Alien Stories

  ALIEN STORIES

  WINNER OF THE SHORT FICTION PRIZE

  ALIEN STORIES

  by

  E.C. OSONDU

  AMERICAN READER SERIES, NO. 36

  BOA EDITIONS, LTD. ROCHESTER, NY 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by E.C. Osondu

  All rights reserved

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition

  21 22 23 24 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For information about permission to reuse any material from this book, please contact The Permissions Company at www.permissionscompany.com or e-mail permdude@gmail.com.

  Publications by BOA Editions, Ltd.—a not-for-profit corporation under section 501 (c) (3) of the United States Internal Revenue Code—are made possible with funds from a variety of sources, including public funds from the Literature Program of the National Endowment for the Arts; the New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency; and the County of Monroe, NY. Private funding sources include the Max and Marian Farash Charitable Foundation; the Mary S. Mulligan Charitable Trust; the Rochester Area Community Foundation; the Ames-Amzalak Memorial Trust in memory of Henry Ames, Semon Amzalak, and Dan Amzalak; the LGBT Fund of Greater Rochester; and contributions from many individuals nationwide. See Colophon for special individual acknowledgments.

  Cover Design: Sandy Knight

  Cover Art: Roslyn Rose

  Interior Design and Composition: Richard Foerster

  BOA Logo: Mirko

  BOA Editions books are available electronically through BookShare, an online distributor offering Large-Print, Braille, Multimedia Audio Book, and Dyslexic formats, as well as through e-readers that feature text to speech capabilities.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Osondu, E. C., author.

  Title: Alien stories / by E. C. Osondu.

  Description: First edition. | Rochester, NY : BOA Editions, Ltd., 2021. | Series: American reader series ; no. 36 | Summary: “Short Fiction Prize-winning collection of short stories that use science fiction to explore immigration, diaspora, and the concept of otherness”—Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020048760 (print) | LCCN 2020048761 (ebook) | ISBN 9781950774319 (paperback) | ISBN 9781950774326 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Science fiction, Nigerian (English) | LCGFT: Short stories.

  Classification: LCC PR9387.9.O856 A79 2021 (print) | LCC PR9387.9.O856 (ebook) | DDC 823/.914—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020048760

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020048761

  BOA Editions, Ltd.

  250 North Goodman Street, Suite 306

  Rochester, NY 14607

  www.boaeditions.org

  A. Poulin, Jr., Founder (1938–1996)

  For my family—Evelyn, Michael, Chuchu, Cheta, CJ.

  CONTENTS

  Alien Enactors

  Memory Store

  How to Raise an Alien Baby

  Visitors

  Feast

  Mark

  Spaceship

  Sacrifice

  Light

  Traveler

  Debriefing

  Focus Group

  Child’s Play

  Who Is in the Garden?

  On the Lost Tribes of the Black World

  Love Affair

  The Home Companion

  All Our Earthly Possessions

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Colophon

  Alien Enactors

  The Instaratings from my previous week’s enactments were stellar. At the Ranch when one received an outstanding Instarating as I just did, one figuratively walked on air. One did not need to do a Selfcrit like the others. One did not have to ask oneself seven critical questions and provide seven critical responses. Great Instaratings made one feel like a contestant in that show from long ago, Survivor, who did well in the team challenge and got a chance to scarf down caviar and Gruyère cheese and chilled Pinot Grigio while their opponents who lost subsisted on locust and wild honey or whatever miserable victuals losers were allowed to eat.

  Not that we were allowed to gloat at the Ranch. We were one big team. We were one happy family. We were here to support each other. We would be nothing without each other. That was the whole idea: to be each other’s keeper. So gloating was not allowed, but it was OK to feel good.

  My duty was to enact Africa for guests, and oh boy, how they loved my act. I pulled no stops. I made each of the clients wear a colorful dashiki and I had them gather around in a circle and then encouraged them to empty their minds and get rid of their old personalities and visualize themselves sitting under an iroko tree in an African village square. I started my enactment with the obligatory proverb about how it took a village to raise a child—popularized by a female politician. Allow me to make a little confession here: in all my years growing up in Africa I had never heard anybody use that particular proverb. Oh well … different strokes and all that, but it is a cute proverb all the same and my guests lapped it up.

  I told my guests an African folktale filled with talking animals and cruel kings and precious princesses and trembling subjects. I made them sing and dance and had them play the parts of different animals within the story. They were all truly transported to the heart of the eternal drumbeat that was Africa.

  No wonder they Instarated my enactment as outstanding.

  Ling, my colleague, had received less than stellar ratings. Let us just say her ratings had been abysmal lately. The truth hurts, right? I know. But sometimes you have to bite the bullet, swallow the bitter pill and say the truth even if it did not make everyone feel gruntled. Ling’s fire was dimming; at least that was what most people at the Ranch were saying.

  Ling’s ratings were slipping; it was there for all to see. In her Selfcrit, instead of asking herself the seven critical questions and providing answers to them, she was busy blaming the clients. She complained that her clients were the wrong sort. She said her clients did not give her the chance to display her creativity and expertise.

  She seemed to have forgotten our Two Suggestions. As the Suggestion Book always reminded us, these were not rules but suggestions because we were free moral agents and not mindless automatons.

  Suggestion Number 1: The client is always right.

  Suggestion Number 2: When in doubt, see Suggestion Number 1 above.

  I pulled up Ling on my Palm screen and typed a smiley face.

  Ling responded with a teary face.

  I typed a sad face with a frowny mouth and sad eyes.

  Ling responded with a requested that we meet in person.

  I obliged.

  “Chinese food, food, food, that is all they want me to talk about,” she said.

  She’d been crying and her heavy makeup was ruined. Her red cheongsam was all askew. She was not looking good. Still, one needs to be a good colleague and we were all one here at the Ranch and we should be our brother’s or sister’s keeper as the case may be.

  “Ling, my Instaratings were quite low at one time, remember? They were all a little less complimentary, but I pulled myself up by the bootstraps and refused to be down at the mouth, and look at me today.”

  I bit back my tongue as I reminded myself not to come off as boastful or immodest. I had a responsibility to help Ling get back on her feet and be the best she could be so the Ranch would fulfill its corporate destiny and raison d’être.

  “What can I do to help?” I asked.

  “To be honest, I don’t know. I think the problem is China. They want to talk about Chinese food. I wouldn’t have a problem talking about General Tso’s Chicken and Peking Duck and Sesame Chicken if that would open the door to great Instaratin
gs, but the clients hardly give me a chance. I think some of the guests would prefer that I cook them Chinese food. The truth is, I wouldn’t know how to cook the stuff if … You know, I don’t even like Chinese food.”

  Ling realized she’d gone a little too far. What she’d just said verged on being too big of a self-reveal. This was not Selfcrit. And even in Selfcrit one was not allowed to suggest one was incompetent or less-than in any possible way. The language of Selfcrit was slanted just so, that one did not come across as a slacker.

  One said stuff like: I struggle to connect with my clients at every level sometimes.

  I am not often at my optimal cheerfulness.

  I need to work really harder at being more perfect.

  I need to be more fired-up.

  I must become the role I play every day.

  We were all colleagues at the Ranch and were all fit and competent and were the best to be found and had been found worthy in both character and learning. We were the chosen ones. It was a grievous error to admit that we were less than competent or not the best or not the peak of the pack.

  I honestly wanted to help Ling.

  “Look, Ling, I know how less than encouraging these less than optimal Instaratings could be, but have you considered maybe telling Chinese folktales? Chinese legends are amazing. My African folktales are usually a big hit with my clients.”

  “Chinese folktales? Hmm, they are not like your African stories, you know. In Chinese folktales those who do good end up being punished. No good deed ever goes unpunished.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  “Have you heard the one about the four dragons that tried to save the people of China from drought?”

  “I have not, but I think dragons are cool,” I said.

  “Once, there was a drought, and the Chinese people were dying of starvation and thirst because there was no rain. When the four dragons heard the cries of the people, they decided to intercede on their behalf by pleading with the Jade Emperor to send down rain. The Jade Emperor said he would send down rain but promptly forgot about it. The dragons decided to get water from the sea and pour it down from the sky like rain, and when they did this, people were happy. However, when the Jade Emperor heard what the dragons had done he was furious at them for usurping his role. The Jade Emperor called down four mountains to imprison the four dragons. The four kind-hearted dragons ended up dying in their mountain prison.”

  “Ah,” I said again, even more emphatically this time. “That one sounds a bit uncheerful.”

  “You see what I mean?” Ling asked.

  I indeed saw what she meant, but I was not going to tell her that.

  “You can always be creative with your stories, you know. I use a bit of creativity every now and again, myself,” I said.

  “You do?” Ling asked, sounding a little bit ominous.

  I glanced awkwardly at my Palm screen.

  “I see, you have to get back to work,” Ling said.

  I half nodded.

  “I am so sorry I’ve been such a pest,” Ling said. “I must learn to pick up after myself.”

  “We all have our less than optimal moments,” I said.

  I watched from the corner of my eyes as she schlepped away with her head bowed.

  My Palm screen lit up in blue, and a message scrolled across.

  You have clients. You have clients. You have clients.

  I straightened up and put on my game face, or rather my Africa enactment face. I was ready to go get ’em.

  I checked my Palm screen.

  My heart thumped loudly. It was so hard I could hear it in my ears.

  It was somewhat true what they always told us about being an enactor at the Ranch—no two clients were ever the same. This was the fun part of our calling.

  “Jambo!” my client greeted me, over-cheerfully.

  “Jambo!” I hailed back, slightly raising the pitch of my voice to match his high-octane enthusiasm.

  He was wearing a dashiki and had a necklace made from seashells and cowrie beads around his neck. He began addressing me after shaking my hand vigorously and elaborately.

  “Ah, I miss Africa. I never knew I was going to miss it until I left. I seemed to live more while I was there. Life seems to come at you in waves over there. You feel more. You know what I mean, right? More alive. More aware. More aware of the fact that every blessed moment could be your last. Boom, you are about to cross the road without looking left or right like everyone else and boom seemingly out of nowhere a matatu with loud music booming from its loudspeakers runs into you and boom you are on your way to meet your maker. Just like that. Boom!”

  “Boom!” I said.

  I sensed he was going to do all the talking, so I let him.

  “That smell. You know that smell, right? There is nothing quite like that smell. The smell of Africa.”

  “We can make that smell happen for you right here at the Ranch,” I said.

  “You can?” he asked.

  “Just give me one second,” I said.

  I gathered dry banana leaves and corn husks and built a little fire. I sprinkled a few seeds of cayenne pepper on it as soon as the leaves started burning.

  He sniffed the air like a young rodent. He breathed in, then sniffed again.

  “The smell, the smell. I can smell Africa again. It smells just right,” he said.

  “That is what the Ranch is here to do for you. We do our best to make our guests happy,” I said.

  “You know, unlike most people who go to Africa, I did not see myself going to Africa in the mold of some kind of Save Africa Messiah. I was kind of hoping to get away somewhere to save myself. I did not go with the intention of helping orphans. Don’t get me wrong, helping orphans is great, and orphans, of which there are a great number in Africa, need all the help they can get. But to be honest, I could barely help me.”

  “There is no place like Africa,” I said.

  “Let me tell you this, Africa was the only place that did not judge me. I was used to being judged by family, judged in school, judged at the shitty dead-end jobs where I typically got fired after a few weeks, but Africa never judged me.”

  “The motherland never judges anyone,” I said.

  The fire was burning out. The Africa smell was fading. His time was running out. I liked guests like him. He was the one who did all the performing. Don’t get me wrong, though. I did of course love to enact.

  I looked at my Palm screen.

  He looked at me.

  “Ah, I nearly forgot myself. You don’t operate on African Time here. You know, back in Africa their attitude to time was one thing that I loved about them. Their sense of time is straight out of Salvador Dali’s The Persistence of Memory. They know something we don’t know over here—time is made for man, man is not made for time.”

  “No truer word has ever been said.”

  “Speaking of which, I have to skedaddle,” he said.

  I thanked him as the Instarating prompt came on. I looked away like a good waiter does at tipping time.

  As soon as he walked off, I checked my Instarating.

  Excellent!

  He’d even included an exclamation mark.

  I was reluctant to admit it publicly, but there was no doubt I was on a roll. Who knows, maybe soon I would become a Leader. In the history of the Ranch none of those who enacted Africa had ever risen to become Leaders. I could be the first. Who knows? I did not dwell on these thoughts for too long. One had to watch out for shortcomings like arrogance, pride, and immodesty. It was OK to take pride in one’s work but one must remember that the Ranch was all little parts working together as one. This was one of the principles that I taught my guests as being at the core of African personhood. This was what Ubuntu stood for. This was acknowledging that one was nothing without others. One was only a person because of other people.

  It was time to clock out. I switched off my Palm screen. Of course, everyone knew the Palm screen never really went off and never stops watchin
g you.

  At the dining hall that night, I was the object of all manners of accolades. Other performers slapped my back. From every corner of the hall my fellow enactors called out to me.

  “Africa rising,” some said.

  “Black power,” some called out.

  “Africa on top,” another said.

  “Africa on the move,” yet another called out in greeting.

  There were questions from all sides.

  “Can you tell us how you do it?”

  “What is the secret of your success?”

  “What can I do to improve?”

  I smiled and remembered that one needed to be modest especially with fellow enactors because everyone at the Ranch was a person because of everyone else. I reined in the surge of pride growing in my chest and put on my modest face.

  “I could not have done it without you, my fellow enactors. If I am standing tall today, you all know what they say, right? It is because I’m standing on the shoulders of my fellow enactors. We are all enacting great continents. We just need to make our clients connect with our beloved continents and watch those ratings go stratospheric.”

  “Great speech,” they said.

  “Morale-boosting speech,” they said.

  “Hear, hear,” they said.

  I scanned the length and breadth of the dining hall for Ling. She was sitting by herself in a corner. She was like the unpopular kid in high school who sat alone during lunch and had serial killing in their future.

  I could see her dinner on her Styrofoam plate. It was a single baby carrot. She was having a single baby carrot for lunch. She needed her morale boosted. She needed a pep talk. She needed a puff of air beneath her wings. Who better to give it than the man who’d just made a great morale-boosting speech? However, as I walked towards her lonely table, she stood up and walked away, her eyes on the grotty floor.

  I asked myself a bunch of questions.

  Had I somehow hurt her by being immodest?

  Had I been less than supportive to my fellow enactor?

  Had I done anything to make her feel a little less about her personhood?