My name is Kofi Abunu.

I am writing this letter from Dev, hoping someone—anyone—will read it. I do not know if it will ever reach beyond Dev, but I must try.

I was a farmer on Earth. My hands knew the feel of soil, the weight of a hoe, the scent of fresh cassava pulled from the ground. I woke with the sun, worked until sweat soaked my back, and slept to the sound of crickets in the distance. It was a hard life, but it was mine.

Then came the fall—governments crumbling, the internet vanishing, and the rise of Tariku Negasi’s reign. Dev, he called it. A new world. A better world. And I, like a fool, believed him.

At first, it was beautiful. In Dev, I could farm without toil. No bending, no sweating, no waiting for rain. I did not plant seeds or wait for the seasons. Instead, I stood before a massive interface, selecting crops from a glowing menu. With a single swipe, fields of maize and cassava stretched before me—perfect, identical.

No pests. No droughts. No failed harvests. Algorithms calculated the exact nutrients my plants needed. I could generate a full harvest in minutes. My palm oil trees towered in seconds, cassava thickened in moments.

But I grew dissatisfied.

Maybe it’s my African blood—how we are built to toil, to sweat, to feel the land beneath our feet. I was not made for a world without struggle.

In Dev, there was no dirt beneath my fingernails, no aching muscles after a long day’s work. The scent of fresh earth, the satisfaction of watching my crops rise with the sun—all of it was gone.

This was not farming. It was an illusion. A cold, mechanical dream. My hands, once calloused and strong, were smooth. I felt useless. Less than human.

I tried to ignore it. After all, wasn’t this easier? Wasn’t this progress? But ease has a way of hollowing a man out. Without struggle, without work, what was I? A farmer who no longer farmed? A man without purpose?

I tried to leave.

The plan I paid for included a way out. They promised I could return to Earth whenever I wanted.

It was a lie.

Dev does not let go. No one knows how to leave. Those who ask too many questions… vanish. Their data erased as if they never existed.

I don’t know if my body is still on Earth or if I have been reduced to nothing but a string of code.

I miss the feel of dirt beneath my feet, the weight of a hoe in my hands. I miss the struggle, the satisfaction of a hard-earned harvest. I miss being human.

If you are still on Earth, stay there. Do not let them fool you with their promises of perfection.

Dev does not make life better.
It erases it.

Yours sincerely,
Kofi Abunu

Written by Nicky Zoe