The Future by Arah Ode'esidu Kuseme
Everything about the bleak area of the moon feels familiar, from the darkness to the cold windows that seem impervious to heat. Even the faces of weary travelers are still the same: blank and dead. Most of my co-workers still carry the glint of hope in their eyes; that underlying force pushes them to do more. It also enables them to break into silly smiles and laughs. Philo the Cashier regularly breaks into songs by 'The Cavemen', especially when she is cleaning. While Moussa makes a rhythm with his pen and the table, he must have been a drummer before he became a cashier. We all do these things to distract ourselves, but we never talk. All we do is grunt at one another perfunctorily. The only time we seem to communicate is over shared dismay as we stare at the television.
The vibrations on my geowatch remind me to take my lunch, something I've failed to do for the past ten years. Even the food feels bland and devoid of taste or any feeling. I walk from my kiosk to the building's cafeteria to order Fufu and Seafood Okro (your favorite meal). The only thing I have eaten since I landed in the hospital two months ago due to stress. I wish I died when you did, or I had something that made death a surety. Now we humans rarely get sick and have long lifespans. A lifespan of doing nothing.
I clean the tears that fall from my eyes as I stare at the meal. You would sometimes make a sign of the cross, or pray for your ancestors to safeguard the food. I always took your belief in God as stupidity. Why would a man of science like yourself believe in God? I fetch out your Ofo stick and try to repeat the mannerisms you did. They are routine to me now. It has been years since you died, but not to me. You feel very much alive. I sense the snickers from the various people eating, and I feel you. I can imagine your hand stretching over to touch my hand or trace my lips.
Umunna I have missed you, I have missed you in more ways than one. There are days when I jump on our bed and imagine you wrestling with me. Some days I even talk to your pictures and imagine responses. Death is truly cruel, so cruel. Why did you have to die? Why did you have to drink at the Pasha after we had that fight? Why did I fight with you? Why did I tell you that you're just an extension of your father? A word I knew you hated. What was wrong with me?? If I knew those words would drive you to become a victim of a gas leak, I would never have uttered them. Now all I am left with are questions.
I eat the remnants of my bland meal and walk back to my station. The Doctor in charge of my treatment is this short woman from Onitsha with a thick German accent that spreads over her Igbo, like butter over bread. She reminds me of you. She might even be your sister due to your similarities in face and name. She bears your surname, Okagbue, and also carries Kola. She's also the first lips that have touched mine in ten years. She's a different kind of lover, not like your soft and almost delicate loving. She relies on strength and power, a paradox for a woman her size. She knows I don't feel anything, but she's not rushing. She says there's time, and I believe there is. Umunna, I should return to the world. It's only fair I do. For the second time in years, I smile.
“I trashed the piece because I am not getting anywhere. I consider myself a failed writer. This is one of the best things I have produced but it is not just good enough. I am not getting any younger. I might just stop writing. That is why I trashed the piece.”
Arah Ode'esidu Kuseme is a writer who hails from Nigeria. He is a graduate of Animal Science from the University of Abuja. He has been writing short stories and poems since 2018. The themes represented in his work usually circle grief, heartbreak, and time. When he is not thinking of what to write, Ode'esidu spends his time playing football on dusty pitches. Instagram Username: S.acreatives