The Repairman

The man who fixed things came every Thursday.

He had no van, no uniform, no business card. He simply appeared at 11:40 AM carrying a canvas bag that was too small for everything it seemed to contain. His name was Mr. Emeka.

Adaeze had first called him three years ago when her water heater stopped working. Eleven minutes later it worked again. Eight hundred naira. Since then: the generator, the washing machine, the gate motor, the refrigerator, the television, and once the electricity meter that had developed the habit of running backwards.

Today she called him for the terminal.

The terminal had arrived six weeks ago in a package with no return address. A device the size of a paperback, smooth and grey, no visible ports or buttons. It had sat on her kitchen table for a week. Then one morning it had a screen. The screen said: Ready.

Mr. Emeka arrived at 11:40. He looked at the terminal for a long time without touching it.

"Where did this come from?"

"I don't know."

"Has it done anything besides display text?"

"Last week I asked it what was wrong with my generator. It said: Nothing yet. But the third cylinder is running warm. You should have it checked before the rainy season." She paused. "I called you in April. You found exactly that."

He was quiet. Then: "Has it told you anything else?"

"Three days ago it told me to move the car. The night after I moved it, a tree fell. It would have landed on the car."

He reached into his bag and removed not a tool but a small worn notebook. He looked at something inside, looked at the terminal again.

"I think," he said slowly, "it is something that was made to care about you. Specifically. Not about people in general. About you."

"That's not possible."

"It's not impossible. It's expensive." He closed the notebook. "Can you ask it something I couldn't have told it?"

He leaned toward the terminal and said carefully: "What is my full name?"

The screen changed. It said: You know I know that. The question is whether you trust me enough to say it here.

Mr. Emeka sat back for a long time.

"Alright," he said. "I've seen enough." He stood. "Don't ask it questions you don't want answered. Not because it will lie. Because it won't."

He left without charging her. That had never happened before.

That evening she sat at the table. Finally: "Who sent you?"

The screen was quiet longer than usual. Then: Someone who wanted to make sure you would be alright. They are gone now. I am what they left.

She reached out and rested her hand on the terminal.

It was warm.

Read in the app, leave a resonance, discover more stories.