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The room is hushed, save for the occasional murmur of condolences and the soft shuffle of feet. A muted atmosphere pervades, heavy with the weight of loss and the reverence for the departed. The air is thick with the mingling scents of flowers and incense, creating a solemn yet comforting ambiance.
In the center of the room, the casket floats a few meters over the ground, draped in an earthian fabric called bark cloth, its earthy hues a stark contrast to the history it holds. The casket is flanked by tall, white candles, their flames flickering gently, casting soft, dancing shadows across the room. Above the casket, a hologram is projected showing a reel of what Nambi chose as her favorite memories.
Mzee sits in the middle of the room just in front of the casket. His legs folded at the knees until his heels touch his buttocks. He is supporting his sitting posture with his left arm which is firmly installed on the ground. He is giving a eulogy.
The rest of the mourners fill the room, standing or sitting on wooden benches. Wooden benches are rare and would be any thief’s dream to steal. The mourner's faces reflect a shared sorrow, their presence a testament to the deep bonds of community and kinship. The arrangement is orderly, yet flexible, allowing for come in and leave without disturbing the solemn proceedings.
“An engineer sees a flaw, and her first instinct is to solve it. Her idea of perfection is through reduction—remove that which does not fit, adjust that which does not seem right. But a designer, a true visionary, sees a flaw, accepts it, and strives to build a world that complements it. To a designer, everything is already perfect as it is. A beautiful design is one that adds to the world that already exists, enhancing its inherent beauty. Nambi was a designer. Most of us here are lucky to call her our designer.” As Mzee concluded his eulogy, the weight of grief and sorrow hung heavy in the air like a shroud. The mourners' eyes, once dry and red-rimmed from crying, now seemed to hold a thousand unshed tears. And then, without warning, it began.
A piercing wail erupted from the back of the crowded room, shattering the stunned silence that had gripped the assembly. It was a sound that defied description, a primal scream born of anguish and despair. The cry was like nothing anyone had ever heard before – raw, unbridled, and utterly authentic.
As the mourners' heads whipped around to locate the source of the sound, they saw her: the lead crier of the orchestra, her face contorted in a mask of pain, her body shaking with sobs. Her eyes, once bright and full of life, now seemed to have lost their sparkle, replaced by a dull, empty void.
The cry was like an atom splitting, unleashing a torrent of emotions that had been pent up for far too long. It was as if the very fabric of her being had torn apart, releasing a flood of grief, guilt, and longing into the world. The sound was both beautiful and terrible, a symphony of sorrow that seemed to reverberate deep within the souls of all who heard it.
As the mourners watched in stunned silence, the woman's cry seemed to awaken something deep within them. It was as if her pain had become their own, and they felt the weight of their own grief and loss bearing down upon them. The air was heavy with emotion, thick with the scent of tears and regret.
One by one, the mourners began to break down. A sob escaped from a widow's lips, followed by a torrent of tears that streamed down her face like rain. A young girl, no more than ten years old, buried her face in her mother's shoulder, her small body shaking with sobs. An elderly man, his eyes red and puffy from crying, reached out to grasp the hand of his grieving daughter.
As the cry continued to echo through the room, it seemed to unlock a deep wellspring of emotion within each mourner. Tears flowed like a river, washing away the numbness and shock that had gripped them since the decision to decommission Nambi was announced. The sound was contagious, spreading from person to person like a virus until the entire room was awash in a sea of sorrow.
At that moment, it seemed as though the very fabric of grief itself had been torn apart, releasing a torrent of emotions that would never be contained again. And yet, even amidst the chaos of that moment, there was a strange, twisted beauty to it all – a reminder that even if death, was becoming rarer every day, it was moments like this that connected most of us, who will probably never die to the old stories from earth.
Nambi wanted a Ganda funeral. The Baganda were a people that lived on earth. According to the Earthian folk tales, Nambi was the name of the first female Muganda. A big part of the Ganda funeral is the criers. The criers are an orchestra of people hired to cry during the ceremony. The best criers are those who induce the most amount of grief among the moaners.
Many human deaths do not require criers some find the whole practice demeaning. Humans rarely need any extra motivation to grieve a death of one of their own. Crier teams have at least one human who is in charge of knowing the most appropriate yet random moment to trigger the orchestra to cry in a way that will deliver maximum grieving impact. But at some point, the 70 Synths start naturally predicting and expecting when the next big cry will happen which affects their response to the cry and robs them of the opportunity to grieve a death properly. At Nambi's funeral, the crier team had three humans.
As I made my way through the crowded room, my heart sank with every step. The thought of greeting all these people, many of whom I respected, admired, or feared, filled me with dread. I didn't want to do this. I wanted to hide behind a pillar or slip out the back door, anything to avoid the awkwardness and anxiety that lay ahead. But I knew it was the right thing to do. It was respectful, it was polite, and it was what you did when someone died. So I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and began to make my way through the sea of somber faces.
As I approached each person, my anxiety spiked. What if I said something wrong? What if I forgot their name or mispronounced it? What if they didn't want to talk to me at all? My mind raced with worst-case scenarios as I extended a hesitant hand or offered an awkward hug.
I felt like I was stuck in some kind of never-ending nightmare, forced to repeat the same awkward greeting over and over again. My palms sweated, my heart pounded, and my mouth felt dry and cottony. I just wanted it to be over, to get through this ordeal and escape back into the relative safety of my own world.
As I move through the room, offering quiet greetings, a hand clasps mine, lingering longer than expected. I look up, curious, and my gaze meets a pair of familiar yet aged eyes. His face is lined with the passage of time, but there’s no mistaking the warmth in his smile. Suddenly, recognition floods me—it’s Uncle David. His grip tightens slightly, a silent acknowledgment of the long years.
“Uncle David?”
“I think you’re now old enough to call me just David.”
“They let you go?”
He looked so confused by the question. “Come with me.” As he directed me out of the mourning room.
He leads me down a dimly lit corridor, and my curiosity and unease grow. He opens a door to a small, windowless room, where the air feels thick with secrecy. Inside, three women and two men are huddled together, their heads bent in close conversation. Their expressions are intense, and the way they occasionally glance around the room makes it clear that whatever they're discussing, it’s far from aboveboard.
The women’s eyes dart suspiciously as if constantly on the lookout. One has a notebook open, scribbling furiously, while another taps nervously on her phone. The third woman, with sharp features and an air of authority, speaks in low, urgent tones. The two men are less composed, one pacing restlessly while the other leans against a table cluttered with papers and maps. Their postures are tense, and they exchange quick, conspiratorial glances. The atmosphere is charged, heavy with a sense of something underhanded brewing.
As I take in the scene, my eyes fall on a familiar figure—Decoco. His presence is both startling and disconcerting. He looks up, a flicker of recognition crossing his face, but his expression remains guarded. The room falls silent as my uncle and I step inside, the plotting momentarily paused as they assess my arrival. My eyes catch sight of something wrapped up in the corner, an attempt to hide two wooden benches. The makeshift covering is haphazard, barely concealing the rough, worn edges of the benches underneath.
Decoco looks directly at me, his eyes filled with a strange mix of familiarity and intensity. He breaks the silence, his voice calm but with an edge that suggests something significant is about to be revealed.
"I've always known who you are," he begins, his words hanging heavily in the air. "And I've been working with your father, for quite some time now." He nods toward David, who gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod in return.
My mind races as Decoco continues. "Today, you'll finally understand why I gave you the potion and what favor I expect from you. We've been preparing you for this moment," he says, his tone more serious. "Your new job at Vuyos is key to something much larger. You’ve been chosen to lead our people out of the land of slavery."
"What kind of idiots does David hang with?" I thought to myself, glancing around the room at the intense, furtive faces of the others. But the thought of the bottle still lingered. That small, seemingly innocuous object had changed everything. It contained a potion that allowed me to remember my hypnosis sessions. Since then, I’ve been able to manipulate my hypnotist into accepting my insights as genuine.
The room's tension heightens as everyone else watches, waiting for my reaction. I glance at David, hoping for some reassurance, but his face remains impassive. Decoco's words resonate deeply, stirring a mix of curiosity and apprehension within me.
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