Today's Reading
CHAPTER 1
Year 2880 CE
Port Harcourt, Nigeria
MERCY OMOTOLA
Confusion—I felt sudden confusion, then pain, then horror. On my way to work, on a lovely warm morning just after a rain shower, I stood among other people at a street corner. I barely noticed the young woman as she approached us. Then she flew into me so violently that I was smashed onto the sidewalk beneath her.
Why? I'd done nothing to her. I tried to push her off, but my left shoulder burned with pain.
I raised my head and saw blood blooming lush-red. Was it mine? I was injured, I knew that. The flow and flash of color fascinated me until I forced myself to look away, disgusted at myself for finding beauty in gore. I tried to stand, too dazed to listen to the chip in my mind and its whispering, singsong voice telling me to be still—too dazed to obey my body, which told me the task exceeded my strength.
"Don't move," said a man with a startlingly deep voice. "Be calm." He bent over me, a stranger, his elegant eyes and mouth tight with concern. "There was an accident. A car struck a woman who was thrown on top of you. Help is on the way."
I tried to talk but ideas were too elusive to form into words.
He looked around, nodded, and said, "Here, let us take her off you."
He and another man picked up the young woman and placed her next to me. I realized they were acting on instructions from their own chips about how to help, and I felt relief. Things were under control.
But I could see the woman now, and she was limp. Her head—jewel-red blood imbued her hair and clothes and sparkled on open flesh, captivating.
I still didn't understand. Cars never hit anyone. I lay helpless and in danger on the sidewalk, and I tried to stand.
"Please, Mercy Omotola, stay still," a woman said as she knelt at my side. Her chip must have told her my name. She took one of my hands. "You will be all right, but please ... let the doctors do their job."
* * *
Meanwhile, you were watching from across the street, anonymous in a group of onlookers. You didn't know me, Mercy, and I didn't know you, but in time I came to understand everything about you. As you watched, what did you feel? Relief? The young woman who could have put you in grave danger was dead. Did you feel remorse? Terror? Her death might not be enough. Was it even your first murder? I still don't know if you felt anguish because an innocent bystander, me, had been hurt.
Other strangers were so very kind to me that morning, first those who came rushing to help, then the doctors who took me away, fussing at my shoulder—a broken collarbone, as it turned out. They took me to the nearest clinic and checked me carefully, my bloody clothing stripped off and a stiff white paper gown draped over me. I asked about the young woman, and they said they didn't know with a somber hesitancy that told me they did know, and the news was what I feared.
I closed my eyes and prayed for a blessing for her soul. And for blessings for all those who were so kind and helpful. I gave thanks for my life, confused as that blessing still felt.
Someone knocked on the post of our curtained-off room. "It's Ngozi," she announced in her raspy voice. I knew she was coming. I had listened to my chip that much. "Are you all right, Mercy?"
The doctor looked at me to answer as I chose, and I said, "Come in. I've broken a bone, but that seems to be all."
She stepped through the curtains, a tall, century-old woman not as exquisitely frail as she looked, with a colorful dress draped over her arm. She reached to hug me, then stopped herself, her wrinkle-rimmed eyes growing wide. Why? What did she see?
"Be very gentle," the doctor said. "She's badly bruised and sprained everywhere. We've sped healing of that bone." He had sent a diagnosis and instructions to me that I hadn't yet studied. I realized I should share them with Ngozi, so I sent them on, now not eager to know their news if the mere sight of me had made her hesitate.
She took my right hand as gentle as if it were made of spun sugar. My left arm was in a sling. By then the doctor was through with me and left so I could take off the rustling paper gown and put on the striking yellow and green dress she had brought. I desperately wanted to shower, to wash away the odor of blood, of death, and if I could, the color-filled sight of rent flesh. We walked out to the street. I was limping from a sprain and using Ngozi's cane without her elegance.
...
