed grandma. They killed her!”

I remain silent, still waiting for the punch line. This is not real. There’s no way this is real. They couldn’t have killed her. She’s a human being, for God’s sake. They couldn’t have just killed her.

“Adesina!” She roars, her voice growing hoarse, “Why are you just standing there? Do you hear me? She’s dead! She’s dead!” She wavers for a moment, her body swaying slightly as she stares at the ground with a befuddled expression. She falls suddenly to her knees and weeps; her sobs quake through her body violently, forcing awful, gut wrenching sounds from her throat.

I stand and watch my sister cry. Tears trail down the dark skin of her cheeks. I worry that she will further dehydrate herself, which would be disastrous considering the drought in Africa.

This is not real. This can’t be real.

Our mother walks into the room and observes the situation: her first daughter kneeling on the floor in despair, her second stone-faced and frozen in place.

“Come girls. Your father and grandmother don’t want to look down and see you wasting precious time. Our days are numbered, we must make the most of them.”

At that, my stony stance crumbles. I look into my mother’s eyes empathetically. To a stranger they would seem dark and cold; but I know better. This is a front she has been putting on since the day my father died in a fight with another farmer who wanted his land. That was the day she lost hope.

I wonder what she must be feeling now that her mother is dead too.

“Mama,” I say gently.

“Don’t, Adesina.”

In her eyes I see that she is apologetic and I immediately understand that this is something she will never be able to talk about with us. She exits the room quickly after this moment of vulnerability, mumbling something about gathering food for the next week.

By this time Alile has composed herself a bit and has reduced her sobs to soft sniffles.

“What are we going to do, Adesina?”

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, then open them and look right above her head.

“We’re going to gather food for next week. They killed grandma so the rest of us wouldn’t starve; we may as well eat.”

~

AMERICA 2070

“Have you seen the news today?”

I glance up from my homework to see my mom standing in the doorway of my bedroom. “Not really, I’ve been studying all day. Anything good?”

“They’re conducting genocides in Africa now. They’re killing anyone over 65 to save resources for the younger generations.”

I stare at her in disbelief, waiting for her to laugh and tell me she is joking. This can’t be real. There’s no way this is real.

“Mom…” I have no words. Here I am, fortunate enough to be living in a two-story home, going to a private school, and having seconds at dinner almost every night while there are families in Africa, the former Soviet Union, Europe, and Asia suffering every day because of the rapidly rising temperatures throughout the world. In America, or at least the part I live in—I’ve heard there are some areas of the country that struggle, but they don’t talk about that much on the news—our biggest problem is that we’ve had to invest in more powerful ACs for our homes and buildings and we’re now required to take a class about climate change in order to graduate from high school.

I’ve learned a lot from my class on climate change; its causes, its effects, how easily today’s disasters could have been prevented if we had acted in the early 2000s. We had hope until about 2020. Today, in 2070, we we’re pretty much doomed. They never told us that in school, but I realize it the moment my mom tells me the government is now committing genocide on the elderly.

“Lola? Are you okay?”

“How can I be okay mom? What if the government had killed Nana? How would you feel? What if it was us living the way they live in Africa, in Europe, Asia, or the former Soviet Union? How can I possibly be okay?”

“I was worried to tell you, I know you take these things really hard. I just figured you’d take it better from me than if you were to hear it by word of mouth.”

“Thanks Mom.” She’s right, but the news upset me nonetheless, “Do you mind giving me a minute alone?”

“Honey, you know this is out of your control. Don’t take it to heart, okay? Things will go back to normal eventually.” She smiles at me softly, trying to conceal the concern creeping into her features.

“I’m fine Mom,” I say earnestly, returning her smile. “I just need a moment to process.”

“Okay baby. Let me know if you need anything, I’m about to start dinner.” She leaves my room, shutting the door behind her.

I get up and lock the door a moment after she leaves before turning back and sitting in my bed. I try to make sense of the fact that each of my three family members and I get to sleep in our own king- or queen-sized bed every night while there are an overwhelming amount of people in several parts of the world without a home to sleep in at all due to the scarcity of resources. I try to make sense of the fact that my grandparents are nearly 80 years old and still healthy enough to have a decade of health ahead of them simply because they have the money to ensure themselves quality health care.

I know I don’t deserve the life I have. I don’t deserve to have a roof over my head. I don’t deserve to have food on my table every night. I don’t deserve to be safe while so many others are suffering. I don’t deserve to be alive any more than the thousands of elderly people being killed in Africa do.

I push my shirtsleeves up to my elbows to examine the horizontal lines that dance along my arm, starting at my wrists and ending all the way up at my biceps. As I observe the now faded scars, I feel for the first time in three years the familiar sensation of my fingers twitching in desire.

Three years, Lola, I tell myself. Three years.

I think of my mom crying on the corner of my bed as I told her how long this had been going on.

I think of my sister gripping my arms so hard that her fingers turned white.

I think of my dad screaming at my mother that this was her fault, that she had let this happen.

I stand and unlock my door, push it open, and sit back down to do homework.

~

AFRICA 2070

“Have you seen Alile?” I ask Mama. “She should be home by now.”

“She’ll be home soon,” she says without looking up from the rotting mango that she was cutting into very, very tiny pieces.

Mama used to be very overprotective of us when she could be. Now that we can’t afford technology she has no way of knowing where we are, so she acts as if she doesn’t worry in order to keep herself from feeling helpless.

I return to my task of cleaning the bucket we keep outside to collect rainwater whenever it happens to come by. It’s been weeks since it rained; if this dry spell lasts much longer we’ll be completely out of water. We won’t survive long that way.

There’s a loud banging on our door. I jolt upright, suddenly alert with fear. We never have visitors. I meet eyes with my mother, who looks equally uneasy.

We make our way to the door tentatively. Her body becomes rigid as she looks through the peephole. I try to ask her who it is in a hushed voice, but she silences me sharply, takes a breath to compose herself, and swings the door open with a smile.

“How can I help you, officers?”

Two large, hard-faced men tower over us in our doorway. They wear black uniforms only a few shades darker than their African skin. Our own brothers, yet not a trace of empathy in their faces.

“Is your daughter Alile Mosi?” The officer that speaks appears to be the more friendly of the two. His face softens as he voices my sister’s name.

My mother seems taken aback; her voice trembles as she answers, “Yes, why?”

“Did you have any idea that she was protesting outside of the police station today? Alone? She was screaming about a woman named Aduke—”

“Her grandmother, who one of you probably killed,” my mother interrupts sharply, her fear quickly budding into anger. “Where is Alile?”

“We’ve taken—we’re taking care of her. If you would answer my question, miss.”

“I had no idea she was protesting. Where is Alile?” She presses.

“It would be in your best interest not to lie to us, ma’am. I’ll ask you one more time—”

“Where is my daughter?” My mom shrieks, her body shifting towards the cops as if she is about to hurdle herself at them.

Before any of us can figure out if she is, the nice-looking cop unholsters his gun and shoots her between her eyes.

My mind shatters into pieces. I can no longer tell whether I am standing, or lying, or floating. I don’t feel my limbs, nor my breath, nor can I see. In my daze I hear a mumbled voice say something about those useless women being a waste of space anyways and suddenly all I see and hear is white noise and all I feel is warm, warm, warm… Grandmother and Daddy greeting me, Alile, Mama, warm, warm, warm, everyone sobbing but there is nothing to be sad about. I am alive again.

~

AMERICA 2070

I stare in bewilderment at the living room television as the horrifying scene plays over and over again. Two cops, two women. One moment they’re speaking, one moment half of them are shot dead for no apparent reason. Someone caught it on camera, but they didn’t bother to intervene after the first woman was killed. Although the camera is too grainy to show much detail, I can almost make out the expression on the younger woman’s face right before she’s shot. I think she’s smiling.

I shiver violently and turn off the television.

I don’t deserve to be alive.

Mom and Dad are still at work. My sister is out with her friends. How can they just live? How can they just continue to live while there are so many people dying?

I walk to my room slowly. I shut the door behind me. I lock it. I don’t deserve to be alive.

I try to lift my mattress gently, but it won’t budge. I haven’t done this in a while.

I use all of my force to yank my mattress out of place and the power of the movement causes it to flip off the bed and knock everything off my bedside. I don’t care.

I find my razor almost instantaneously. It’s been three years. I don’t care. I don’t deserve to be alive.

I go to the bathroom. I shut and lock the door behind me.

I look at myself in the mirror. I say, “This is for you, poor African women. If you don’t get to live, I don’t either.”

I slice my throat with the razor. I feel warm, warm, warm… floating, white noise, white light. The African women and their family greet me, warm, warm, warm, everyone sobbing but there is nothing to be sad about. I am dead now.