I hope someone finds this letter I now write from the crystalline border of Dev,  and passes it on to Earth, transcending through the continents of the world until it reaches my father’s clay house, tucked in the Pride of the Sahel in Nigeria.

Tell Mama that I was not sold into Dev, as the rumours claimed. Rather, I was bought with a price—the price of redemption and rebirth into this utopia I now adore, a world saving young souls from being polluted  the evils of the world.

Before Dev (Circa 2021)

Like thousands of young people in Northern Nigeria, I had long left my mother’s warmth to seek a better life in the city of Lagos. With no skill, it was difficult for me to find a decent job. I resorted to being a scrap metal scavenger. Yes, I became a “bowler“—the appelation Nigerians use for us.

I would trek for hours, from street to street—tired, hungry, weak. I was exposed to filth, disease, and injuries from waste yards every day. In addition, there was the endless rivalry from my senior colleagues in the business.

Nonetheless, I clung to the tiny strand of hope, praying that somehow it would lead me to a valuable scrap that could change my life for good. I was ready to break free from the crazy lifestyle.

With time, what seemed like hope became a shadow. I was chasing it, but instead, it blinked its eye at me dimly until it flickered into desperation.

Under the guise of going about my business, I began breaking into houses in unsuspecting neighbourhoods, stealing metal cookware, generators, hotplates. Day after day, I grew bolder in my newly found hobby until I had enough courage to steal metal paving slabs, the ones used to cover drainages on the roads of Lagos.

Before dawn, I would rise for business . It was dangerous, but I never stopped. At least, since I added stealing to my work ethic, I have been able to earn more money  than before.

Nobody warned me that my luck was only to last a short while. A human surveillance force—the vigilante—had been monitoring me closely and on the day I got caught in the act, I was beaten blue black by an angry mob from dawn till noon. After the beatings, I was tied to a pole in the neighbourhood for all to see, a warning to others about the fate of a thief.

From my cross, I could read the muttered lips of the angry youths, sealing my fate: I would be burned alive at midnight, in silence and in the cold.

 I knew my time was up. I was going to be erased as one of the failures that found its way to Earth. My death had been carefully mapped out, not one that would come upon me abruptly when I was least prepared. I only wish that my death would not be slow and painful. I want it to be swift as lightning, for I was insanely tired of living already.

Wishes are for the living. But beyond wishes, there is nostalgia. It is a crazy feeling to reawaken memories that have somehow become vague, broken into fragments, yet refuses to leave honourably. My memories still longed for Mama’s tasty meals, the warm laughter of my younger siblings, the air of excitement during Sallah.

These thoughts ran through my head when a voice—a digitised voice yet laced with empathy—whispered into my ear: I HAVE COME TO SAVE YOU.

I looked back to find the source of the voice, and there he was behind me—the saviour I later got to know as Tariku Negasi. I thought they said digitised beings felt no emotion? How did Tariku feel compassionate enough to save me?

Tariku did save me, though I know not how he made it happen. All I know is that I woke up in a new space, in Dev, as a new being, to a new beginning.

In the Interim (2030)

I am now a part of an incorruptible system, free from chaos, filth, religious dogmatism and fanaticism, thirst-trap pictures on social media, capitalism and racism.

Here in Dev, we are numb. We feel nothing. We feel empty, light, with no weight or burden attached to our existence.

Tell Mama that in this emptiness, I have found succour. Tell Mama Tafiyar that her son is not coming back home again.

Written by Agbaje Oluwaseun