Published Issue 136, April 2025

The ship had capsized a night before. Mayday calls weren’t answered, at least not on time. Perhaps because the captain who called didn’t give adequate details before drowning. People died. The ship was gone without a trace, gravity showing its earthly omnipresence. When rescue copters and boats arrived, the sea was already hissing with satisfaction, roaring with defiance each time the waves moved and crashed at the shores. Everyone aboard the Space B ship had just disappeared, as many as fifteen thousand. The belly of the sea had been overfed in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. Rescue copters and ships returned, mission unaccomplished. 

The gist was that the almost infallible ship was bombed by international enemies of progress. But a week later, the sea saw a man rise from its belly. The man, in a bid to survive, swam desperately towards the shores. He looked horrified. He couldn’t imagine being dead. He couldn’t imagine being a juicy bite for sharks nor was he ready to rot several nautical miles beneath. He swam, on and on, beating the waters furiously. With unquantifiable strength and fear, it was a miracle that he made it up alive. He knew this and also knew he must make good use of the luck given to him. He swam, he swam, he swam. His breathing was fast and showed signs of fatigue. But yet still, he swam and never stopped. He knew he needed to survive. He knew he had one life to live. He swam and swam and swam.

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Finally, by dint of hardwork and faith, he made it to the shores. He reached there exhausted and temporarily out of his mind. He lay on his back and tried to catch his breath, cursing himself and the sea softly. His stomach appeared engorged, perhaps he had swallowed too much water. He was here alone. He was here all by himself, lost and alive. The gigantic Space B ship had suddenly disappointed for the first time since its creation. He had also boarded the famous ship for the first time. There on the ground, his bloodshot eyes blinked now and then. The sun was yet to be out in its shining glory — it was just early morning.

He felt something wasn’t right in his trousers. He quickly put his hand through his zipper and fought to stop his discomfort. Out of the zipper came a fierce-looking small fish. Angrily, he raised his other hand and crushed the fish with his two palms. Impulsively, or just a result of plain hunger, he bit off the fish’s head and began to extricate its flesh — flesh which found its way into his mouth from time to time till the fish was nothing but a long bone, till the fish was gone. With pain, he tried to lay himself on his side. He managed to do that, spitting out little bones from his mouth.

Everything was coming to his mind now with a cold feat of disbelief. HE WAS THE ONLY SURVIVOR AMONGST FIFTEEN THOUSAND PASSENGERS. He rubbed his eyes and tried to get up. He placed his two hands on the ground and raised himself slowly with a groan. Gradually, he stood. Standing slightly erect on his feet now, he began to look around. He combed the environment surrounding him with his eyes. He knew he was lost on this strange island. He could hear the noises of birds and the noises of animals he couldn’t decipher. He looked back just in time to duck a big strange bird charging towards him. He stood as the bird flew past and cursed it. He had wanted to walk away when he saw the bird charging towards him again. With anger and defense on his mind, he took a stance and grabbed its strong wing. In the fight that ensued, he angrily broke the bones of the wing in his grip and smashed the bird on the ground, denying it the opportunity to use the beak it had turned towards him. The bird began burrowing a hole in the process. He charged towards it immediately and stood on its neck. This was it — he had killed a stubborn strange bird. He stepped back and watched it take its last breath. He chuckled and began to drag the bird with him as he navigated his newfound environment.

He stopped briefly and folded up the bottom of his trousers. He rose and continued. He found a coconut tree and went to rest under it. Feeling a sharp pain in his crotch he shouted and ran from the tree, removing his trousers in the process. Inside his boxers was a crab. He brought out the thing and flung it thoughtlessly. He was still in pain, so he held his crotch and yelled. There he stood, looking here and there till the pain subsided. He returned to the coconut tree afterwards, where he sat in his boxers and thought about his life. And on trying to sit comfortably, he placed his hand mistakenly on the neck of the strange bird with the resultant effect being that a jutted-out bone injured him. He let out an umph cry and cursed the bird.

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Meanwhile, somewhere in America, a man and his clay son were the most integral element of the news making the rounds. “This is crazy,” people were saying. “How could he allow his mind to think such crazy idea,” others said. Everyone criticized until they heard the real story, the motive behind his creation of a clay son. The backup story that started making the rounds alongside the first news was that the man had lost his son to a ship accident. He was his only son and child. He was traveling to Brussels, from Connecticut, for his master’s program. The man had sold plots of land to enable his son’s traveling and studies. Grief is a dangerous thing, grief is grief, grief is unquantifiable. He didn’t know how to manage his growing grief. The clay son was the only way out, was the only way out for him. Grief is a dangerous thing. And so when people heard the backup story, they held their wagging tongues — but not completely, because people will always be people.

With no matchbox to make fire, he ate some of the bird raw. I hope I am not turning into a savage, he said to himself. He felt devastated and mentally unwound, the lyricality of it all a sad tone in the vast hall of his existence. He wondered how long he could last on the island. He wondered if he would make it out of this place, or if his body would be another contribution to the earth and manure for the trees and grasses.

He beat his chest and assured himself that he was American — body, soul and mind — that he must show the resilience and strength Americans are known for. He knew too well the gains of wearing his American heritage like a necklace round his neck. He missed home. He missed the fecundity and liveliness of his dreams and ambition. He missed everything that added to his definition of humanness. He missed himself, because right now it felt like he wasn’t himself. He missed his dad. He missed Shantella, his betrothed. He missed everything. He picked his trousers off the ground and tied them round his waist. The sun was yet to rise. He picked a stick he saw and set about to explore the lonely island.

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It was the millennium of supercars, millennium of eventful express cars. They ran on the needful, on four-lane roads designed to permit one car at a time. The cars had stations that operated like train stations. It was the era of the fast cars. The cars were just the bomb, and people who patronised them were the brave and adventurous. It was the car for anyone who had his money and in urgent need of reaching his destination faster. These cars could carry as many as eight persons. Fast and reliable, with competent drivers. Fast cars, fast journeys. All fast everything.

He had just traveled several kilometres on foot when he stumbled on a shrub with yellow succulent fruits. The fruits looked like a distant relative of highbush blueberry. He ate and collected as many as he could. He marked the area should he need these succulent fruits again. Excited, he smiled and walked on. He walked and walked and felt a twitch in his arm but never paid attention to it. He was trying to explore the island and find help sooner. He talked to himself and walked on. He walked and smiled, on and on. It seemed he was now having a dangerous affair with his newfound environment.

He smiled even harder when he found strong pieces of wood. He knew immediately what he must do with those pieces of wood. He was going to build a strong tent for his safety — because, of course, any wild animal could miss its way and find his flesh a more desirable delicacy. Even though he was lost, he wanted to stay alive at least. He picked the wood, from everywhere they were scattered. He picked them and began to build at a spot he considered preferable. With the gift of a craftsman, he was able to finish building before sunset. He heaved a sigh of satisfaction and watched his tent with admiration. He checked how strong the door was when closed from both outside and inside. He smiled and went to fetch himself more fruits in the direction he saw them.

On reaching the shrub, he committed himself to plucking all the ripe fruits he could. He collected them and turned to return to his tent, munching noisily. At least these could keep hunger away for some time till he could kill another unlucky animal. He had just reached the side of his tent when he saw a hyena lurking around the door. Shocked and surprised, he stealthily dropped his succulent fruits and searched for a very strong stick. He found one, taking the right end of his tent. Slowly and gradually he snuck up on the unsuspecting hyena and smashed its head with the strong wood. The animal yelped and tried to run but fell dramatically. He watched with bulged eyes, his weapon aloft. He watched as the thing struggled. He gave it another hit and watched the thing yelp and take its final breath.

A shiver of excitement forced his lips into laughter as he realised he had killed it. He dropped his weapon and carried the animal up, placing its limbs across his neck. He began to chant songs of victory. When he felt he was done holding up the dead animal, he brought it down and went to open his tent. He took the animal inside afterwards and sat outside to enjoy his fruits.

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Meanwhile, somewhere in Ghana, a man was knocked unconscious by a falling object. In fact, he was knocked dead the way coconuts disembarking from their trees do to people underneath them. People gathered at the scene of action and tried hard to fathom what the object was. The object was round like a Frisbee — and heavy. Police arrived at the scene of the accident and took away the victim and the killer object. They took the victim to the hospital where he was pronounced dead. He was taken into the morgue while forensic experts and crime scene investigators tried to ascertain what the object was and what could have led to it falling vertically from nowhere.

One week later, after thorough analysis and consultations, they concluded the object had fallen from outer space. They said it contained traces of uranium and other radioactive elements. They said a whole lot of things in regards to what they discovered from their analysis. If there was any prominent thing, the things they did say to the general public, it was leaving them frightened and with a growing sense of insecurity. No one knew when they would step out and have their head hit by a mysterious object. People were scared. The supposedly wise wore helmets whenever they went outside. And the fears grew when a similar incident was recorded in Brazil in front of a grocery store where a woman went to shop. Everyone knew they had to be on the lookout for these falling objects, these objects that dared to fall unannounced.

“Kiss my eyes,” a man from Ottawa said in Toronto. “Come kiss my eyes.”

He had been questioned and accused by a police officer for being a witness in the sudden murder of one Ms. Sutcliffe. The man had said he only walked in to see his colleague dead and nothing more. But the police officer had begged him to say everything he knew and saw because nobody was going to implicate him in the crime. But the irate man could not take it anymore. He just had to react.

“Alright. Calm down,” the police officer said to him and tried to interrogate others. “Calm down. Alright?”

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He woke the next day and opened the door of his tent. Birds were chirping noisily and flying about. He tried to stretch but discovered he had some difficulty with moving his arms, as if they were some mechanical appendage. He felt quite unwell and didn’t know what was wrong with himself. If asked, he knew he wouldn’t be totally able to say how he was feeling. Nonetheless, the truth remained that he was feeling strange. Suddenly, he remembered he was lost and alone and began to feel hopeless. This cup needed to pass over him, or he needed this cup to pass over him — whichever way. He yawned and turned to close his tent so he could go for a walk. As he closed the door, he felt quite dizzy and rubbed his eyes. He walked away, looking here and there. On and on he walked.

He had not walked for long when a helicopter appeared from nowhere, buzzing out from above the trees near his tent into the open space where he was standing now. Surprised, he fastened his gaze on the helicopter for two good minutes before he remembered he was lost and needed help. He began to wave frantically. He yelled and called out for help. The helicopter slowed and hovered above him. “I need help y’all!” he screamed. “Get me out of this place!” The helicopter began to descend gradually. He yelled further, throwing his hands into the air. Eventually, the helicopter touched down and two men came out. They wore a certain kind of uniform, uniform that he could not recognise and knew he had never seen. The men shook hands with him and asked what he was saying actually.

“What else could I possibly be saying, fellas?” he said to the two men. “Isn’t it quite obvious that I am lost here?”

“How did it happen?” one of the men in uniform asked.

“I was aboard the Space B ship, that’s all I can remember. I was sleeping in it. I think it capsized.”

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed the other. “You are a Space B survivor? This is unbelievable. Can you believe this, Martins? This man is a Space B survivor.”

“That’s amazing,” his colleague said. “But, can you tell us your story?”

“I can,” he said, nodding. “But I think I am sick. Take me out of here first.”

“Oh, sure. Martins, let’s get this man to a hospital. This is a miracle. How many days now?”

“I have lost count. Let’s just get him out of here.”

They all entered the helicopter and left the ground before he remembered his hyena. The two men laughed and asked if they should throw him down so he could go meet the dead animal. He shrugged and laughed too.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Liberia, someone was also found dead with teeth marks on her neck. The police took her dead corpse to the hospital where doctors tried to analyse the teeth incisions to be able to decipher if it was a canine or something else that bit the neck of the woman. And the result of the analysis, to their maximum discomfort, showed the teeth marks belonged to something else. The doctors agreed the whole of humanity was in danger. But they became somewhat political with their findings and decided to keep the truth away from the masses. They believed chewing the curd of truth and regurgitating as much as they could would help buy them some time to ascertain the emotional aftertaste of the world when the news is eventually fed to them.

Meanwhile, the two men succeeded in flying the castaway to a reputable hospital where he was taken care of as a Space B survivor, the government willing to interview him when the time was right. The nurses and doctors took good care of him, giving him drugs whenever was right. But something happened that left them fearing for their safety, something happened within the course of two days. Two nurses and a doctor were found dead with teeth marks on their necks. They consulted themselves and the government before it was announced on televisions worldwide that a certain virus was turning people into zomboids — humans that were zombie-like — and that the only known survivor of the Space B disaster turned into a zomboid and escaped the hospital where he was admitted after being rescued. And when people heard the news, they went mad with fear and anxiety. They simply didn’t know how to live their lives anymore. But one thing was certain — they must find their ways to survive.

Meanwhile, the “runaway zomboid” went to a fast car station and decided it was time to go home — and home he sped, hoping his memory remembers exactly what home looked like and that he doesn’t turn into a zomboid, again, any time soon. On and on the fast car sped on its lane, fast and fast his growing nostalgia went. And he knew, somehow, anyhow, that the world had changed totally since he left home on a ship. And he knew, somehow, anyway, that he would either return home as a lost-but-found human or an unwanted zomboid. And at home, his clay replacement waited for him.

Marvel Chukwudi Pephel aka Poet Panda, has synesthesia and writes prose with a poetic overtone. He is the author of five books of poetry and has taught writing to upcoming writers through his Quasiyoga Writing Masterclass. He can’t stop talking about how much he likes the writing of Helen Oyeyemi.