Ngozi shifts her jaw like she’s trying to stop tears. Then, for some reason, she glares at Grace before returning her gaze to Ify. “I tried to reconnect with my family. We tried to reintegrate, those of us who were left. Easier for some than for others. I was lucky. At least I had family left. But they were eager to move on. They thought they’d lost a daughter in the war. In some ways, they had. I couldn’t move on. Everyone wanted to. The government, employment agencies, human rights commissions, my parents. Then the government started phasing in forced cyberization. My parents happily submitted. They couldn’t wait to be a part of this new connected Nigeria.”

“But you resisted.” This from Grace, who has kept a posture of attention this whole time, like she’s ready for Ngozi to attack her again at any moment.

“At first, we could chat by way of app. But the government used those apps to track our locations.” Then a new deadness enters Ngozi’s voice. “The police came to my parents multiple times. We learned quickly that it was because they were communicating with a veteran of the war everyone was in such a rush to forget. Eventually, everyone cut me off. Friends, acquaintances, cousins. By the end, the police were harassing my family so much that I left. I disconnected from everything, forced them to delete me from their contacts. All of it. I even had to delete my recordings because of the metadata.” She turns her murderous look at Grace once again. “I haven’t heard my mother’s voice in almost five years.” Ngozi’s fingers curl around the barrel of her rifle. “All because of your Odoodo government.”

Grace doesn’t flinch. How often has she heard the slur since coming here? Odoodo. Odo odo. Yellow. Often enough to take it without showing any hurt.

“It wasn’t like this before the war. Being watched all the time. Everywhere. The Chinese did this when they came with their”—she uses air quotes—“‘foreign aid.’”

“I’ve never been to Earthland China,” Grace says in a low, even voice. A voice Ify has never heard her use before.

“It was like this before the ceasefire,” Ify tells Ngozi in an effort to relieve the tension. “Nigeria was already there. In Biafra, you had no clue.”

Ngozi squints at Ify, as though a new piece of the puzzle has presented itself. But whatever it is that has occurred to her, she lets it go. “Because we were so backward in Biafra, of course.” Before Ify can reply, Ngozi says, “You should get some rest.” Without another word, she hefts the rifle, forces the back door open, then climbs out. The door slowly swings shut.