I press my nose to the small hole next to my bed and take a deep breath. My senses are overwhelmed by the smell of dry air. I yell with excitement as I throw on my mismatched socks and my only pair of shoes – a pair of pink rainboots. The four-week interplanetary rainstorm is over.
“Mama,” I shout into the dark void behind me. “I am going topside, and I am taking the littles with me.”
Somewhere in the tunnels she shouts back at me, but I am too excited to pay attention to her words. I grab my large blue torch, a rusted mid-century compass, an Advanced Oxford English Dictionary, my water canteen, and three bars of chocolate. “Today is the day,” I whisper to myself as I run down the maze of seemingly endless tunnels toward the hatch.
I stop briefly to collect my siblings from our Gogo. As I approach her corner of the tunnels, they are lying under an old tarp that has been deliberately cut to mimic the night sky. Gogo is clothed in a purple and yellow blanket. With her cropped white hair, she looks regal and gentle. Gogo is teaching the triplets about the stars and the universe from her time. She is not related to us in any particular way, but the littles love her and treat her like a grandparent.
“In isiZulu, the language of my people, Gogo means grandmother,” she had explained to me when I asked her. “A Gogo is an elder who you respect and who cares for you in return.”
The triplets wriggle in their matching blue jumpsuits. They look more like miniature mechanics than babies, while using the wrench Gogo uses to fix her water pipes to ease the itch of their gums. I laugh quietly to myself so as not to break the magic.
“In 2026, our night sky was dark and sprinkled with tiny twinkling lights,” Gogo says as she hovers her torch over the little holes. “We had one moon in our universe, a bold and courageous shape-shifter that beckoned us to sleep.”
The triplets reach above their heads with their pudgy infant hands, trying to catch the light. I squat quietly in the corner and take in the moment while I wait for Gogo to sense my presence. After a few minutes, she gathers the sleeping littles into a large green kitenge that once belonged to Papa’s mother, and places them into the broken pram that has been retrofitted to a bicycle for me to ride.
I nod my gratitude in her direction as she turns back to tend her fire, keeping the other babies in this makeshift daycare warm. I ride off with gusto, my mind fixed on the mission to reach the hatch.
*
The tunnel system can be overwhelming. Some tunnels are frigid and laden with ice where the damp from leaking pipes meets cold air from windy vents. Other tunnels feel like the Sahara Desert and are off-limits to small children. These tunnels are used to dry our clothes, heat our blankets, and keep our valuables away from bad guys. We live in the tunnels midway between these spaces.
Papa cooks and runs the kitchens with the elderly sisters from the convent. Mama is part of the research team that travels through the tunnels to find safe ways to connect us to the outside. My job is to make sure the littles are safe while they work.
There is no night or daytime down here. There is only safe time and unsafe time, so I play when I can.
As I race toward the hatch, I notice that many of us have the same idea. The sea of people pushes each other towards exit. We all want to go topside.
The topside is a small patch of artificial grass that is about an acre wide, covered by a glass dome. We sit, play, talk, and learn about the worlds lost beneath it. In this world, our sky is red and has four moons. There is no visible sun, only a bright light that encircles us. From the topside, you can see other glass domes. There are other humans like us. We communicate using a two-way radio, and each family takes a turn using the frequency once a week. Today is my family’s day. There is a schoolteacher in one of the tunnels who reads to me from old Earth textbooks.
“Why did our people time travel to this place?” I asked on one of the learning days.
“We wasted our natural resources in one generation, and Earth could not cope,” he explained. “Fifteen billion people needed food, water, and air, and there simply was not enough. We fought wars, stole from one another, and became endlessly cruel. One day, scientists and religious groups gathered to create a time machine that gave us the chance to cross into different universes and worlds.”
Papa’s people time traveled from a country once known as Congo, leaving in 2020 and arriving on Mars in 2150. Mama’s people came from Ethiopia in 2018 to Mars in the same year. They grew up in the tunnel systems, and their love overcame their differences. They joined their families’ totems and made a covenant to contribute to the restoration of the human race.
Down here in our tunnel systems, there is no “us” or “them.” Class, race, culture, and creed were lost in the need to survive. But not all the humans in the tunnel systems think like us. Some tunnels are full of people who look and sound the same. Some tunnels only accept you if you share their beliefs, and some only want you if you are wealthy. We may have left Earth, but Earth never left us. Bad people are sent to the cold and wet caves with very little food, and where there is no hope to return to civilization. I have always wondered who decides who is good and who is bad. Papa says I am too young to understand, and as a twelve-year-old, my priority is to eat chocolate and learn about the Earth we left behind.
“Khaya, what do you want to learn about today?” Teacher Hope asks.
I hold the two-way radio in my small hands as I lie on my back and look toward the red sky. My mind wanders for a while. “I want to learn about the women of Earth,” I finally say with confidence. “I am a girl, and one day I will become a woman. Mama tells me the Dahomey Amazons were strong and powerful. I want to be like them so I can keep my littles safe from the bad guys in the caves.”
Today is full of promise and relief. Many people take gentle walks, play games, and show their true selves to one another. Once a week, I see love and joy in their eyes. I listen and watch quietly, anticipating the arrival of my parents. Under the shimmer of a hologram depicting birchwood trees, Teacher Hope reads from a West African history book as the triplets continue to sleep in the pram.
“Teacher Hope, do you think the Dahomey would have gone back to Earth to save its people and resources?” I ask.
There is a long static crackle over the radio. “Khaya, that is a question I do not have the answer for,” she finally says.
Part of me is disappointed. Another part understands that she does not want to put fantasies in my mind that could lead to disaster. For decades, the great minds of Mars have tried to travel back in time to fix our mistakes. Each time, the results are the same. Sometimes, they never come back.
“It is okay. Let us learn some new words from the dictionary,” I say, trying to change the subject.
*
As our time runs out, we talk about the seasons, what snowy Christmas Days were like on Earth, and then we reimagine the taste of real ice cream made from cow’s milk.
Papa quietly creeps up on me as the timer on the two-way radio counts down to zero. I know it is Papa because he smells like garlic and turmeric, the ingredients he uses to make my favorite chickpea curry. Papa’s job as a cook is about creating connection through food to our values and former customs. “When you cook other people’s food, you get the chance to collect the pieces of their existence and represent who they are with passion and flair,” he once said to me when I asked him why he makes Indian food. Mama calls Papa a utopian. I turn and smile as he touches his forehead to mine and lies down on the grass beside me.
Mama feeds the triplets, who are suddenly ravenous and excited, flapping metallic spoons and kicking little legs in their makeshift pram. Mama crafted those tiny spoons from discarded metals. She’s like a wizard and a scientist, making so much from so little. Papa calls her the inventor.
“Teacher Hope, next time let us learn more about food and science,” I say joyfully as I sign off from our lessons.
Saving the world can wait. Right now, Papa’s curry and Mama’s inventions are the closest I can bring my family to Earth, and that’s enough for me.
About the Author:
Lydia Cleopatra Okumu is an emerging writer and blogger whose work explores decolonization and Afro-futures. Grounded in a deep curiosity about human behaviour, her writing reflects a thoughtful engagement with how people make meaning of the world around them. Professionally, she is a communications specialist with several years of experience in the human rights sector. Lydia is committed to people-centred storytelling and sees her work as part of a broader custodial practice for future generations.