Coming of Edge 11: Survivors

“Mama? Bakari?” Familiar scent welcomed the girl as she closed the door. The cramped, dim and lengthy hallway in their small flat was stuffed as always. It took her some sorting to put her shoes away properly. The tiny wardrobe had no free hooks left, so she tried to place her jacket over another. She tried five times until it finally worked. She slowly moved her hands away and tried to be as extra careful and quiet – as if she could startle it and it would slide down again.

She entered the living room. It was overstuffed as well, and colorful. Her mother liked the knitted blankets and the trinkets she found in the local stores of Sint-Joost-ten-Node – a way of mollifying the longing for her homeland.
The old, convertible sofa was orderly, the bright cushions neatly placed next to each other. It was the place where her mother slept every night. Every evening she would make her bed here. Every morning she would recreate the couch, right before going to work.

The girl went to the kitchen. A note read that food was in the fridge and she hoped it was not Pilaf again. She opened the door and it was Pilaf again. She took the bowl and placed it in the microwave and turned the knob to set it for a few minutes. While she waited she picked up a thin magazine printed on cheap paper. It was from the local church and when she browsed through it lazily, she found an article and a photo of her mom. It showed her grinning widely in front of the arching entrance of the Sint-Mariakerk, holding a framed document and a bouquet of flowers. The description read:
“Our beloved servant Hatima Watoto was honored for her 20 years of contributions to our community.”

The girl smiled. Partly because she was happy for her mama. Partly because her mother was not very good at posing with style.

A ping of the microwave pulled her out of her thoughts. She fetched and carried the hot and steaming bowl carefully to the small table in the corner of the kitchen. The smell of the food made her realize how hungry she was. She got herself a spoon and a glass of tap water and started eating.

While she was eating she pulled out her old iPhone SE. The screen was webbed with fine cracks at the lower right but it was beautiful to her and was her greatest treasure. She very well remembered how her older brother had given it to her at Christmas two years ago. He had shown her how to bypass the government restrictions for kids. Taught her to get access to free AI tokens and where to find abliterated ones.
“It’s a secret, little sister. You mustn’t tell mama.” He had whispered to her that Christmas Eve before they went to sleep. The phone had been her constant companion ever since.

He had shown her SlapGapp which she opened just now.

She shoveled spoonfuls of Pilaf into her mouth while scrolling through her feed, passing entries of animal rights activists and make-up advice. Another black girl she liked talked about intersectional feminism and how the new EU federation needed to be shaped with the voices of the female and black communities as well. She moved past ads for fast-fashion clothes she could not afford. Another one praised the mental performance enhancement of a freely available drug ‘in the store around your corner!’

She found a new entry of that French boy going with the alias ‘cereBro’. He was extremely excited, claimed that he finally found a powered kid. A girl and she could manipulate matter and space! She made him eat snakes! She made a river flood!

He believed. His joy was real. And she wondered how it would feel like when someday a boy would be that inspired by her. The girl smiled.

The responses were shattering, though.
‘There was no flood, you idiot’.
‘You are a lunatic, making shit up. No one believes you.’
‘Movies or it didn’t happen! And don’t you dare faking them.’
‘(Smiley laughing with tears) Bangs to be hospitalized, you sucker.’

She typed a comment. She never had before, she always had only watched.

‘I believe you. (hearts)’

She did not send it, yet. It was a huge step. A decision which should be thought through very well. What would happen if he responded? What would happen if he did not respond at all?

She did not like that. What if others made jokes about her?

She attached a video. It was her other greatest secret next to the phone. She played it again and it was about everything she wished and hoped for.

The video showed her brother Bakari asleep. She had filmed him. He was happily snoring as she got really close. One of her hands had held the recording phone, the other a small LED light she had bought for one euro that day.
He sparkled. His skin had edges and small facets and caught the light in a myriad of tiny fragments which converted their dark room into a galaxy.

Maybe he was an obsidian. Maybe he was a black diamond.
Either way he was beautiful.

Her heart was beating hard as her finger hovered over the button to send the message.

Then she pushed it.

Strange exhilaration filled her, empowerment and courage. She stared at the screen for a few minutes, scrolling, reloading. Then she tried to take her mind elsewhere.
She looked at her bowl. The food was only lukewarm now and she had only eaten half of it.

She heard the door to the flat close. She panicked and scrambled to stuff the phone into her pocket. There were noises in the corridor, only moments now. She turned back to her food and tried to seem as casual and bored as she could.

Her mother came in. “Niara, my love.” Her mother beamed, she carried two bags with groceries.
“We have to celebrate today. I will prepare special dinner this evening.”

Niara wanted to ask her why, to keep up her charade, when an almost silent notification chimed in her pocket.