Two odds make it even

It’s like clockwork: our love. You wake up each day and sit at your desk. I wake up too and watch you do your thing before the sun rises high, high in the blue, blue sky.

Now: Life is distorted; time is too. Mangled remains are all we have. I miss my pencil skirts. I miss my office, and I miss listening to my patient's talk, talk, talk. I miss the confused faces of their deranged minds. I miss being able to sit, legs crossed, all professional and poised, staring at humans with scars of different ranges. You don't change your routine. It hurts. I want to hate you. I should hate you. How dare you act like life is normal when the world is a mess of wires interlocked like a web? How dare you technologists keep your job while we, the rest of us, suffer these job-withdrawal symptoms?

"Gee, baby." The words caress my earlobes, spoken like a chant from those lips of yours. You pull me closer, I stiffen. "Baby?"

I sigh against the sheets and watch you stand up reluctantly. Today is a numb, numb day. The sky, those wires. Everything is fucked! Why do I suddenly see the need to break down?

Flashing news: there's no fucking emergency line anymore! "Baby, why are you stiff?" you ask, pausing steps away from your laptop. One odd act. I burrow deeper into the sheets. Don't call me baby; I want to say. Call me 'My gee,' like you did back then—when we were just two people not looking for love but finding it. You take two steps closer to your place at the table with your ever-open laptop.

I watch your shoulder blades for a minute and turn, my neck angled upwards, avoiding your acne-scarred chin. Those scars I traced when pushed by the bouts of feverish ache at the fact that I loved. I love!

You sink into the mattress, dig your hands into the sheets to find my hand. It takes a while before you do, but when our skins touch, I'm suddenly transported to the past, pulled away from the present.

What is this? Odd act two. This is not routine. This is not what I know, not what I calculated for today. Then again, the sky is filled with wires, and the earth is without leaders, and there are AI's watching us from places we have not found, places we do not know. "My gee, how are you?" A tear slips down my face. No, no, no. I don't want to be a big baby. Your brows furrow, and you lift your free hand to caress the tears off my cheeks. "I love you," you mouth like you always do when you know I can't speak. It doesn't stop the tears today. Instead, it makes it flow more, and my chest pushes and pulls against itself. "We're odd," I manage to whisper. "Odd," I say again, this time in Igbo—holding unto you; holding unto culture. You smile, one crooked tooth catching the bedside lamplight. "We are. Come with me." You pull me with you.

I'm sitting on the floor beside you, snotty and achy, but I don't care. I'm transported back to when I was a little girl sitting by my Mom while she made dresses for countless people, pedalling away on her sewing machine. How odd: That I remember the woman I prayed to leave, that I wish every blessed day to carry a little one in this aching stomach of mine. I want to sing to an innocent being. I want to stare in awe at a child, a child I can call my own. I want to be more than I am. Not a psychologist. No. A mother. "Gee, smile for me."

I smile. I flip my dreads over my shoulder. Everything is fine. I love. You love. We show it in the ways we can. Just like those good old days when the world was normal. A world without all these mad, mad moves. Without this techy this and techy that and these wires, I can't seem to wrap my head around. "Will it ever be an even world?" I whisper.

"I guess with all these controlled lifestyles; it can be."

"I doubt." You pause your typing and turn towards me, your eyes compelling me. "You should never doubt."

"I do. I doubt it so much it hurts more than this new life—more than this emptiness in my stomach."

"Gee." A whisper. A warning. They're listening. "Fuck them!" It comes out, my dear. I have no control. But they can go to hell!

Whoever they are. AI's. An even world. We were evenly odd before all these. We did not need this—this regimented lifestyle. And I will not sit still and accept it. "Careful, Gee. I think you should sleep."

"Sleep is all I've been doing nowadays because of this myth of being even."

A spark. A hit. The wires explode. The sky is clear, but it's the same. Same old gloom. Same old oddity. A scream, more screams, more sorrow because I could not keep shut. Each time hateful words are said towards them, they strike. They cause more oddity in trying to make the world even. Invisible. Cruel. They. "My Gee!" The last I hear from you. The last before I've had enough.

I stand. Everything is in slow motion. The French windows pull me like a magnet. The air swirls around me. I step out into this oddity of a world, into this familiar yet strange dusty street clogged up with wires that resemble Christmas lights. "Gee!" You step out too, following me like a moth to a flame. Overwhelming. Light. Odd plus odd. Even. A faint smile. A light breeze. I look down: dusty Nigerian soil. I look up: black and red wires. You pull me close, and our bodies mould together as one. We are even.

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