Apili pulls her jacket closer around her torso as she makes her way along a crowded pavement. It is three degrees today and the cold bites at all her tips; she feels it in her toes, fingers, and ears. People rush passed, hunched over and braced against the cold breeze, careful to avoid eye contact with one another as that would be against everything The City stands for. When Apili first came to The Country, she could not believe how low the temperatures were capable of falling. She had been warned, of course, but no wise words could have prepared her for the reality of sub-zero weather. Apili is huffing and puffing as she goes. With every exhale, her breath forms condensation as it hits the cool air. She is late and has had to break into a trot lest she miss her train. There is very little that she longs for as far as Home is concerned; friends and family, of course, nutritious food without breaking the bank, naturally, but the one thing she did not anticipate longing for so verdantly were the motorcycles that she’d once labelled a menace. She misses being able to be anywhere around The Old City in under twenty minutes. She misses working according to her own schedule. She misses the unprecedented freedom that those societal menaces afforded her.
As Apili slots her ticket into the machine and walks through the gate, she wonders what excuse she will give Boss this time. She has already been late thrice in the last two weeks. All her huffing and puffing was for nought. She has missed the train and has to wait fifteen minutes for the next one. Irked and anxious, she slides her phone out of her right jacket pocket and absentmindedly navigates her way to A Social Media App. She quickly taps through stories ranging from video reposts to pictures of former classmates’ engagement announcements, weddings, and baby showers. Her scrolling only slows when she gets to one of her close friends’ stories. Her friend group back Home had a barbecue. They look gorgeous and sun-kissed, their skins glowing in the luminous images. She smiles a little, knowing that they orchestrated this by timing the ‘golden hour’. She reacts with a heart and replies to the story with a few more just for good measure. Apili sighs as she slides her phone back into her pocket and lets her gloved hand stay there before deciding to rub her palms against each other. Three degrees suddenly feel like negative five.
The train finally screeches in and Apili braces for the mad rush to board it. Honestly, for all their insistence that they are more advanced than the people back Home, the people in The Country act exactly like them. She remembers scrambling to get on a kamunye at dusk and elbowing women with baskets of agricultural produce out of the way. All jungles, all animals; perhaps the only difference was their appearance. She manages to get on the train just as the doors shut and holds onto a pole where she is wedged between a gentleman’s sweaty armpit— she finds this curious as it is cold and dark in the dead of winter and, more importantly, only 6 am—and a lady’s uncomfortable stare. Why won’t she look the other way? Apili sighs inwardly and tries to ignore the unease. It’s only six stops after all. In the meantime, she can rehearse a sob story about feeling ill and still managing to make it for her shift. That will go one of two ways: either she will be heralded for her valiant effort to come in and make the company money despite her distress or she will be chastised for coming in while ill since this could get everyone else ill. She decides to err on the side of caution and go with what Boss will prefer, co-workers be damned.
*
She has been at this job for just over a year now and has managed to evade all attempts at socialising or integration. The way she sees it, the fewer connections she makes, the easier it will be to move on when the time comes. Her rationale is that this is not where she is meant to be. This is merely a pit stop, a convenience store on the way to her destination. This is, she thinks rather cleverly, the Migyera to her Lira. When she first came to The Country, Apili was convinced that her qualifications would land her an undemanding office job. It seemed like a possibility until everything shut down. There she was, stuck in a foreign place with these foreign people and their foreign ways. For months, she scoured job boards. She sent applications to every organisation she saw. For months, she heard nothing back. It sent her into a spiral. How was she to come out of this? How was she to survive? During phone conversations with her mother, she masked it— making up a world in which she had found remote work and was making six figures a year. In this world, she had virtual after-work drinks with colleagues and held virtual hangouts with friends she had made online. Here, her love life was thriving and she had met a lovely lad on A Dating App who made her feel human and whole and safe. Sometimes, she almost believed it; the joy on her mother’s face made her wish it were all so. She could not bear to tell her the truth. One night, while scrolling through another Social Media App, she had come across a girl’s profile. It seemed simple enough at first: pictures in a holiday destination here, videos in another vacation home there. The further she dug, the spicier the content became. Curious as to what exactly the girl did, Apili clicked on a video aptly titled, “Get Like Me: Solitary Devotees for Dummies”. The video had 1.7 million likes and 7 million views.
Apili had heard of Solitary Devotees, of course, she didn’t live under a rock after all. The site had a reputation for attracting certain creators and a particular category of users that paid for their creations. In the video, the girl detailed the kind of work she did. She stressed that this sort of work, though frowned upon, was an art akin to sculpting and arranging melodies; highlighted that it was a branch of one of the oldest professions and that that alone made it noble and honourable. Apili was transfixed, imagining what her life could be if she simply put her prejudices to bed. Still, she could not see herself filming videos as the girl did. Just as she was clicking away the girl mentioned that not all the work involved making videos. Some creators simply held conversations with their clients, people who were looking for a friendly voice on the other end of the line. Apili considered this for a moment. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe that none of the conversations would be rated 18, but she was ready to take the metaphorical wheat with the chaff. It dawned on her that this is what she needed to do. She had to get out of this rut and if “talking” to strangers online for money was the way to go, then go she would.
So, she set up an account. She was not discriminatory; men, women…people were all welcome. She was gullible at first; she had shown her face, offered up a bit too much information about her personal life, about her neighbourhood and her past, and mentioned her family in some instances. Once, in trying to forge a connection with one of her clients, Apili mentioned that she had a little sister. The conversation had turned vile when the client called her a harlot, spitting about her being a jezebel who sat around scheming to seduce and con people out of their hard-earned money. Apili reached her tipping point when the client asked her what sort of example she was setting for said sister. The change in tone and switch in demeanour had taken her aback. Slamming her laptop shut with such force that the corner of its screen developed a hairline crack, Apili ruminated on the irony that she was considered a harlot but this client thought they were innocent in this transaction.
A few weeks later, a man she vaguely recognised approached her while she took the bins out. He was non-aggressive at first but started to scream at her when she said that she didn’t remember him. He told her all harlots were the same, using and abusing people for their own benefit. She was disturbed, but strangely confident that he would not touch her. Keeping a barricade of her block of flats’ large bins in front of her, she dialled the police’s number and he only left when she threatened to hit ‘Call’. The encounter unsettled her so much that she stayed in her bed-sit for three weeks, ignoring her body’s need for movement and the daily walks that kept everyone sane during the great global shutdown. She ate nothing but baked beans and canned tuna because the shops were a thirty-minute walk from her. She simply couldn’t take that risk.
The longer they were kept inside, the greater her justification grew for her newfound hobby and source of income. As far as she was concerned, Apili was helping people. She was a therapist…of sorts. Where psychotherapists used words, she used moans. It was all the same, she reasoned. She was finally able to afford rent and send some money home to her mother, buy her little sister a birthday present, and help out a friend when they were in need. She was comfortable. Well, sort of. When she lay in bed, her religious upbringing gnawed at her. Remnants of scriptures she had read or teachings she had heard once echoed in her mind. They kept her up for most nights but she refused to relent. This Country had refused to offer her anything lucrative so she had found something for herself. Surely, that was not such a bad thing. Yes, she had no co-workers and yes, she had no friends. But, at least she was halfway to that six-figure salary. As for the lovely lad, she had given up on all that. A cloud hovered over her head and that kept her company.
When The Country’s leader finally announced that the professionals felt it safe for them to go outside again, Apili preferred to stay indoors a little longer. She lived above a pub, then, and fell asleep to the sounds of merry-making and cheer, men drunkenly staggering home after their teams won a football match; their chants echoing deep into the night. In the end, it was the sound of human interaction that drove her to the job boards again. This time, though, she knew not to look through the cushy section. She looked up barista positions that paid decently and offered some benefits and days off that made sense. She was hired at the end of the first interview. When she got to her bed-sit, she deleted the spicy account. She felt the cloud above her open up and leave the slightest sensation of raindrops on her arm
*
The morning rush in the coffee shop has died down and the slower pace provides an opportunity for them to gear up for the lunchtime pandemonium. There are a few patrons scattered about the shop floor; it is clean and warm, and Apili does not blame them. Most are tapping away at keyboards and only one or two older ones are sipping from steaming mugs, gazing at the world rushing past outside. Apili is working this shift with two girls she has barely interacted with before, a boy who has just started and looks like he should be in school, as it is a weekday, and Boss. They make polite chit-chat about the weather, the cost of living, the commute, hump day: all humdrum topics about a generally humdrum life. Apili has mastered the art of joining in on these conversations while conveniently having plans whenever an after-work event was tabled. She knows that when she leaves the room, she becomes the topic of conversation—she does not let it bother her much. She spent almost a year alone and the longer that isolationary period lasted, the more comfortable she became with solitude. It’s a job, you see, not a jamboree.
Apili glances at the clock on the register computer and sighs quietly. Morning and mid-morning shifts are her least favourite. It’s all high street workers and investment bankers, people she envies, their seeming purposefulness and ‘serious’ jobs. They strike her as knowing where they are going in life and she cannot help wishing that could be her as well. Having struck up conversations with some regulars, she’s gathered that their jobs aren’t as difficult as the titles they hold make them seem. Surely, she reasons, she can do that. There are three hours left before she gets to leave and go home to scroll through A Social Media App until 9 pm and Apili feels like they’re stretching into oblivion. She goes to the kitchen to escape Boss’ constant glimpses for a minute and encounters one of the other girls on the shift.
When Apili first started at the Coffee Shop, the girl was tasked with ‘showing her the ropes’. She was nice enough. Initially, Apili was slightly taken aback by how pale the girl was. She was almost translucent with jet-black hair and lips she always painted crimson. These features only highlighted her translucence. Apili knew better than to point this out or act strangely around her. That morning, the girl looked up when she heard the bell ding above the coffee shop’s door and smiled when she saw that it was Apili. Apili attempted to smile back but instead ended up pursing her lips. Already aware that no conversation would be had, the girl went back to tapping away at her phone. Now, Apili pulls hers out of her apron pocket—more out of habit than anything— and is navigating her way to Another Social Media App when she hears Boss’ voice calling out her name. She scrambles to the door, leaving her phone to clatter to the ground in the process. Thank God for screen protectors. Boss is at the counter talking to the other girl who only glances at Apili when she comes in. This girl is nice enough as well. Her features aren’t as severe as the others. She has brown hair and a nose ring that endeared her to Apili. She’s always wanted to tell the girl that but decided against it—it is probably inappropriate anyway.
Boss mumbles something about a customer requesting her personally which Apili finds odd. Nonetheless, she saunters over to the counter and purses her lips when the customer greets her. She absentmindedly waits for him to make up his mind about his order and only comes to when he asks why he doesn’t see her around anymore. Around? Apili snaps to attention and looks at this person full-on. He looks familiar but she can’t place him. A sickly feeling settles in her stomach and she slightly backs away from the counter. How did he find her? Has he been following her? She deleted her account…how does he know where she works. Did he wait outside her flat? Did he know what buses she took? Did he skulk about looking for her at her train station?
After their last encounter by the bins outside her building, the gentleman had tried contacting her on A Social Media App. ‘Tried’ is putting it mildly. He all but took over her account. She blocked him and all the accounts he attempted to reach her on yet somehow, he kept finding her account. Apili did everything short of phoning the police. Now, she wishes she had. While their last meeting had been non-violent, something in the man’s eyes feels different. He seems…angrier, as if Apili obstructing his access to her awakened something even more diabolical in him. He is wearing a large black coat and seems to be reaching for something inside it. She backs away from the counter even further and threatens to call the police. The man is unphased by this. By this point, the patrons at the nearby tables have focused their attention on the kerfuffle. They can tell that something is about to happen. Apili feels the same and berates herself for ever setting up that account, for ever being naïve regarding her safety, for ever coming to This Country, for ever being born.
While speaking in the soothing voice she mastered, Apili slowly reaches for the landline on the counter. Just as she wraps her fingers around the receiver, the man lurches forward and leaps over the counter, a knife in his right hand, left hand making a gripping motion. Apili gasps, alerting Boss and the girl with the nose ring to the situation. The girl shrieks and Boss looks on in horror as the man aims for Apili’s chest. Before he can inflict any irreparable damage, Apili jerks to the left and the blade slices her forearm. The place erupts. Patrons are screaming and scrambling for the exit. Boss and the girl with the nose ring follow. Apili, still reeling in shock, riles herself up to fight this man off. Just as she groggily lifts herself up off the floor, the girl with the translucent skin bounds through the kitchen door, pepper spray in hand. She aims it at the man’s eyes and he squeals in agony.
“Are you okay?” Apili hears the girl ask her before she passes out from the shock and the pain.
*
She comes to a sterile white room, a beeping noise in the background getting louder and more pronounced as she registers that she’s in a hospital. Her left forearm is bandaged and her right wrist is hooked up to an IV. As the memories of what led her here come rushing back to her, Apili can’t help but let out a sob. It’s self-pity more than anything, but Apili can’t help it. Fat, hot tears roll down her cheeks and she tries to wipe them away, momentarily forgetting that there’s a syringe in her vein. The unexpected pain from the syringe ripping out of her wrist elicits a loud yelp from her.
Just then, she hears a voice from the corner of the room say, “Oh my days, you’re up! Finally. How are you feeling?” Apili is startled and begins to scramble out of bed for the door before realising that it is her co-worker.
“Wait, no, I’m so sorry,” the girl chuckles, “I should’ve let you know I was here before. I fell asleep, that’s all. They didn’t have a next of kin contact for you so I offered to stay with you. I hope that’s okay.”
Apili simply stares at the girl, trying to compute all the information she’s receiving. She should say something but all she can think about is the fact that her work now knows more about her than she ever wanted them to. She thinks about the optics of the only person of colour and immigrant working at the coffee shop bringing chaos into it. Personal chaos…chaotic chaos. Apili sighs heavily, but it comes out as a groan.
“You don’t have to say anything!” the girl exclaims. “Should I get you some water? Call a nurse, maybe?”
Apili feels overwhelmed by all the questions, so she simply nods. Whichever option is fine. Either way, she just needs five minutes without the girl in her room. She feels like she can’t breathe. The girl nods eagerly and mumbles something about being right back while pulling her bag strap over her shoulder. Apili watches her and is suddenly awash with guilt. This girl saved her life, sacrificed hours and money to make sure she wasn’t alone in the hospital and all Apili can do is internally bitch and moan.
“Wait, Eloise,” Apili manages to croak. The girl whips back just as she gets to the door, eyebrows raised in expectation. “Thank you.”
It comes out as a whisper. For a few seconds, the girl doesn’t move and Apili doesn’t think she heard her until she smiles and nods.
“Of course,” she tells her, smiling kindly, “I’ll be right back. Do you watch Infatuation Isle, by the way? Because when I get back, I’m going to catch you up on the Amour de la Maison situation. It is absolutely insane!”
This time, when Apili attempts a smile, there isn’t a pursing of lips. Her mouth stretches and she feels her cheeks pinch. Eloise chuckles a bit before stepping out of the room and Apili watches her go, grateful that solitude doesn’t have to be permanent. A wave of drowsiness hits her and as she goes under, she thinks about how glad she is that she is not alone in this moment.
*
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