From the commercial corridor of Raymond Njoku street, a lesser known road strays from the bustle that typifies Nigeria’s capitalist hub. This road leads into a cul-de-sac where wooden kiosks selling bread, musk, and mosquito-repellent coils are the only signs of mercantilism. Here, crumbling buildings reinforce stories of ambition and destitution, but one story remains yet untold. I keep it alive in the pages of my childhood journal, tucked underneath my foam mattress.
Today, I walk along the wide streets of Bennau. These are the last days of the Second Cycle. Soon, the heavenly barrier of our Level will cease to shine blue. The Tritan glass ceiling will lose its lustre and those living in this part of the stratosphere will have to retreat into their homes for several weeks. Our artificial sun will be at its brightest then, powering swarms of construction robots and drones that will repair our city’s infrastructure and harvest the fields of Rennis. And while the days may seem long and dreary, I survive by the hope that I will wake to a city of renewed energies; to a world of boundless potentials. Writing works of science fiction thus enabled me to envision the renewal of my community. The adversities I encountered as a child in...
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