Chapter 2: Father and I
Scene 1
Birds tweeted gently above the calm, breezy waves of morning. The streets of Town Center were sparsely filled with civilians beginning their day. The sun's golden rays were still fresh and young, kissing the very surface of the ground.
Cars moved steadily along the flyover bridge while some civilians hurried to cross to the other side, where the Zambian Post Office stood—a mere shadow of its former glory. All the office slots were now empty, abandoned in favor of advancing technology like cellphones, which offered easy access to email and messaging. No one seemed to think of the post office anymore.
Along the route just to the left of the post office was another bridge—a pedestrian flyover. Civilians used it to make their way across the bustling Cairo Road. Beneath this bridge lay the old train station, where rusty train carts sat dormant—shells of their once meaningful purpose.
Above, along the pedestrian bridge, a group of vendors sat, trying their best to make ends meet. They were a staple of the street, unwavering in their hustle.
Scene 2
Megan and Mr. Banda stood at the edge of the flyover bridge. As always, Mr. Banda's hair was messy, and his eyes were intently fixed on his doodle pad. He made casual glances and measurements with his fingers, observing the vast horizon that stretched across the Tazara railroad.
The moment was peaceful, despite the street vendors' chatter, the hum of engines, and the sudden horn of a departing train.
Megan stood beside him, watching intently. Her eyes were bright, yet they shimmered with a shallow emptiness—an emptiness mixed with curiosity toward Mr. Banda's work.
"Megan," Mr. Banda muttered.
Startled, Megan quickly replied, "Pass me my delete pencil... of creative possibility." He said
He drew with his right arm—two fingers lifted high in the air, making all sorts of gestures in the space above his pad.
Megan stared curiously with quiet innocence.
"I like what I see," said Mr. Banda, though his eyes had wandered elsewhere—to an unconventional jiggle in the figure of a robust lady in a chitenge wrapper.
Megan noticed his sudden distraction.
"Why?" she asked herself, wondering why his attention had shifted so quickly.
"Megan!" Mr. Banda startled her again.
"Yes?" she responded.
"Look at this," he said, pointing to his canvas—his finished craft. It was a beautifully detailed drawing of the Tazara train tracks and the land beyond.
Except—
"How come I can't see it?" Megan asked, confused.
"WHAT?" Mr. Banda looked at her with a hint of panic. "SOMETHING WRONG?"
"No. I'm talking about the extra rail—floating on top of the others. I can't see it in front of me."
"Oh, right. Well, it's because I used my imagination," he replied calmly.
"Imagination? So it's all fake?"
"No, no. Well, it may not be real... but it highlights the possibilities of what could be."
"What could be?" Megan repeated, her curiosity growing.
"Yes, what could be. Listen, Megan—people use their imagination to make what is impossible, possible. Even if it makes no sense, it's still a way to highlight potential."
"Oh, I see," Megan said, grabbing a pen and scribbling something that quickly caught Mr. Banda's attention.
"Is that me... with wings?" he asked, noticing her genuine smile.
"Amazing," he thought to himself. Well, I guess she was amazing even from the start... despite my initial plans for her. He remembered the day of Megan's awakening, and how she always acted in accord with her environment. Amazing, he thought again.
Megan continued sketching, adding more and more bizarre, abnormal, and wild elements—things only possible through imagination.
"The war is really getting out of hand," said one of two civilians passing by.
"Twazwe is rapidly making its way through Zambia's border defenses. The military is doing everything they can, but still..." the other replied.
"Only God knows, at this stage. Huuuhh, it's concerning, really."
Mr. Banda quietly took in their words. His eyes drifted toward the horizon. What is to become of this... if it's all destroyed? He thought back to his childhood—a time when he believed his home was a land of peace and joy. Now, it felt like that belief was slowly decaying. Nothing stung more.
"Megan... let's go," he said in a low tone.
"Anything wrong?" Megan asked.
"Nothing really... let's just go, dear."
Megan began packing the art supplies they had brought for their sketch session.
As they walked through the streets of Lusaka, the city pulsed with life. Trade, commercial activity, and joyful conversations filled the air. Despite everything, people still found reasons to smile. Yet not everyone shared in that joy.
They passed a homeless, disabled man. Mr. Banda remained distant, muting the world around him. Megan, on the other hand, was taking everything in. She saw the man—saw the hopelessness in his eyes—and quietly wondered.
"He's quiet... again," she thought. He was like that often during the days I was activated. What is that... coldness I see in his eyes? Almost like fear. Like words he can't speak, but keeps inside because he can't express them.
"Megan,"
"Yes?"
"Give that man a token, please," he said, pointing toward the homeless man sitting on the cold, dusty street.
Without hesitation, Megan handed it over, her eyes still lingering on the man's empty stare.
"Let's go."
And so, Megan and Mr. Banda continued Megan noticing that distance In Mr Banda's aura said to herself.
"Father," she whispered to herself.