YEKINI
Yekini had one dream, and the ark was always in it.
She had never been religious—not in the old ways before the deluge, not in the new way of the master clerics, and not in the way of those who secretly tended to bygone spiritualities. Yekini should never have even known the tale of the ark and the flood. But somewhere between tower-wide broadcasts regaling denizens with sermons about the fulfillment of the Second Deluge, and Maame—who was intensely spiritual and knew too many tales from above and under the sea—learning about it was inevitable.
The dream was always the same. The ark’s keeper stood at the bow in a flowing robe, reaching out, asking Yekini to hand over the basket. Sometimes, it was Olókun who stood there, stretching forth a tentacle. Sometimes, it was Noah, with a bushy beard and a tight squint, crow’s-feet at the edge of his eyes. Other times it was Sekhmet in her lioness head, or Uta-napishtim looking like immortality personified, or Deucalion or Waynaboozhoo or Manu. Sometimes, the ark was a boat or a ship or a raft.
Regardless of who stood there or on what, Yekini always looked down, into the face of the baby in the basket.
The baby was her—or at least had her face. Sometimes, the face was that of her foster grandfather, Maame’s husband—an approximation, since he passed before Yekini was three. Sometimes, it was what she imagined her own parents would’ve looked like if they’d survived long enough for her infant brain to retain their features. Sometimes, it was a friend, a colleague, an acquaintance. Always someone she could choose to save.
The real problem was that she always chose not to.
The ark’s keeper would try to collect the basket from her, but she would hold on, fingers locked in a vise grip, knuckles taut. Halfway through this tug-of-war, her awareness would return, and she would see that they were not standing on the deck of the ark or boat or raft, but on the roof of the Pinnacle, overlooking the other four towers of the Fingers—back when they were still beacons of radiant hope, long before they fell and became derelict. Except, this wasn’t the Fingers, but Old Lagos from the time before the waters, how she’d seen the city portrayed in media feeds.
And just when she thought of that, the waters would come.
The wind always arrived first, tickling her eyebrows, and when she looked down, the waters would rise, rise, without warning, as the reports had said they did. One moment, yellow automobiles plied the streets far below; next moment, they floated on their sides alongside everything else: trees, buildings, people. She would look up and realize the ark was not the ark at all, but a rescue helicopter, taking off with the ark’s keeper staring out the window, shaking their head as they left her standing there with the basket. The basket, which, when she looked down, was now empty, lacking answers yet filled with questions.
Then she would wake up in a sweat and realize she was late for work.
* * *
Today, for instance.
0730, Day 262, Year 059 the glowing numbers on her nightstand read, which meant she was on the morning rota, which meant she was due at work in half an hour, which meant she had slept through her alarm—which meant her dreams were becoming more intense.
Yekini scrambled out of bed, slammed her knee into the built-in nightstand and cursed. She crawled to the kitchen, put a dishcloth under the spigot, squeezed, and wiped her armpits and privates. Next: a breath mint. Between cleaning teeth and dressing up, there was only time for one.
When the pain in her knee subsided, she slid the wardrobe open, moisturized her locs and palm-rolled those closest to her face while picking out a clean suit. Midder dress code for work was pastels, and she went for a quick and efficient gray and white. She was halfway through stepping into her shoes when she heard Maame’s raspy breathing from the living room.
Shit.
Yekini hopped to the kitchen and programmed a breakfast sequence for her grandmother. As the pot confirmed prep settings for corn pap, she popped her head around the doorway to see if the woman was awake. Dim light washed over Maame from the screen she’d been watching the night before, but her chair was still reclined to its sleep position, her eyes still shut.
Yekini whispered the remaining instructions to the unit’s assistant: Shut off screen, set timed lights, set alarms for Maame’s medication, set alarms for Maame’s programs. The assistant whispered back its confirmation. Satisfied, Yekini slipped out the door and whispered her final instructions for a timed lock.
The hallway outside was like most Pinnacle corridors: wide and curved. Yekini ran for the elevators, often not seeing oncoming pedestrians until she’d almost bumped into them. It took her a while to realize she was on the southbound track. She crossed quickly to the outer northbound track, to the dismay of a tram driver who almost careened into her. No time to apologize. She had to make the elevators.
She arrived just in time to catch the last one, slipping in before the doors closed, breathing heavily, sweat lining her neck. The car advanced upward, packed full of midders like her who worked so high up the tower that their shoulders almost brushed the Uppers. Most were dressed in the same way as she—essential, minimalist—making it clear they also worked in some arm of government.
They shot her glances anyway. Perhaps today it was the sweat and her slightly rumpled clothes. But it could just as easily have been the blotch of yellow dye in the corner of her hair, or the fancy pin on her suit. She enjoyed a dash of color every now and then. Her coworkers and superiors, like most midders, did not.
Once the car eased into level 66 and the doors opened, Yekini shot down the corridor, glancing at her wearable every few seconds. 0756, 0758, 0759. At 0800, she crossed the sign that said COMMISSION FOR THE PROTECTION OF THE FINGERS.
A grid of workstations, laid out over the large floor, welcomed her into the agency. She scurried through them to the workzone in the rear that read ANALYSTS, one eye on the clock. Her station, all the way in the back row where junior analysts sat, was within reach. She raced to her desk and pressed her finger onto the station scanner, clocking in. The desk pinged its acceptance and began to process. Yekini crossed her fingers, counting the seconds, wishing for a miracle.
The desk pinged. You Have Arrived, it congratulated her. 0801 hours.
“Fuck me,” said Yekini, slumping into the chair.
She leaned her head back over the headrest, waiting for a second ping, one that was definitely going to be bad news. Sure enough, before her thought was complete, the desk pinged one more time. Yekini sighed, tapped the screen, read the message, then frowned.
This was a mistake, surely? She’d only been a minute late this time—that didn’t warrant this kind of response. And yes, her punctuality strikes had racked up, blah blah blah, but … something was wrong here. Something had to be.
Because why on Savior’s given waters would they send her undersea?
YEKINI
“Undersea?” a voice said from behind Yekini. “Aha, aha!”
Monsignor was an analyst with square shoulders and droopy lips, stationed opposite Yekini’s desk. He began to clap, whistling, yelling, “Undersea! Undersea!”
Others in the workzone joined in. It wasn’t every day someone got sent below surface—once or twice a year, maybe. Privilege or punishment—it could be either. This was a task that had to be earned, either by racking up good deeds, making terrible gaffes, or both.
Monsignor goaded his coworkers, turning to Yekini to do the honors. Typically, the agent in question would show good comradeship by offering a mock bow, indulging everyone.
Yekini was not a good comrade.
“Sit down,” she hissed. Monsignor complied grudgingly. The applause petered out.
“You did ask for a solo field assignment,” he said.
“Yeah, but undersea for my first?” She shook her head, staring at the message. “That’s not…”
“Routine? Coincidence?” Monsignor turned the seat around and straddled it, arms folded across the backrest. “Yeah, no. You must’ve pissed somebody off. Makes sense if they decided your first solo be down in the Lowers. Teach you a bit of a lesson.”
Yekini glared at Monsignor, but she knew he was right. Even senior analysts with proper butt-in-chair and hands-on-station time didn’t go out into the field much, and fewer still went below surface. She’d progressed quickly enough to be considered for six field assignments since joining the Commission three years ago, but had been rejected for them all. Midder assignments, too, those ones. This was a whole new level. Literally.
“I didn’t piss anyone off,” Yekini said, more to herself than Monsignor, who was now taking a mint from the bowl on her desk. She shot him a hard side-eye and he put it back reluctantly, pushing her screen aside to get a clearer view of her face.
“Congratulations either way. Shey they say those who go below surface are the hardboiled ones? Maybe being elevated from desk junkie straight to field agent is more blessing than curse. Girl, be happy.”
Yekini pulled her screen back to its former position. Monsignor, finally sensing her irritation, swiveled his chair away. She turned to her screen, swiping the message to and fro, bringing it in and out of view, as if she could glean more meaning each time she looked at it anew.
“Better stop swiping and go prep,” Monsignor said without turning. “If you have any query, talk to Timipre before you go.”
Yekini stared some more before taking Monsignor’s advice. She strode down the hallway, to the office door that said DIRECTOR: MERIT TIMIPRE. The door was locked and there was no light at the bottom.
Well, then. Talking to the director would have to wait. One hour left before mobilization, and she knew what she’d rather spend it on. She needed to gather as much information as possible about the Lowers, and get the resources required for the trip from Storage.
Luckily for her, there was one person who could guide her through both.
* * *
“Undersea,” Nabata said, and whistled.
“You people are overdoing the melodrama at this rate.”
“What can I say? I’m not sure whether to congratulate you or tell you sorry.”
“Just process my order and let me know what’s up.”
Nabata, small and lively and always in one form of headdress or another—today it was a turban—swung the half door that said EQUIPMENT STORAGE STAFF ONLY and angled her head for Yekini to follow.
They went together into the massive warehouse. Metal shelves ran screed to ceiling in the multi-floor area. Drones zipped about on errands, scanning, grabbing, offloading, restocking. The two women headed for the nearest request station, accessible via a metal gangway. Nabata thumbed it, and Yekini punched in her assignment code. The list of required protective equipment for her assignment came onscreen: helmet, lightweight capped boots with suction grip, body armor with inflatable lining, firearm.
“Savior above,” Yekini said. “A firearm?”
“It’s the Lowers, madam,” Nabata said. “You know what they say: prepare for anything.”
Yekini snickered. “They. As if you aren’t one of them doing the saying.”
Nabata held her hands up in mock denial. “I can neither confirm nor deny that I’ve ever used such words.”
They double-checked the list to be sure they had everything.
“I haven’t even held a firearm since boot camp,” Yekini said. “And I know my oga at the top has been very particular about ammunition being limited.”
“They must really need you to go down there, hmm?”
“Apparently. But why?”
Nabata shrugged. “You did say you wanted—”
“—a field job, yes I know, you people can stop reminding me.”
Nabata laughed. “Sorry. Architect of your own misfortune.”
They sent off the order. The station chimed its approval, and a drone whirred up somewhere and started off on the errand.
“It’s true you’ve been wasting behind that station, though,” said Nabata. “But then, you also have stronghead, and it shows, even in your correspondence. Someone definitely wants this to be a mindfuck.”
“Yeah.” What Yekini didn’t say was that somewhere within her, something even stronger than her own will, antsier than her own nerves, was pushing, pushing, pushing. Showing up in her dreams. It was not by choice that she’d wanted to get out of that chair. It was a force to which she had no choice but to succumb.
“Undersea no bad reach like that, though,” Nabata said. “Everyone just talks about it as if people go there to die. I mean, I was born and raised there. Am I dead?”
The two women had met at a Commission-wide Midder event and bonded over a shared contempt for the way Pinnacle citizens spoke about the below surface. Especially after they’d had a drink too many, and their teeth had given up gating their disdain. Yekini had a particular bone to pick with the midders who lived on the very last above-sea level, those who could look outside and see the water surface right there—even they had the gall to talk shit about those living undersea.
Nabata had crawled her way up to the lowest levels of the Midders by luck—she had won the migration lottery and was now one of those lucky enough to work for the Commission. Liberated from the depths of undersea, as the Office of the Pinnacle Leadership would say in tower-wide broadcasts. At the party, the two women had carved out a corner of the room and taken to bashing their haughtier colleagues. There was a lot of laughing, possibly helped by the fact that they, too, had been plied with drink.
Copyright © 2024 by Suyi Davies Okungbowa
