Noor(4)

This day, my head ached and I smelled pepper. When I looked up, putting down the onion I was inspecting, I made eye contact with a beautiful man. He was sitting on a stool with some others. Some wore trousers and dress shirts; I recognized one of them, his name was Okenna Nwachukwu, a shop owner who’d sold my ex his car. Others wore agbada and sokoto; I did not know any of them. Dull and brilliant colors, dull and complex fabrics. All men.

Over the strong pepper scent, I could smell the scented oil the men wore. Sandalwood. These were probably men who’d lived in Abuja for a long time, maybe they’d been teens when the Red Eye began to pick up speed in the north. Their parents may have been the ones who shouted that desertification would surely stop and the dust storms would never make it farther than Jos. And maybe they’d been at Imam Shafi Abdulazeez’s event yesterday.

I didn’t like the way the beautiful man was looking at me. As if I weren’t supposed to be there. I shivered, feeling the hairs on my neck rise, becoming too aware of my dexterous metal hand; the sophisticated hand of a robot. I knew it was one of the first things he’d looked at and noted. Wearing a glove only brought more attention to my arm. People there are too nosy and curious. The fingers could twist in all directions, as could my wrist. I could extend the arm to twice its length. I’d gotten my cybernetic smart arm and hand when I was seventeen, when my doctor said I’d finally stopped growing and could have the surgery. Before that, my very short arm stump had been fitted with an externally-powered prosthetic. Yes, my arm and its hand were extraordinary, still highly experimental, and to save my parents the cost, I’d opted out of the “humanizing exterior” that felt, smelled, even reacted like human flesh.

But people knew me in this market.

So why were people staring at me today? Maybe they’d been staring at me all along. All these years. Since I’d come to Abuja. Maybe I just hadn’t noticed. And maybe I just hadn’t noticed today that tolerance of me had reached critical mass. Or maybe that damn imam had really gotten into people’s heads yesterday.

If you could, wouldn’t you replace your damaged legs with cybernetic ones? Why hold on to malfunctioning or poorly formed flesh and bone because “we were born with it”? That’s something said only by people who have no choice or have no actual experience with being . . . unable. What makes you you, really? I’m a mechanic. When something isn’t working, you replace it with something better, something that is working.

“Stop staring at me,” I muttered. My chest felt tight and I coughed. Some woman chuckled. Those men kept staring at me as they talked amongst themselves. I bought a bag of the onions and bell peppers I planned to use later in the evening despite my instincts telling me that I should leave.

The ground was pounded dirt that had been walked upon, stood upon, day in, day out. Sandals, boots, shoes, bare feet, the paws of cats and dogs, the taloned feet of vultures, the clawed feet of pigeons. It was soaked with spilled Fanta and Coca Cola. Sometimes it was turned to mud by the occasional rain. Leaves tumbled on it in the wind, trash was dropped on it, fruit was mashed into it. Motor oil, goat feces, chicken shit, semolina, garri. The dirt told everything. It was the greatest griot. It was blended with my tears, my skin cells, one of my torn off dreadlocks, the hot juice from my crushed peppers.

However, it wasn’t blended with my blood. That was their blood. Only their blood. None of mine. And yes, my legs and arms and several of my organs may be 3rd Life, but I do still have human blood. And I have a human heart. For now.

They spoke, then they yelled at me in Hausa, Igbo, Yoruba, but mostly in English. I understood all of them. A good mechanic knows how to communicate with customers, even when she can’t speak their language. Plus, YouTube had taught me how to build and take apart technology, and that includes the technology of language. Especially after I got the neural implants.

“What kind of woman are you?” the beautiful man asked me in English. He had a robust, well-groomed beard that he’d dyed reddish orange, full lips, bright sparkling light brown eyes. He was as tall as me and standing way too close. I could smell the perfumed oil he wore. Yes, sandalwood. One of my favorite scents.

I looked him in the eye. I could feel every part of my body, my pumping heart, my shaking hands. Adrenaline. I was furious. My head throbbed harder than ever. People knew me here. I took my time. I chose my words carefully. The beautiful Hausa man reminded me of my fiancé who’d asked the same question not long before he walked out the door. “What kind of woman are you?”

I said to him what I said to Olaniyi who hated all my augmentations so much yet still loved me, “I will never answer your question.” My voice was cold, even hard, and it was low. And as I spoke, I looked the beautiful man dead in the eye, just as I had looked into Olaniyi’s eyes.

And like Olaniyi, he slapped me in the face. But much much harder. Hard enough for my world to burst into silver, red and blue. It was as if Amadioha or Shango had slapped me. With an electrified hand. Like lightning. I was in a nightmare with my eyes open. I blinked and for a moment, I saw a million eyes, red red red eyes, a honeycomb of eyes, a pomegranate of eyes, all on me. Then all those men started beating me, and it was their wild eyes I saw between fists and feet. I don’t know when they’d stood from their stools.

No one helped me.

I don’t remember if anyone spoke or shouted. But I know that no one helped me. My eyes were open. I saw between the feet and legs, past the arms and I smelled the fear.