Binti

Those women talked about me, the men probably did too. But none of them knew what I had, where I was going, who I was

I’d like to thank my daughter, Anyaugo, for essentially coming up with the plot of this novella. When you get stuck, ask a plucky imaginative eleven-year-old what happens next in the story; you’ll be unstuck in no time.

They say that when faced with a fight you cannot win, you can never predict what you will do next. But I’d always known I’d fight until I was killed.

“I am Binti Ekeopara Zuzu Dambu Kaipka of Namib,” I whispered.

Everyone in the dining hall was dead. At least one hundred people. I had a feeling everyone on the ship was dead.

We prefer to explore the universe by traveling inward, as opposed to outward.

I started to speak my family name to my astrolabe, but then I whispered, “No,” and rested it on my belly. My family was planets away by now; what more could they do than weep? I rubbed the on button and spoke, “Emergency.” The astrolabe warmed in my hands and emitted the calming scent of roses as it vibrated. Then it went cool. “Emergency,” I said again. This time it didn’t even warm up.

You never ask why.

It was not a question for you to ask.

It was the first time I’d received treatment similar to the way my people were treated on Earth by the Khoush. In a way, this set me at ease. People were people, everywhere. These professors were just like anyone else.