“You shouldn’t watch TV, it’s the devil’s black box,” I remember my dad quoting sarcastically. I was a little girl and didn’t understand whatever he meant. I wasn’t Ben Carson who had to regulate the time he spent watching movies and shows on TV because I did exceptionally well in school. In truth, we had nothing to regulate. Who cared about regulating a few overwatched CDs? When we moved into our house in a remote part of the city, it was surrounded by tall palm trees and bushes instead of a sizeable population which is typically accompanied by electricity. It is a no-brainer that we had to live with our little transistor radio.
“It’s the 12 o’clock news from the stables of the Integrity radio.” My sister and I chorused with the radio many times during the holidays in a high-pitched sing-song tone. We didn’t just recite the boring things with the radio, we had favourite radio stations for special hours of the day, as well as music that resonated with us so much that we turned the living room into a mini concert hall. When it was time to dance to trendy songs, we dug in and exercised our bodies. A few more years passed and dad was able to purchase a small generator that charged our lamps and enabled us to watch our now-then deteriorated box tv from time to time. Some months later, we had a transformer on our street to the delight of all the inhabitants of the street.
“Sade!” I turned my head towards my little brother who had been calling till I heard the third call and got out of my forced meditation. There I was, sitting tiredly at the table in my room, which had a direct view of the outside. It was 9 in the morning but I was still at my computer instead of washing my clothes.
“She’s our elder sister, you need to add ‘aunty’ to her name or I’ll influence her into not lending you, her phone.” My sister whose existence in the corner of the room, I had temporarily forgotten, purred. I just returned home from school for a month’s holiday and hoped to get enough rest before resumption.
“Huh?” Little bro hissed and whipped out a phone bound with a rubber band from his pockets. “Don’t forget that I have this,” he said, almost shoving the old phone in my sister’s face. He had gotten the old phone from our mum who finally let it go. She had bought her first Android phone a couple of years ago but still used the small phone to receive calls. She called it being security conscious: she was scared of petty thieves who had the reputation of expertly stealing phones at the drop of a hat.
“Do you have movies?” Little bro came to my table and asked. I turned to look at him but the boy drew back, a mixture of fear and something else showing on his face. He took one step back in the direction of the door.
“What?” I drawled. I had a dull headache and my whole body felt overworked. I was floating in the air. I took a step closer to him, wanting to check if he was alright but the boy flinched. I turned to my sister who gazed intensely at my face.
“Did you smoke something?” She asked quietly while lowering her eyelids slowly. Despite the crappiness I felt, I let out a high laugh that sounded strange to my ears. I ignored the question and gazed out the window. All noises in the room stilled and I realised that these two who were looking at me with extremely pointed eyes still wanted answers.
“I have Ji Chang Wook’s latest serial movie, just make sure you have enough space to receive it,” I replied in an attempt to change the topic. My brother’s gaze on me became even more intense.
“What position are you in class?” The previously shaken little bro asked, a tint of query in his voice.
“We don’t do First, Second and Third in the university.” I answered curtly. They didn’t need the details.
“You look like someone who just smoked shisha, I’ll tell Daddy!” My brother ran off. It was my turn to be surprised. Where did that small boy hear the word ‘shisha’ from? I turned to look at my sister for answers. She only shrugged and continued knitting a pink bucket hat.
This wasn’t my first time having a hangover. My daily routine involved investing a lot of time on my Android phone. Facebook is great, same as Insta and Twitter. I merry-go-round these apps every day, checking for likes and more followers. You would think that I’ll be satisfied by the time the day ends. I’m tempted to laugh out loud. I’d still have to sit some more hours with my laptop to mix some beats and cap it with an emotional investment in bingeing movie serials instead of sleeping. So, I wake up feeling so out of touch with my normal self after days like this. If that’s not a hangover, I don’t know what it is.
I guess I got addicted to these things while in school. Sorry, I’m not guessing. I was just trying to lessen my guilt. I got my first phone only when I gained admission into Uni, hence I didn’t get to use WhatsApp or other instant messaging apps till I got into school and had to dedicate a lot of time to figure out how it worked. This was my major extracurricular activity; WhatsApp 101. Gradually, I became a WhatsApp guru and joined Instagram and Twitter when I heard that so much more was happening there. I don’t regret those adventures I had online, I only have one question. “Why does it seem like I’m now a loser in many things that were my ace points when I started using a phone?” I dropped in my academics and sports. I even stopped doing my quiet time! Yes, that doesn’t happen to everybody. I just think I’m bearing the effect of not following Daddy G.O’s advice. I was very much on the top of the ‘Likely-to-succeed’ list, but now…
I sighed and banged my forehead on the plastic table many times.
“You shouldn’t blow that head up just yet!”
“And what do you know about getting blown up?” I jumped up and replied fiercely but calmed when I saw it was my dad instead of little bro. Dad wasted no time in stating why he was in the girls’ room. He brought out his phone and played a video directly in my face. I was curious at first, but my curiosity metamorphosed into surprise and soon after, I was on my feet, jumping up for joy. I looked at my dad who also had a wide smile on his face which changed into a stony expression the next second.
The video was one of me humming a la la la version of Lil X Nas’ Montero and strumming my church guitar to it. I sang it gently at first, but my roommates hyped me up and very soon, I was dancing in a frenzy with the guitar as though it were a pole. I did not need to hear my dad’s take on the situation, I knew him. I just sat on my chair, waiting for the verdict as I had read the caption at the top of the video.
“Lil X Nas wants this girl tagged so he can do a duet with her.” It read. I didn’t need to be told that the video had gone viral since it was featured on BBC News Africa’s Facebook page.
“Since he probably knows your IG handle, just DM him so you can negotiate how much of your soul you want to sell to the devil,” Dad said in a low voice and left the room. I wiped my now very hot and sweaty head as dad’s words echoed in my head. I just pity that boy who just inherited a more-than-fairly used phone. So why are my eyes this dangerously red, even so early in the morning?
Read – An A.I.’s Dream – A Short Story by Nkole Mulenga, Zambia
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