Free The Book of Phoenix by Nnedi Okorafor Page A

the knowledge of a centenarian. I am what they call an ABO, an ‘accelerated biological organism’.” I sighed. “Amongst other things. I think I was supposed to be one of this country’s greatest weapons.”
    I told them everything.
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    â€œNow I am free of it,” I said, after a few minutes. I sat back. My meal was done. The three of us kept stealing looks at the front window and door. The streets seemed too quiet. But what did I know about what streets normally looked like?
    â€œNo, you’re not,” Makeda said. She and her husband were grasping hands. As if the tale of my life and my journey would fling them into space if they did not hang on tightly. “This is who you are.”
    And who AM I?
I thought.
    Berihun was nodding vigorously. “I didn’t want to tell you this while you were enjoying your meal but your face is on every network, every newsfeed, even embedded in the advertisements. This is happening
now
, Phoenix. Everyone who looks at a television, computer, e-reader, portable, everyone who walks past a building and looks up at its screens will know your face by morning. Whatever that is you have, seed, nut, whatever, take it where it demands to go.”
    Makeda took my hand and for a moment, I forgot all things. Her grasp was warm, strong, as was her gaze. As the food had calmed me, she and Berihun gave me strength. My eyes stung, and I felt the tears coming again. Unlike before, when I was trying to escape Tower 7, they did not sizzle to vapor. They ran down my face, and dropped from my chin to my lap.
    â€œYou can’t stop now, girlie,” Makeda whispered. “You have to keep running.”
    She pulled me close and said into my ear, “There is an exit in the back. Leave now!”
    The bell on the front door jingled as a young man in a black uniform walked in.
    â€œAssaalmu Alaykum,” Berihun said, jumping up and quickly walking to the front of the restaurant. He laughed loudly, thickening his accent and breaking his English, “We are close. Open tomorrow.”
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    I was running again. I didn’t know where I was going, but I was running. Something had happened to the streets. There were no cars. There were no people. They’d been cleared. The sky sounded like it was swarming with helicopters. I could see the flash of searchlights in front of me and to my right side. I needed to get out of the city but how would I do that on foot?
    I felt something give in my back, and I stumbled but didn’t stop. I felt it painfully rupture and then ooze down. Blood? This was something new. I felt the upper part of my dress pull tight, and then I heard the back rip. What was happening to me? I ran into an alley and reached behind my now exposed back. I felt . . . I had no idea what I felt. Something was protruding. Wet but hard bone? I knocked on the part I could reach. Not heavy. Hollow. I ran my hand over it. Soft things, too. I flexed my shoulder blades as the itchiness grew intense again. What felt like the skin of my middle and lower back tore some more. This time I could even hear it. But the pain wasn’t pain. It was relief. Itchy relief. I looked at my hand and saw that it was red and wet with blood.
    â€œOh God,” I wept, disgusted. “What is happening?” I shuddered as I fought not to scratch.
    I leaned my face against the wall. The concrete was cool against my cheek. A door opened feet away from me, spilling out warm yellow light. Perhaps the backdoor of a shop or a restaurant. A man walked out laughing. He took one look at me and gasped, stumbling over his feet.
    I tried to press my back to the wall. I froze. I couldn’t; whatever was sticking out of me was too big. Then whatever it was knocked over a garbage can two yards to my right. I could feel it hit the can.
    The man only stared at me, slack jawed. Another man came out, carrying