Free The Book of Phoenix by Nnedi Okorafor

is true?” she asked.
    â€œYes,” I said.
    â€œAfricans? Like me? Like my husband?”
    â€œYes, most of us were Africans.”
    â€œEthiopians?”
    â€œNot that I knew.”
    â€œBut they served our food?”
    â€œYes.”
    She came over to me and touched my cheek. Only Saeed had ever touched me with tenderness. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I wasn’t quite sure why. “So warm,” she said. “My sister, you’re safe here.”
    As she went back into the kitchen, I noticed what her husband spoke of. Her back was slightly crooked and she had a bit of a hump, like mine. But I didn’t think her back was hot to the touch.
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    His wife brought the food out minutes later. By then my entire back was aching so badly that I began to wonder if my light was burning me from within. But if that were the case, then my whole body should have been in pain, not just the area around my shoulder blades. Every move I made brought a deep itchy pain that made me want to tear at my skin.
    â€œMy husband and I were about to eat dinner. This is my special recipe,” Makeda said, ceremoniously placing the large round metal platter on the table. “I only make this for family.”
    The platter was covered with injera, a spongy delicious flat bread. At Tower 7, only once in a while did they serve my doro wat with the traditional injera. On the layer of the bread in the center of the platter, were the drumsticks and boiled eggs stewed in the spicy red sauce. On the injera layer closer to me, to my left was a small mound of boiled cabbage and carrots and on the right was a mound of yellow curried lentils. The same was on the other side of the platter.
    Berihun sat across from me. “You should have the pleasure of company with your meal,” he said. I felt my chest swell with emotion. Good company, a small but wonderful thing. That was exactly what I craved, next to a good meal. It seemed so long ago that I’d had good company. Makeda also set a plate with four rolled up sections of injera on the table and then sat down in the chair beside me.
    â€œI’m not hungry for food, but I am for your story,” she said, looking at me with eyes of wonder. “Will you tell us?”
    â€œLet her eat some first, my wife,” Berihun said, chuckling.
    Makeda nodded, but glanced toward the door. I understood her unspoken words perfectly. I didn’t have much time. The Big Eye were out there. They were looking for me. How long would it be before they came running down this street, checking every building?
    I picked up one of the soft rolls of flat bread, unrolled it a bit and tore off a piece. I grasped some chicken and stew with it and popped the combination in my mouth. This is the most wonderful thing about injera flat bread; it is simultaneously food, eating utensil, and plate. My eyes grew wide as my brand new taste buds sang.
    â€œOh! Delicious!”
    Makeda beamed. Berihun was busy shoveling food into his mouth, too.
    I tore off more injera. The balance of meat, egg, pepper, tomato was harmony. Tower 7 doro wat had never tasted like this! The injera was delicately sour and light as a cloud. The sauce was colorful tantalizing heat. The chicken, savory. I ate and I ate. She brought out more of everything, and I ate that, too. Neither of them commented about the fact that I was eating like two large men, and I was glad.
    All that I had been through in the last hour was smoothed away by this perfect sustenance. My entire being relaxed. My mind was calm and alive as the flavors in my mouth touched my other senses.
    â€œMy name is Phoenix,” I said. We’d been eating in silence for ten minutes. Berihun and Makeda both looked at me with anticipation. “My DNA was probably brought straight from Africa. That makes the most sense to me now. I was mixed and grown in Tower 7, two years ago, though I look and feel about 40 and have