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I am an artist outside of my employment. I do gestural abstraction. When I finished my mandatory education, I tried to convince my guardians to allow me to be an artist instead of pursuing the same profession every human who decides to join the professional world is almost inevitably destined for.
"Get a job," Mzee interrupted before I could even complete my request.
"But I don’t want to give my life to these big cults," I protested. "I want to express myself. I want to leave a footprint of my authentic self on this earth."
"Do you want to end up like your Uncle David?"
My Uncle David was the coolest uncle I had when I was a child. Although he was rarely around—maybe once a year or every two years—whenever I saw him, he was always jolly. Mzee was always jealous of him because he kept using him as a bad example whenever he wanted to advise one of us.
The last time I saw him was when he gave me a telescope as a gift because he was likely to miss my birthday, as he explained. I was about three or four years old then. In a compartment within the telescope, he hid a disk. I was fidgeting, trying to set up this cool toy, when I accidentally found the disk. After I assembled everything else, I couldn't figure out where the disk fit. So I ran into the living room where they were sharing a drink with Mzee and Mukadde to ask Uncle David where it went.
The living room was a cozy, eclectic mix of old-world charm and contemporary design. Soft, ambient lighting bathed the room in a warm glow. A large, plush sectional sofa, upholstered in deep burgundy fabric, dominated the center of the room, piled high with colorful cushions. In front of the sofa was a sleek, low coffee table made of glass and polished steel, cluttered with various trinkets and half-empty glasses. The walls were adorned with an array of artworks—both traditional paintings and digital holograms—that shifted subtly, giving the room an ever-changing, dynamic atmosphere. Shelves lined with books, old and new, covered one wall, while the opposite wall was dominated by a large window offering a breathtaking view of the star-filled expanse of space.
Uncle David grabbed me and put me on his lap when I came in and started messing with my hair. I always hated it when anyone did it except him.
"You're growing too tall every second. It's like you're trying to outgrow your old man," Uncle David joked. "Look at me, very soon, you'll be looking down at my scalp."
"Hopefully, that is not the only gene of yours that missed him," Mzee said jokingly, but the statement caused some tension in the room.
"Not now, Yusuf," Mukadde frowned at Mzee.
"It's fine, you don’t have to defend me. What would he know about genes," David shot back.
"I may not be human, but believe me, I know more about genes than any human, especially you." It was now clear that the fun times and jolly moments had passed. Both of these guys clearly had something to get off their chests.
"You mean stories about genes or genes?"
"Having them does not mean that you know anything about them."
"Well, I have them and you don’t. End of story."
"You say that like it is a good thing. What good are genes if you cannot even take care of yours?"
Mukadde jumped up at once. "Not in front of him. You’re both grown men; you should be able to handle this in a more respectful way."
"Maybe he needs to load his empathy program," David was still going.
"I am not going to sit here and allow myself to be insulted by this ignorant bigot," Mzee was now furious.
"Perhaps you should switch off and switch back on. That will make you feel better." David took another cheap shot.
"That is it. I cannot stand this guy anymore. You’re a schizophrenic nobody. You’ve wasted your life trying to find meaning or God and abandoned your own genes," Mzee was bitter. "Time you could have spent contributing to our society."
"I would rather write my own story than be an NPC like you."
"I truly hope you get to write it. But before then, if you think I am an NPC, so are you, my old friend. You’re just in denial."
At this point, everything was calming back down, and I thought it was the best time for me to inquire about this disk and go back to playing with my telescope.
"Hey, Uncle, I found this in the telescope and I couldn’t figure out where it goes."
At first glance, he pulled the disk away from me, hoping that no one else had seen it.
"Is that a crypto disk?" Mukadde erupted.
Crypto disks are used to move money off the chain. Typically, when one moves coins from one address to another during a transaction, the chain stores this transaction forever. This is good for society because the immutable history of transactions automatically makes the chain unusable for malicious actors. Most malicious actors have side chains that are backed by bitcoins, and these chains are so anonymous that it is useless for law enforcement to even bother with them. But these chains have to convert their money into Bitcoin at some point, and that is usually how the police can track which Bitcoin addresses are owned by a side chain. With a crypto disk, one can make a transaction without moving money on the chain. The disk has the address and key of whoever possesses it, and so that person is the owner of the coins on that address. This means that transactions can happen without leaving any evidence on the chain, which also makes it very suspicious to move around with a crypto disk.
"I have had some troubles with the law," David explained.
"Again. You forgot to add again," Mzee started.
"Not now, Yusuf. Let him explain himself," Mukadde intervened.
"The kind of trouble that means you may probably never see me again," David explained. "This is the only thing I can give him. I hid it in his telescope, hoping he would find it when he is old enough to know what it is." He then looked at me. "You should be glad and thankful for your two parents. God knows I couldn’t have been able to raise you by myself."
This level of intimacy made Mzee very uncomfortable. So he interrupted by clearing his throat as loudly as possible.
"What kind of trouble are you in? I’m sure we can get you some negotiators to help you get a good deal," Mzee suggested.
"This is not the kind of trouble a negotiator can fix. You can hold onto this for him until he is mature enough to use it." He handed the disk to Mzee and shook his hand for a bit too long for Mzee's comfort. "You know I just enjoy bursting your bubble, but I have nothing but admiration for you." David now reached forward for a hug. "I wish I had you as a parent."
Mzee was now struggling to hold back a tear. Mukadde watched him with a therapeutic smile.
"It may be the flu," Mzee tried to talk his way out of his feelings.
"Right, because you can now catch the human flu," Mukadde mocked him.
Mzee’s designer, Nambi, was being decommissioned today. Since she was the guardian to the majority of second-generation 70 Synths in my community, her funeral was expected to be big. Nambi was originally manufactured on Earth. And even if the majority of her hardware was upgraded to newer metals and alloys, some of her core algorithms were still primitive instructions created by Earthians. All the modifications that were possible without destroying her and creating something new were made gradually over time, but she was now at a point where her kernel could not support any higher-level improvements. She appointed the last 70 Synth she designed to be her heir. She was also named Nambi. The young Nambi was going to inherit any characteristics of Nambi that could be preserved before the older Nambi was decommissioned.
Ever since I joined the university, I had never come home. I don’t really have anything against being home. It is just intense. Mzee believes I should be much more than I am. He wants me to start my own cult, in fact. We never really converse much, and when we do, it quickly tilts into something akin to a job interview or school exam. He wants to know if I am contributing significantly to society. He wants me to start training to be an Arahant because, as he puts it, insights engineering is beneath me. He also tries to trick me into revealing whether I am still pursuing art. He despises art and calls it a luxury of the rich. Mukadde, on the other hand, has some gossip for me. She tells me about some of her childhood friends who became nomads. She likes to brag about how I would end up like them if I didn't have her as a parent. Sometimes she tells me about other friends who became managers in their jobs or got higher qualifications. And that is usually because those friends are either blessed with good genes or because I am so lazy that even her best-in-the-world parenting cannot help. She also tries to trick me into revealing whether I am now coupling with anyone.
But this was Nambi’s funeral, and Mzee insisted that I should return despite the array of excuses I had prepared. After threatening, emotional blackmail, and even getting Mukadde to plead with a fake crying voice, he offered to give me the disk Uncle David had left me if I came home for the funeral, and that is the only reason I agreed.
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