The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year - Volume Eight (27 page)

I would have testified, hand on a stack of Bibles or using any oath required of me, that it was Nicole who'd accused me of being the reason her mother left us. My recollection of that argument was as clear as any memory I had, but that wasn't the only reason I found the video hard to believe; it was also my knowledge that – whatever my faults or imperfections – I was never the kind of father who could say such a thing to his child.

Yet here was digital video proving that I had been exactly that kind of father. And while I wasn't that man anymore, I couldn't deny that I was continuous with him.

Even more telling was the fact that for many years I had successfully hidden the truth from myself. Earlier I said that the details we choose to remember are a reflection of our personalities. What did it say about me that I put those words in Nicole's mouth instead of mine?

I remembered that argument as being a turning point for me. I had imagined a narrative of redemption and self-improvement in which I was the heroic single father, rising to meet the challenge. But the reality was… what? How much of what had happened since then could I take credit for?

I restarted Remem and began looking at video of Nicole's graduation from college. That was an event I had recorded myself, so I had footage of Nicole's face, and she seemed genuinely happy in my presence. Was she hiding her true feelings so well that I couldn't detect them? Or, if our relationship had actually improved, how had that happened? I had obviously been a much worse father fourteen years ago than I'd thought; it would be tempting to conclude I had come farther to reach where I currently was, but I couldn't trust my perceptions anymore. Did Nicole even have positive feelings about me now?

I wasn't going to try using Remem to answer this question; I needed to go to the source. I called Nicole and left a message saying I wanted to talk to her, and asking if I could come over to her apartment that evening.

* * *

I
t was a few years later that Sabe began attending a series of meetings of all the chiefs in the Shangev clan. He explained to Jijingi that the Europeans no longer wished to deal with so many chiefs, and were demanding that all of Tivland be divided into eight groups they called 'septs.' As a result, Sabe and the other chiefs had to discuss who the Shangev clan would join with. Although there was no need for a scribe, Jijingi was curious to hear the deliberations and asked Sabe if he might accompany him, and Sabe agreed.

Jijingi had never seen so many elders in one place before; some were even-tempered and dignified like Sabe, while others were loud and full of bluster. They argued for hours on end.

In the evening after Jijingi had returned, Moseby asked him what it had been like. Jijingi sighed. "Even if they're not yelling, they're fighting like wildcats."

"Who does Sabe think you should join?"

"We should join with the clans that we're most closely related to; that's the Tiv way. And since Shangev was the son of Kwande, our clan should join with the Kwande clan, who live to the south."

"That makes sense," said Moseby. "So why is there disagreement?"

"The members of the Shangev clan don't all live next to each other. Some live on the farmland in the west, near the Jechira clan, and the elders there are friendly with the Jechira elders. They'd like the Shangev clan to join the Jechira clan, because then they'd have more influence in the resulting sept."

"I see." Moseby thought for a moment. "Could the western Shangev join a different sept from the southern Shangev?"

Jijingi shook his head. "We Shangev all have one father, so we should all remain together. All the elders agree on that."

"But if lineage is so important, how can the elders from the west argue that the Shangev clan ought to join with the Jechira clan?"

"That's what the disagreement was about. The elders from the west are claiming Shangev was the son of Jechira."

"Wait, you don't know who Shangev's parents were?"

"Of course we know! Sabe can recite his ancestors all the way back to Tiv himself. The elders from the west are merely pretending that Shangev was Jechira's son because they'd benefit from joining with the Jechira clan."

"But if the Shangev clan joined with the Kwande clan, wouldn't your elders benefit?"

"Yes, but Shangev was Kwande's son." Then Jijingi realized what Moseby was implying. "You think our elders are the ones pretending!"

"No, not at all. It just sounds like both sides have equally good claims, and there's no way to tell who's right."

"Sabe's right."

"Of course," said Moseby. "But how can you get the others to admit that? In the land I come from, many people write down their lineage on paper. That way we can trace our ancestry precisely, even many generations in the past."

"Yes, I've seen the lineages in your Bible, tracing Abraham back to Adam."

"Of course. But even apart from the Bible, people have recorded their lineages. When people want to find out who they're descended from, they can consult paper. If you had paper, the other elders would have to admit that Sabe was right."

That was a good point, Jijingi admitted. If only the Shangev clan had been using paper long ago. Then something occurred to him. "How long ago did the Europeans first come to Tivland?"

"I'm not sure. At least forty years ago, I think."

"Do you think they might have written down anything about the Shangev clan's lineage when they first arrived?"

Moseby looked thoughtful. "Perhaps. The administration definitely keeps a lot of records. If there are any, they'd be stored at the government station in Katsina-Ala."

A truck carried goods along the motor road into Katsina-Ala every fifth day, when the market was being held, and the next market would be the day after tomorrow. If he left tomorrow morning, he could reach the motor road in time to get a ride. "Do you think they would let me see them?"

"It might be easier if you have a European with you," said Moseby, smiling. "Shall we take a trip?"

N
icole opened the door to her apartment and invited me in. She was obviously curious about why I'd come. "So what did you want to talk about?"

I wasn't sure how to begin. "This is going to sound strange."

"Okay," she said.

I told her about viewing my partial lifelog using Remem, and seeing the argument we'd had when she was sixteen that ended with me yelling at her and her leaving the house. "Do you remember that day?"

"Of course I do." She looked uncomfortable, uncertain of where I was going with this.

"I remembered it too, or at least I thought I did. But I remembered it differently. The way I remembered it, it was you who said it to me."

"Me who said what?"

"I remembered you telling me that I could leave for all you cared, and that you'd be better off without me."

Nicole stared at me for a long time. "All these years, that's how you've remembered that day?"

"Yes, until today."

"That'd almost be funny if it weren't so sad."

I felt sick to my stomach. "I'm so sorry. I can't tell you how sorry I am."

"Sorry you said it, or sorry that you imagined me saying it?"

"Both."

"Well you should be! You know how that made me feel?"

"I can't imagine. I know I felt terrible when I thought you had said it to me."

"Except that was just something you made up. It actually
happened
to me." She shook her head in disbelief. "Fucking typical."

That hurt to hear. "Is it? Really?"

"Sure," she said. "You're always acting like you're the victim, like you're the good guy who deserves to be treated better than you are."

"You make me sound like I'm delusional."

"Not delusional. Just blind and self-absorbed."

I bristled a little. "I'm trying to apologize here."

"Right, right. This is about you."

"No, you're right, I'm sorry." I waited until Nicole gestured for me to go on. "I guess I am… blind and self-absorbed. The reason it's hard for me to admit that is that I thought I had opened my eyes and gotten over that."

She frowned. "What?"

I told her how I felt like I had turned around as a father and rebuilt our relationship, culminating in a moment of bonding at her college graduation. Nicole wasn't openly derisive, but her expression caused me to stop talking; it was obvious I was embarrassing myself.

"Did you still hate me at graduation?" I asked. "Was I completely making it up that you and I got along then?"

"No, we did get along at graduation. But it wasn't because you had magically become a good father."

"What was it, then?"

She paused, took a deep breath, and then said, "I started seeing a therapist when I went to college." She paused again. "She pretty much saved my life."

My first thought was,
why would Nicole need a therapist?
I pushed that down and said, "I didn't know you were in therapy."

"Of course you didn't; you were the last person I would have told. Anyway, by the time I was a senior, she had convinced me that I was better off not staying angry at you. That's why you and I got along so well at graduation."

So I had indeed fabricated a narrative that bore little resemblance to reality. Nicole had done all the work, and I had done none.

"I guess I don't really know you."

She shrugged. "You know me as well as you need to."

That hurt, too, but I could hardly complain. "You deserve better," I said.

Nicole gave a brief, rueful laugh. "You know, when I was younger, I used to daydream about you saying that. But now… well, it's not as if it fixes everything, is it?"

I realized that I'd been hoping she would forgive me then and there, and then everything would be good. But it would take more than my saying sorry to repair our relationship.

Something occurred to me. "I can't change the things I did, but at least I can stop pretending I didn't do them. I'm going to use Remem to get an honest picture of myself, take a kind of personal inventory."

Nicole looked at me, gauging my sincerity. "Fine," she said. "But let's be clear: you don't come running to me every time you feel guilty over treating me like crap. I worked hard to put that behind me, and I'm not going to relive it just so you can feel better about yourself."

"Of course." I saw that she was tearing up. "And I've upset you again by bringing all this up. I'm sorry."

"It's all right, Dad. I appreciate what you're trying to do. Just… let's not do it again for a while, okay?"

"Right." I moved toward the door to leave, and then stopped. "I just wanted to ask… if it's possible, if there's anything I can do to make amends…"

"Make amends?" She looked incredulous. "I don't know. Just be more considerate, will you?"

And that what I'm trying to do.

A
t the government station there was indeed paper from forty years ago, what the Europeans called "assessment reports," and Moseby's presence was sufficient to grant them access. They were written in the European language, which Jijingi couldn't read, but they included diagrams of the ancestry of the various clans, and he could identify the Tiv names in those diagrams easily enough, and Moseby had confirmed that his interpretation was correct. The elders in the western farms were right, and Sabe was wrong: Shangev was not Kwande's son, he was Jechira's.

One of the men at the government station had agreed to type up a copy of the relevant page so Jijingi could take it with him. Moseby decided to stay in Katsina-Ala to visit with the missionaries there, but Jijingi came home right away. He felt like an impatient child on the return trip, wishing he could ride the truck all the way back instead of having to walk from the motor road. As soon as he had arrived at the village, Jijingi looked for Sabe.

He found him on the path leading to a neighboring farm; some neighbors had stopped Sabe to have him settle a dispute over how a nanny goat's kids should be distributed. Finally, they were satisfied, and Sabe resumed his walk. Jijingi walked beside him.

"Welcome back," said Sabe.

"Sabe, I've been to Katsina-Ala."

"Ah. Why did you go there?"

Jijingi showed him the paper. "This was written long ago, when the Europeans first came here. They spoke to the elders of the Shangev clan then, and when the elders told them the history of the Shangev clan, they said that Shangev was the son of Jechira."

Sabe's reaction was mild. "Whom did the Europeans ask?"

Jijingi looked at the paper. "Batur and Iorkyaha."

"I remember them," he said, nodding. "They were wise men. They would not have said such a thing."

Jijingi pointed at the words on the page. "But they did!"

"Perhaps you are reading it wrong."

"I am not! I know how to read."

Sabe shrugged. "Why did you bring this paper back here?"

"What it says is important. It means we should rightfully be joined with the Jechira clan."

"You think the clan should trust your decision on this matter?"

"I'm not asking the clan to trust me. I'm asking them to trust the men who were elders when you were young."

"And so they should. But those men aren't here. All you have is paper."

"The paper tells us what they would say if they were here."

"Does it? A man doesn't speak only one thing. If Batur and Iorkyaha were here, they would agree with me that we should join with the Kwande clan."

"How could they, when Shangev was the son of Jechira?" He pointed at the sheet of paper. "The Jechira are our closer kin."

Sabe stopped walking and turned to face Jijingi. "Questions of kinship cannot be resolved by paper. You're a scribe because Maisho of the Kwande clan warned me about the boys from the mission school. Maisho wouldn't have looked out for us if we didn't share the same father. Your position is proof of how close our clans are, but you forget that. You look to paper to tell you what you should already know, here." Sabe tapped him on his chest. "Have you studied paper so much that you've forgotten what it is to be Tiv?"

Jijingi opened his mouth to protest when he realized that Sabe was right. All the time he'd spent studying writing had made him think like a European. He had come to trust what was written on paper over what was said by people, and that wasn't the Tiv way.