The Hero of Numbani Read online

  “Maybe …” Efi mumbled.

  “If he has lost his key, I will act in the Numbani way,” Orisa declared, then rushed off before Efi got a chance to stop her. “Greetings! May I provide you with assistance in accessing your vehicle?” she yelled at the man.

  He went stiff. “Yes …” he said, looking around nervously. “I seem to have locked myself out.”

  “If you are having trouble with your vehicle’s encryption code, I can help,” Orisa announced, grabbing the tablet from the man. She linked with the device in a matter of seconds, then said, “Accessing the central registry: the owner of Vehicle ID 3984HHJ is listed as one R.J. Mohammed.” The image of the owner floated a few centimeters off the screen. Orisa looked at the hologram to the man and back. “Facial recognition has failed to unlock your account. I apologize. To access your vehicle, could you please scan your ID here for verification?”

  “I … forgot it at home?” the guy said. He blinked a few times, then sprinted away.

  “He was trying to steal that vehicle, Orisa!” Efi called out.

  “Shall I pursue?”

  Efi knew that she should say no. She knew she should alert the authorities and let them handle it, but here was a real chance to see Orisa in action. “Yes,” Efi said. “Stop him. But don’t hurt him.”

  “Affirmative.” Orisa raised her Branford arm, the one equipped with the modded hard-light caster, and pelted him with a spray of low-impact projectiles. They were enough to cause him to stumble, but half a step later, he was back up and running again. Orisa started chasing after him, but even at her fastest speed, she was no match. “Halt! Stop right there!” Orisa called. “Cease your resistance.”

  She threw out a hard-light lasso. Her aim was good, but her anticipation skills were lacking, and she kept hitting where the man was a half second earlier. Orisa did not seem to let that deter her, though. She raised her arm up high and shot her lasso above the pedestrian bridge, looping around the horn of one of the gazelle statues. Efi almost cheered for Orisa’s perfect aim, but then she realized exactly what her robot was doing.

  “Stop, Orisa!” Efi called. “You’re going to hurt someone.”

  The robot tugged hard against the neon-blue rope. “Negative,” Orisa called. “Nonlethal apprehension of the subject is in progress.” The statue’s enormous horn cracked off and fell fifteen meters, narrowly missing the bridge before colliding with the ground. The tremor shook Efi’s insides, and for an instant, she was brought back to the terror of the airport attack. She ducked and covered her head as bits of cement flew off in all directions, smashing windshields and denting the hoods of several parked cars. The blast from the impact also sent the would-be thief careening back toward Orisa.

  Orisa snatched him up by the nape of his neck, his toes scrapping against the ground as he still attempted to get away, but there was no getting away now.

  “I have successfully apprehended the suspect without bringing him harm,” Orisa said to Efi, proud of herself. She trained her stern face on the man. “I told you to stop resisting. The authorities will collect you soon.”

  Efi stood up and dusted off her iro that looked more cement gray than lime green now. She heard the sirens, too, but she knew they were not coming to arrest this attempted car thief. She frowned at the broken statue above and at the damaged cars below and sighed.

  Efi waited as long as she could, but it didn’t look like a response was coming from her friend, so she’d have to complete the community relations portion of Orisa’s training by herself. Only thing was, Efi spent so much time in her lab that she didn’t exactly have a great idea of what community meant.

  Sure, she went to the festivals with her parents, but she spent most of her time shoving puff puffs or shuku shuku or sometimes both into her mouth and licking powdered sugar off her fingers. Efi decided that whatever she and Orisa would do today would be free of expense and free of drama. Mr. Bankolé, the grocer, had said that he needed help around the store. She could start there.

  Efi and Orisa made their way through the neighborhood, catching stares from every direction. Children’s eyes went wide with excitement, though their parents held them back as if Efi were walking a giant, rabid dog. She puffed her chest out, proud of what she’d accomplished and proud of what she was doing. She ignored the harsh whispers and teeth kissing, referring to Orisa as “that pesky robot” and never by her name. Efi also ignored the closed pedestrian bridge in the distance and the work crews in their orange jumpsuits sweeping up debris.

  Yesterday hadn’t gone exactly to plan, but maybe it was too soon to deal with target practice. In any case, after a lengthy discussion with the civic defense department, Efi made a promise to use the next quarterly installment of her grant money to make a sizable donation to the Numbani Arts Commission to help pay for a new statue.

  Today would be a better day.

  “Efi!” Mr. Bankolé said. There was a smile on his face, but she could see the hint of fear behind his eyes. “Are you here for more pears?”

  “No, Uncle,” she said, offering him a little curtsy, and Orisa did the same, though on her four legs, it looked more like an ox taking a bow. “You said you needed help around the store. We’ve come to volunteer our services. This is Orisa.”

  Mr. Bankolé squinted at the robot, then shook his head. “Well, you know. Funny thing—my back’s feeling all better. I can stock the shelves by myself.” He stretched this way and that, a wince on his face and in obvious pain, but trying not to let on. “But maybe try another day. I appreciate the offer.”

  The rumors of her rogue robot had reached him. That was the pitfall of living in such a tight-knit community: Everyone knew everyone else’s business. “Uncle, I think you are a bit scared of my robot,” Efi said.

  “‘Scared’ isn’t the word I’d use, oh. ‘Terrified’ is more like it!”

  “You have nothing to be afraid of. I’ve taken her weapons completely offline for now. Can we at least give you a demonstration? I’ve fine-tuned her agility and dexterity. She can do anything one of your human workers can do, but faster.”

  Mr. Bankolé sighed. “Okay, I will let you try.” He nodded to a half-completed display of stacked honey bean cans. “Finish stacking and don’t let it dent any cans.”

  “Orisa is a she, Uncle,” Efi corrected him, “and she will complete this task most easily!”

  Efi led Orisa to the pallet and instructed her on what to do. “Be very careful not to let any of the cans get dented,” she warned sternly. “If you do a good job, Mr. Bankolé may let us help out all day.”

  “Confirmed. Commencing tin can stacking sequence,” Orisa said. And then she began to move, taking can after can from the pallet and placing them in precise locations on the stack. The first few went slowly, but the robot was able to make adjustments and modifications and became faster and faster at it. Efi saw Mr. Bankolé looking at them from the corner of his eyes. He gave Efi a little smile.

  Orisa was doing it!

  “They might have a job for you at the Island Port with the way you’re stacking those cans,” he called over to them. Efi winced. She knew Mr. Bankolé meant well, but Tin Can Island Port was a sore spot for robots and omnics and anyone who called them friends, even this many years removed from the omnic dockworker revolt.

  Three minutes later, the tower of cans was complete. It was a work of art. A masterpiece. Right as Efi was about to congratulate the robot, she saw Orisa perk. Her eyes reconfigured into the slit of threat detection. Efi followed her line of sight to a woman pushing a cart toward the tower.

  “Threat assessment: Prevent dented cans at all costs.” Orisa moved toward the woman and directed her down another aisle. “Threat level zero. Target neutralized.”

  Efi shuddered. Maybe she had been a little too insistent about not letting the cans get dented.

  “Threat level one,” Orisa said, looking at a couple of kids bouncing a ball in the aisle. Efi intervened before things got messy.

 
“Orisa, the assignment is complete. You no longer need to worry about denting cans.”

  “Confirmed.”

  Mr. Bankolé examined their work, then smiled again. “Excellent,” he said. “If you would like to continue to work today, that would be acceptable. The frozen vegetables section needs restocking, as well as the bread and pastries. And feel free to help customers out as needed, but be friendly.”

  Efi and Orisa waited for Mr. Bankolé to turn his back and busy himself, and then they did a little dance together. Efi could feel her pride practically dripping out of her ears. “Okay, first the frozen veggies. Just like Mr. Bankolé said.”

  Orisa took charge, making logical calculations. She downloaded protocols for optimal shelf placement, and in no time, the store was looking better than it ever had. She queried Mr. Bankolé if she could move the location of the fufu and the amala closer to the prepared soups to ensure more impulse buys. She stacked the yams four high instead of six to make the piles seem more approachable and less crowded. She even alphabetized the bulk nut bins, and rearranged the fruits by color, creating a rainbow display that drew people in. By the afternoon, the place was pristine. Not a scrap of produce on the floor. Not a stray cart to be seen.

  “I’d better be careful,” Mr. Bankolé said to Orisa. “Keep this up, and you’ll soon be coming after my job.”

  “Negative, I could never replace you, Mr. Bankolé,” Orisa said. “My analysis suggests that your many, many years of experience and relationships with the people of this community are one of the driving factors that make this business successful.”

  “Ah, you are too kind.” He smiled again, wider than Efi had ever seen him smile. And there was no longer that fear rimming his eyes. “Thank you, Orisa.”

  Efi was thrilled to see her plan working. Orisa would only strengthen the community, and she knew how important relationships were. She was already becoming a part of the neighborhood. And Mr. Bankolé was already addressing Orisa directly instead of using Efi as a go-between. Maybe in a few weeks or so, Efi would be able to send Orisa out to tend to the community all by herself!

  “You are very welcome, Uncle. I should return to work now.” Orisa bowed again, then took off down the aisle. Efi followed, watching as the robot helped a man find the stewed tomatoes. Then she steered a young couple toward the sale on crayfish. Soon, people were directing those who needed assistance to her.

  A woman held up her tablet to Orisa. “Could you help me find this?”

  Orisa scanned the screen, then nodded. “Yes. And I can see from your list that you are making jollof rice. Is that correct?”

  The woman looked quizzically at Orisa, then said, “Yes, that’s right.”

  “According to the most renowned Nigerian chefs, using red palm oil instead of groundnut oil provides a more favorable taste experience. Would you like me to direct you to that instead?”

  The woman nodded. “That would be wonderful. Thank you! I’m going to tell all my friends to shop here.”

  Then Orisa saw a man in a scooter driving down the aisle. He got out of the scooter, struggling to reach a package of dried spaghetti on a high shelf. Orisa intervened. “Do you require assistance, sir?”

  “Eh, I’ve nearly got it,” he said, fingers fussing with the edge of the bag. Orisa took the package anyway and set it in his cart basket up front. “Thank you,” he said with a strained grin.

  “Anything to be of assistance.” Orisa bowed again. She began to follow behind the man, ready to pounce on the next opportunity to be useful, but Efi whistled, and Orisa returned.

  “Be helpful, but not too helpful,” Efi said, not sternly, but there was a little harshness in her voice. “Did you hear how he sounded when he said, ‘Thank you’?”

  “The vocal clips were more abrupt than his previous speech patterns, with a forceful stress placed upon the word ‘you.’”

  “Uh-huh. That meant he was a little annoyed with you. You asked him if he needed help, and he declined. Next time just wish him a great time shopping here at Bankolé’s Grocery.”

  “I was a nuisance?” Orisa tilted her head in concern.

  “No, no. It’s not your fault. There are a lot of social conventions for you to learn yet.”

  “Where can I download them?”

  Efi laughed. “You have to learn them, just like everyone else. But don’t worry, I’m here to help!”

  “I am grateful to you, Efi. You display a great amount of optimism.”

  Efi tried to hold on to that optimism throughout the rest of the day. The longer they stayed, the more obvious it became that there was so much for Orisa to learn. Her programming was trying to right itself, fluctuating from being too hands-off to too hands-on. Orisa would become more aloof, practically fleeing from shoppers with questions, so as not to annoy anyone else. Then after another lesson from Efi, she reverted to being overly helpful again, chasing people down and offering to push their carts, and redesigning their entire shopping lists.

  Orisa scanned the list of a woman who’d stopped to ask where the ginger ale was. The robot paused for a moment, then she stood back and looked the woman in the eye.

  “I can tell by the contents of your list that you are suffering from bowel problems.”

  The woman shuddered. “What?”

  “Your bowels,” Orisa said, voice raised, as if she was worried she hadn’t spoken loud enough the first time. “Your bowels are in severe distress.”

  “Please stop saying ‘bowels,’” the woman said. “And I didn’t ask for a commentary on my health concerns. I just need a bottle of ginger ale.”

  Orisa shook her head. “Agbo Jedi Jedi would be more effective. I will prepare you a list of ingredients. Ginger. Apple vinegar. Lemon …”

  Efi winced. Her parents had chased her around the house with the Agbo Jedi Jedi bottle on too many occasions, trying to cure her ills. Just the threat of the medicine’s foul taste had often miraculously cured Efi of her fevers and upset stomachs.

  “You don’t know anything about my medical history!” the woman said, her voice raised now as well. “How dare you tell me what medicines I should take.”

  “You are correct. Virtual Physician protocols installing. Please wait …” Orisa got that faraway look, like she did when she was connecting to a server somewhere. “Please provide verbal confirmation to access your medical records and grant me permission to perform a full biometric scan. I am quite certain my previous recommendation for relief of your bowels will hold.”

  “No, do not come anywhere near me!” the woman screamed, her hands waving in the air. “I want to speak to the manager!”

  Less than a minute later, there was a great amount of yelling coming from the direction of the checkout counter, namely the woman saying that she would never, ever shop there again. Efi and Orisa cowered near the dairy products, waiting to be reprimanded by Mr. Bankolé.

  “Now would probably be a good opportunity to talk about respecting people’s privacy,” Efi whispered.

  “Efi. Please report to the front checkout counter,” came Mr. Bankolé’s voice over the loudspeaker. “And bring your robot with you.” Efi cringed. Orisa’s facemask was made of solid pieces of metal, but Efi could have sworn that the robot was cringing, too.

  “His vocal inflections indicate annoyance,” Orisa said.

  “Good, I’m glad you picked up on that.”

  “My actions were unsatisfactory?”

  “Yes, asking to access that woman’s personal information was not the best idea.”

  “Social etiquette dictates that if a wrong is made, I should attempt to correct it. I have cost Mr. Bankolé a customer. I should acquire him new ones. I have to do what is polite. It is the Numbani way.”

  Efi blinked. “What?”

  “Operation: Acquire new customers, initiated.”

  “But wait!”

  Orisa was off, exiting the store. Through the plate-glass window, Efi watched as the scene played out like a nightmare, and Efi was so
petrified from embarrassment that she couldn’t react. The robot was doing her best to convince people on the sidewalk to enter the store, herding them in with outstretched arms and a promise of great deals. Orisa was surprisingly efficient at this as well, and within half a minute, she had six customers cornered over by the produce section. She quickly boxed them in with grocery carts, blocking the exits.

  “Do not resist. It is my duty to see to the health and safety of the people of Numbani,” she told them. “And it is vital to your health that you consume plenty of fruits and vegetables. Have a great time shopping at Bankolé’s Grocery!”

  One man tried to make a run for the doors, hurdling over a bin of mangoes. Orisa’s eyes turned to slits again, like the threat level had increased, and she bolted after him, knocking over the fufu display and a whole crate of out-of-season cherries that fetched more per kilo than a week’s worth of Efi’s allowance. The man got free, and Orisa’s attention veered toward the other customers. She leaped over the aisles, knocking shelves over, clipping lights. Destroying a bin of egusi seeds. And then everyone was headed for the exits, including Mr. Bankolé, and Efi tried and tried to yell through the commotion to get Orisa’s attention, but her attempts were fruitless.

  Finally, there was no one left in the store besides Efi, Orisa, and one huge mess.

  “The customers are all gone,” Orisa said.

  Efi sighed. “Yes. Yes, they are.”

  The robot slumped forward on her haunches, sullen.

  “So today didn’t go exactly as planned, either, but”—Efi pointed down the aisle—“look. Your bean cans are still stacked. Not one dented.”

  “The false levity in your voice indicates that you are trying to cheer me up.”

  “Is it working?”

  “I do not think so. My processors are out of sync. They keep replaying the day’s events over and over. I don’t know where I went wrong. Judging from the tension of his facial muscles and his biometric readings, it seems that I have disappointed Mr. Bankolé. And you.”