it—’
‘The eye of the hand,’ said Joseph.
‘No!’ said God. ‘It is called the labourer’s nerve. The hand is what we use to grasp tools to plough the earth! And weapons to fight the power! And instruments to play freedom songs!’
Jacob rolled his eyes, clicked off his Bead, and pointed at the Wikipedia printouts Joseph had brought. ‘Anyway. I already read about drones online,’ he said. ‘It will not help my project.’
‘Ba Marx wrote that the machine, it is a virtuoso,’ God was musing. ‘It has a soul! The mechanical laws are acting through the machine and these act upon the mind of the worker…’
‘What is your project exactly?’ Joseph asked Jacob.
‘A nanorobot.’ Jacob crossed his arms. He was shorter than Joseph, but stronger.
‘Whoah. The robots that they send through veins and arteries?’
‘Ah, no. Not that small.’
‘You mean a microbot?’
‘Yes. That one. They are making them in USA already. The size of a fly. Or a bee.’
Joseph cast his eyes at the drone on the oil drum – the size of a pigeon. ‘Okay.’
* * *
I found Jacob’s name in my dad’s files. I’ve been going through the photos – they go back the furthest because every time Dad plugged his iPhone into his laptop, it downloaded his whole photo library. There’s a 2012 album, from when he moved out – he took photos of his old documents to back them up. It’s barely legible but I think it was a test. It says ‘sample’ and Jacob M. The result is negative. I guess he lucked out. Should I tell him? How do I even bring it up? ‘Remember when our parents used to fuck?’
I mostly go over there to smoke with God and hear stories about freedom-fighting days, to talk about Marx – another self-tester, in a way. He wasn’t really black but he certainly lived the poverty he was theorising. And yeah, I guess I’m a little curious about Jacob’s ‘drone project’. It does seem shady, as you say. But it also seems so unlikely, so kachigamba. Does he really think he can pull it off?
* * *
Joseph stood above the woman of the night. He watched her for a moment then rapped his knuckles against the wall to wake her. Her eyelids shimmied up, her irises like solid black buttons. Her head fell forward and she began coughing. When the fit had settled, she blinked.
‘Injections,’ he said, placing a hand under her arm to help her up. Her skin felt damp.
As Joseph guided her to the ‘Examinationing Room’, she slurred at him. ‘I know you,’ she said. Her head drooped so far her chin almost touched her chest. Joseph sighed and kicked the door open. Musadabwe watched warily while he assisted her up onto the exam table.
‘Drunk again, love?’ Musadabwe smiled grimly.
Joseph handed a tray of medical equipment to the doctor and placed a bucket beside the woman, just in case. She was falling to pieces, her skin scorched black, her eyes slitted like buttonholes now. When Joseph moved towards the door, Musadabwe called out.
‘Help me,’ he said.
* * *
I didn’t think we would get this far. We’re nearly ready for human inoculation. The patients are hungry for it: whining and pleading with their big eyes. Ling wants us to gather more data first. It turns out he organised competing teams of scientists on either side of the Indian Ocean – he’s essentially pitting us against each other, to force a breakthrough. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I know what you’ll say, Naila – neocolonial neoliberalism, Ling just pushed our research back etc.
He held the Chinese results over Musadabwe the last time we met. Can you imagine it, all of us sitting across from each other in that hovel of a lab? Ling blinking slowly. Musadabwe singing his give-us-more-money song – Dad must have taught him that. They ignored me completely. Humiliating. I know the Virus vaccine is not technically my project but I’ve worked on it for months. I had to insist on even attending these meetings. I threatened to resign. Don’t laugh. I know you can’t resign from a job you never had. I know I got this far only because of my money. But I want to see it through. I’ll rustle more out of Gran if I have to.
* * *
The sunlight had gone from dull orange to white heat, the day burning itself up. Joseph squatted on the stoop of the clinic, rinsing tools in a bucket. Students in pale