An alien artifact turns a young girl into Death's adopted daughter in Remote Control, a thrilling sci-fi tale of community and female empowerment from Nebula and Hugo Award-winner Nnedi Okorafor
Winner of the AudioFile Earphones Award
"Narrator Adjoa Andoh captivates listeners with a stunning new sci-fi novella set in a near-future Ghana. Andoh is perfectly in tune with Okorafor's compelling story, smoothly switching between her British accent as the narrator and the intonations of the vibrant characters she brings to life." -- AudioFile Magazine
“She’s the adopted daughter of the Angel of Death. Beware of her. Mind her. Death guards her like one of its own.”
The day Fatima forgot her name, Death paid a visit. From hereon in she would be known as Sankofa—a name that meant nothing to anyone but her, the only tie to her family and her past.
Her touch is death, and with a glance a town can fall. And she walks—alone, except for her fox companion—searching for the object that came from the sky and gave itself to her when the meteors fell and when she was yet unchanged; searching for answers.
But is there a greater purpose for Sankofa, now that Death is her constant companion?
A Macmillan Audio production from Tor.com
Release date:
January 19, 2021
Publisher:
Tom Doherty Associates
Print pages:
160
Reader says this book is...: future societies (1) thought-provoking (1)
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The moon was just rising when Sankofa came up the dirt road. Her leather sandals slapped her heels softly as she walked. Small swift steps made with small swift feet. When she passed by, the crickets did not stop singing, the owls did not stop hooting and the aardvark in the bushes beside the road did not stop foraging for termites. Yards behind her, in the darkness, trotted the small red-furred fox rumored to follow her wherever she went. This type of creature wasn’t known to live in Ghana, but stranger things were always afoot when Sankofa was around.
Sankofa was fourteen years old, but her petite frame and chubby cheeks made her look closer to ten. Her outfit was a miniature version of what the older more affluent Mamprusi women of northern Ghana wore—a hand-dyed long yellow BioSilk skirt, a matching top embroidered with expensive lace, and a purple and yellow headband made of twisted cloth. She wore the gold hoop earrings, too. She’d done the head wrap exactly as her mother used to when her mother visited friends. Beneath the head wrap, Sankofa covered her bald head with a short-haired black wig. She’d slathered her scalp with two extra coats of the thick shea butter she’d recently bought, so the wig wasn’t itchy at all. She also applied a thin layer to her face, taking care to massage it into where her eyebrows used to be. Despite the night’s cloying heat, the shea butter and her elaborate heavy outfit, she felt quite cool … at the moment.
A young man leaned against a mud hut smoking a cigarette in the dark. As he blew out smoke, he spotted her. Choking on the last puff, he cupped his hand over his mouth. “Sankofa is coming,” he hollered in Ewe, grabbing the doorknob and shoving the door open. “Sankofa is coming!”
People peeked out windows, doorways, from around corners and over their shoulders. Nostrils flared, eyes were wide, mouths opened and healthy hearts pounded like crazy.
“Sankofa come, ooooo!” someone shouted in pidgin English.
“Shia! Sankofa a ba!”
“Sankofa strolling!”
“Sankofa, Sankofa, ooo!”
“Here she comes! Aaa ba ei!”
“Beware of remote control, o! The most powerful of all witchcraft!”
“Sankofa bird landing!”
Women scooped up toddlers playing in the dirt and ushered their older children inside. Doors shut. Steps quickened. Car doors slammed and those cars sped off.
The girl called Sankofa walked up the quiet deserted road of the town that was pretending to be full of ghosts. Her face was dark and sweet and her jaw was set. The only item she carried was the amulet bag a juju man had given her five years ago, not long after she left home. It softly bounced against her hip. Its contents were simple: a roll of money that she rarely needed, a wind-up watch, a jar of shea butter bigger than a grown man’s fist, a hand-drawn map of Accra, and a tightly rolled-up book. For the last week, her book had been an old old copy of No Orchids for Miss Blandish, a paper novel she barely understood yet enjoyed reading. Before that, a crumbling copy of Gulliver’s Travels.
The town was clearly not poor. There were a few huts, but they were well built and well kept. This night, though dark as a cave, Sankofa could see hints of bright light coming from within. These mud huts had electricity. People feared her but they still wanted to watch television. Beside them were modern homes, which equally feigned vacancy. Sankofa felt the town staring at her as she walked. It was hoping, wishing, praying that she would pass through, a wraith in the darkness.
She set her eye on the largest most modern-looking home in the neighborhood. The huge hulking white mansion with a red roof surrounded by a large white concrete gate topped with broken green bottle glass was easy to see. As she approached the white gate, she noticed a large black spider walking up the side. Its long strong legs and hairy robust body looked like the hand of a wraith.
“Good evening,” Sankofa said in Mampruli as she stepped up to the gate’s door. The spider paused, seeming to acknowledge and greet her back. Then it continued on its way up, into the forest of broken glass on top of the gate. Sankofa smiled. Spiders always had better things to do. She wondered what story it would weave about her and how far the story would carry. She lifted her chin, raised a small fist and knocked on the gate’s door. “Excuse me, I would like to come in,” she called in Twi. She wasn’t sure how far she’d come. Better to stick to the language most understood. Then she thought better of it and switched to English. “Gateman, I have come to call on the family that lives here.”
When there was no response, she turned the knob. As expected, it was unlocked. The gateman stood on the other side of the large driveway, near the garage. He wore navy blue pants, a crisp white shirt and a blank look on his face. He carried prayer beads, counting them along with shaking fingers. There was a light on over the garage and she could see his face clearly. Then he turned and spat to the side, making no move to escort her to the house.
“Thank you, sir,” Sankofa said, walking to the large front door. The doorway light was off. “I will show myself in.”
Up close, the house looked less elegant, the white walls were stained at the bottom with red soil, splashed there as mud during rainy season. There were large dirty spiderwebs in the upper corners where the roof met the walls. A shiny silver Mercedes, a white Tesla, a black BMW and a blue Honda sat in the driveway, the Mercedes plugged into the home’s charger. The garage was closed. The house was dark. However, Sankofa knew people were home.
Something flew onto her shoulder as she stepped up to the front door. She stifled the instinct to crush it dead and instead, grabbed it and then opened her hand. It was a large green grasshopper. She’d seen this creature in one of the books she’d read. These were called katydids. She giggled, watching it creep up her hand with its long delicate green legs.
She softly glowed a vibrant leaf green. Not enough to kill, but enough to bathe the grasshopper in a shade of its own lovely greenness. If a grasshopper could smile this one did. She was sure of it. Then it hop-flew off. “Safe journey,” she whispered.
She knocked on the door. “It is me,” she called. “Death has come to visit.”
After a moment, the front door lights came on. She looked up at the round ball of glass lit by the light bulb. Within minutes, insects would people the light. But not yet. A haggard-looking tall man in a black suit and tie slowly opened the door. The lights turned on behind him and she could see ten well-dressed adults, some in traditional clothing, others in stiff Western attire, all pressed together, wide-eyed and afraid. Cooled air wafted from the opened door and it smelled like wine, champagne, goat meat and jollof rice. The air-conditioner and the house cooks were working hard tonight. The hallway was decorated with shiny red and green trimming and fake poinsettia flowers, a plastic ornamented Christmas tree at the far end.
“I hope I am not interrupting your Christmas party,” Sankofa said in English. She blinked. Was it Christmas? Or maybe still Christmas Eve? She felt a muffled yearning deep in her chest. She pushed the feeling away as she always did, thinking, We never celebrated Christmas, anyway. Though some in her hometown had. She remembered.
“No, no,” the man jabbered, smiling sheepishly. “Chalé, p-please. Come in, my dear. Happy Christmas, o.” He wore a silver chain with a crucifix around his neck. The crucifix rested on his shoulder. He’d just put it on, probably as he rushed to the door. Sankofa chuckled.
“Happy Christmas, to you all, too,” she said. “I won’t stay long. I am going to get something of mine that I’ve been searching for for years.”
The solid marble floors were cool beneath her bare feet. The walls were covered with European-style oil paintings of European rustic landscapes. Sankofa wondered what trouble these people went through to get these paintings all the way out to this small suburb of Accra. And she wondered if it was worth it; the paintings were quite ugly. A large family photo hung on the wall, too. It was of a tall fat man, a fat woman with one fat son and two fat daughters. Happy healthy content people and definitely “been-tos.” If she had to guess, she’d say from America.
In the dining room, Sankofa was asked to sit at a large table laden with more food than she’d glimpsed in weeks. It was nearly obscene. And what a surprise. She’d never imagined that been-tos ate so many native dishes. Kelewele, aponkye nkrakra and fufu, kenkey, waakye, red red, jollof rice, fried chicken, akrantie and goat meat, too much food to get her eyes around. “Oh chalé,” she muttered to herself. Behind her, the house party came in and stood around her.
A young woman set an empty plate before her. She wore a uniform similar to the gateman’s—a white blouse and navy-blue pants. “Do you…” The woman trailed off, her eyes watering with tears. She paused, looking into Sankofa’s eyes. Sankofa gazed right back.
“I would also like a change of clothes,” Sankofa said. “I have been wearing these garments for a week.”
The woman smiled gratefully and nodded. Sankofa guessed the woman was about ten years her senior, maybe even fifteen. “Something like what you are wearing now?” the woman asked.
Sankofa grinned at this. “Yes, if possible,” she said. “I like to wear our people’s style.”
The woman seemed to relax. “I know. We all know.”
“My name is known here?” Sankofa asked, the answer being obvious.
“Very well,” the woman said. The woman looked at the silent party. “Can someone call the seamstress?”
“It’s already done,” a fat woman said, stepping forward as she closed a mobile phone. Sankofa recognized her quickly. She looked a little fatter than she had in the family photo in the hallway. Life was good for her. “Miss Sankofa,” the lady of the house said. “You’ll have whatever garments you like within the hour.” She paused. “The community has always anticipated a visit from you.”
Sankofa smiled again. “That’s good.”
“You want orange Fanta, right?” the young woman in the uniform asked her. “Room temperature, not chilled.”
Sankofa nodded. These were good people.
* * *
The Christmas party watched Sankofa eat. They were unable to sit down. Unable to even look at each other. Paralyzed. Sankofa was ravenous. She’d been walking all day.
She gnawed on a goat bone’s remaining bits of meat and then dropped the bone on her plate. Then with greasy hands, she took her bottle of room temperature Fanta and guzzled the last of it. She belched as another was placed before her. The young woman popped the cap and stepped back.
“Thank you,” Sankofa said, taking a gulp. She picked up another piece of spicy goat meat, paused, then turned to the silent party. “Are there any children in the house?” she asked. “I would like some company.”
She nibbled on her piece of goat meat as the adults fearfully whispered amongst themselves. It was the same wherever she visited. They always whispered. Sometimes they cried. Sometimes they shouted. Always amongst each other. Away from her. Then they finally went and got the children. They knew they had no choice. This time was no different.
A plump boy of about ten and an older taller girl about Sankofa’s age, shuffled in. The girl’s mother, the lady of the house, had to shove the girl in. They wore their nightclothes and looked like they’d been dragged out of bed. They plopped themselves across from her at the table. The boy eyed the plate of fried plantain.
“So what are your names?” Sankofa asked. When they both just stared at her, she spoke in English. “So what are your names?” she asked again.
“Edgar,” the boy said. Sankofa blinked. He spoke like an American, so she’d been right in her assessment. Americans were always so well fed.
The girl muttered something Sankofa couldn’t catch. “What?” Sankofa asked.
“Ye,” the girl whispered. She spoke like an American, too.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Sankofa said. “Do you know who I am?”
“You’re Sankofa, the one who sleeps at death’s door,” Edgar said. He eyed her as he slowly took a slice of fried plantain. Sankofa took another few of the oily slices, too. They were sweet and tangy. Edgar seemed to relax when he saw that she enjoyed the same food as he did. Ye didn’t move.
“You should get a plate,” Sankofa said. Before Edgar could look around, the young woman placed a plate before each of them. The girl took all of two plantain slices and the boy loaded his plate with plantain and roasted goat meat. Sankofa liked the boy.
“You don’t look as ugly as they say you look,” he said.
Sankofa laughed. “Really?”
“No,” he said, biting into some goat meat. “Your outfit reminds me of my mom.”
“Reminds me of mine, too,” Sankofa said. “That’s why I wear it.”
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