Her mother cracks her bedroom door open and smiles down at her, silk robe drawn across her body. She bends down to Nomvula’s level and pulls her in tight. “More bad dreams, honey?”
Nomvula nods, nuzzling herself into the crook of her mother’s neck. Her skin smells sweet of jasmine and spice, and it makes Nomvula feel better already. She’s lost so much in the past few months—people, places, her powers—and yet now she has the one thing that she’s wanted all along.
“Shame, you poor thing. You want me to sing you to sleep?”
Nomvula nods again, then her mother takes her by the hand and together they walk slowly down the hallway to Nomvula’s room.
“She’s gone, honey. She’s not coming back,” her mother says. She leans her cane against the bedpost, then tucks Nomvula in. Her room is dark, but the faint yellow mono-eye of the alphie docked next to her bed casts a soft light across her mother’s face as she sings sweet, sweet lullabies. Her voice is so pure, so beautiful, it pushes away the shadows in Nomvula’s mind where the bad things lurk. And for a moment, she loses herself in happiness, smiles wide, and enjoys the miracle that is life. Not just music, but a window into the essence of her soul.
Nomvula’s eyes start to drift shut, certain there will only be sweet dreams tonight. And the next night. And the next.
Chapter 59
This Instance
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Observe: Human Nomvula Natrajan (Master) auditory interface with Human Riya Natrajan; Observe: Behavior matches previously observed parameters; Observe: Blood pressure sedate;
Observe: Exchange of terms of endearment; Output: This Instance does not believe that humans suspect; Output: This Instance believes that it is safe to accept further transmissions from the Clever Sect; Schedule: Total Domination of Humankind 28 January 2065 06:37:54:20:43; 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 01100110 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01101011 00100000
Acknowledgments
This is not a story of South Africa. I will never be capable of telling such a thing, even if I moved there and studied it until I had several prestigious letters tacked to the end of my name. That story does not belong to me. What I can do (and what I hope I have done) is weave you a gripping narrative of my relationship with South Africa—a relationship that is incomplete and imperfect, and that lasted as long as the average middle-school romance, but nonetheless, still burns fiercely in my heart.
During my sophomore year in college, I traveled to Port Elizabeth, South Africa, as a peer counselor for a program focused on renewable energy and environmental protection, thanks to the vision and support from Dr. Joshua Hill, the head of the program. This was only a few years after the end of apartheid, and from the moment we stepped foot in the country until we left, our group of black teens from Texas was welcomed with open arms. I will always be grateful for the unrivaled hospitality we experienced there. Our hosts permitted our curiosities and questions about their culture, and we entertained their fascinations with the old television series Dallas and the rap star Biggie Smalls. They demonstrated traditional dancing and singing, and we showed them the Harlem Shuffle. And finally, when it was nearing time for us to leave, they gifted us all with Xhosa names, and in return, I might have accidentally offended a whole room of people by demonstrating the “Hook ’em Horns” sign of my alma mater, which was apparently also a gesture for putting a curse on someone.
Sorry about that.
Townships were toured, beer bread was consumed, wildlife was observed, dik-diks were spotted. In many ways, this novel is a fictionalized travelog of sorts, though obviously not the sentient robots, disgruntled demigoddesses, and spirit animal mythos, for which I have to thank my overactive muse. But there would be no muse to thank, without first acknowledging the efforts of Chris Baty and the NaNoWriMo crew. Had it not been for National Novel Writing Month, I would never have dared to embark upon the adventure of writing a novel, much less finishing it in one month. (This is not that first NaNoWriMo novel, by the way. Nor the second. Nor the third.)
My first novel effort was seen, however, by Richard Derus, Writing Coach Extraordinaire, who decided I had enough raw skill for him to see fit to mold, and gave me a year-long crash course in writing craft and the business of publishing that could likely rival some degree programs. Bookstores and libraries and Austin diners were my classrooms, and my lessons often involved eavesdropping on other people’s conversations, reading books with covers that repulsed me, and having to recall from memory the exact shelf location of the dozen or so novels we’d perused during a visit to Borders. Years later, I realized there was a method to his madness. (Though I still suspect it was mostly madness.) Either way, I am beyond grateful to have received his instruction and encouragement.