AFRO SYNTHETIC SHORT STORY: EDEN'S STRINGS

EDEN’S STRINGS

Amina blinked twice, and her vision flickered. The implants in her eyes sent a real-time feed to her VIP subscribers—those who paid most for the first-person view. They saw what she saw, felt as if they stood behind her eyes. For the rest of her followers, a small hover-cam floated at her shoulder, capturing a slightly distant angle. Between the two, her life was on full display.

She sat at her sleek designed counter top, options infront of her. Should she eat lab grown perfectly shaped apples or the organic rare maize porridge? The votes came in quickly. Apples won. Amina sighed and ate. She had always wondered what the porridge tasted like.

She stands at her front door, dressed and ready. She waits silently, wondering if today was the day she would finally get to sit all day and binge her favourite show. The votes come rushing in. 

Amina adjusted her holo-band and stepped onto the warm beach of New Zanzibar. Palms swayed in the breeze, holographic banners shimmered over private resorts, and the waters stretched out in endless shades of emerald and blue. It was a paradise designed for the wealthy. They lounged beneath sleek umbrellas, sipping drinks served by silent drones, barely acknowledging Amina unless they caught a glimpse of her status feed. She was here not as one of them but as a kind of performer, living off the votes of strangers who followed her every move from afar.

Poor and middle-class viewers from across the old continents watched her stream and cast votes on her wrist holo-band. They could not afford New Zanzibar’s golden sands or five-star dinners, but they could live through Amina’s eyes. Her job was to follow their suggestions, exploring hidden coves, tasting rare dishes, riding on the whisper-soft electric hovering  tuk tuks. As long as she played along, they boosted her status. As long as her status remained high, she could stay on this island of make-believe.

Today started as usual. The polls guided her steps: walk this way, taste that snack, swim in that hidden cove. She offered cheerful commentary, her voice as smooth as the island breeze. Her VIP feed lit up with excited murmurs whenever she approached something new—an ancient grove, a secret fountain. This was what they wanted: eyes that went where they couldn’t, experiences they would never have.

That afternoon, after spending the morning filming a luxury fruit buffet and strolling through a pristine botanical garden, a fresh vote appeared on her holo-band. “Should Amina climb the old broadcast tower at the island’s center?” She paused. She never noticed it. What Tower? She spun round and there it was.. It rose far above the treeline, an ancient communication hub from the early days of the island’s development. No one used it anymore, at least not for its original purpose. And how did her followers spot it? How had she never seen it? 

Amina chuckled nervously into the camera. “Climb the tower? Come on, that’s too dangerous,” she said, her voice calm and pleasant. But her holo-band pulsed red. Her status dipped, just a fraction, but enough to make her chest tighten. They were serious. They wanted a show. If she refused, her rating would keep dropping. She could be kicked off the island, sent back to the mainland, back to the dusty streets she knew too well. So she smiled into the shoulder-cam, a bright grin. “Okay! Looks like we’re having another adventure today,” she said, even as her heart fluttered.

She followed a narrow path through lush greenery, past villas where no one waved back. At the tower’s base, the wind picked up. She positioned her hover-cam just right, ensuring both angles—her eyes and the floating lens—would capture this daring climb. One step onto the ladder and metal groaned underfoot. She looked down at the stream of comments flickering in her vision. The VIP feed showed every quiver of her eyelashes, every bead of sweat at her hairline.

As she climbed, her muscles tensed. Each rung felt like a question: would it hold? The trees below shrank to toy-like clumps of green. The ocean spread out in a perfect arc, shimmering beneath the late afternoon sun. From this height, New Zanzibar looked flawless—smooth beaches, turquoise shallows, and distant shapes of yachts drifting lazily.

Amina narrated softly for both sets of viewers. “The view is… unbelievable,” she said, and her breath hitched with awe. Her eye-cam caught distant islets dotted along the horizon. The hover-cam framed her against a backdrop of endless blue. The VIPs probably gasped, leaning closer to their screens, trying to catch every blink of her eyes.

When she reached the platform near the top, she let out a shaky laugh. “We made it! How’s this for a view?” Hearts and likes flowed in. Her status surged upward. Relief washed over her. This was why she did it—the approval, the security.

But then came the next vote, flashing in her vision. “Should Amina jump onto the old maintenance beam?” She turned her head and the eye implants captured the beam: a thin, rusted strip of metal jutting into empty air. Beneath it, a long drop. One slip, and she’d fall. Her shoulder-cam hovered close, framing her uncertain expression.

Her smile tightened. She tried to joke. “You’re all having fun, right?” The feed pulsed. Comments scrolled by. Most viewers were excited. They wanted the thrill, the risk, the perfect angle of fear and courage. The VIP viewers, even closer to her emotions, might sense her heart racing through tiny changes in her gaze.

Amina’s status bar wavered. If she refused, she’d drop again. If she tried it and failed, there was no second take. The wind tugged her scarf, her eyes watered from the height. This was meant to be paradise, a reward for all her hard work and charm. Instead, it felt like a cage made of ratings and demands.

She took a deep breath. Her throat tightened. Soon, the votes would close. The decision would be locked in. Either way, it wasn’t her choice. She realized that now, fully. She was an actress in a show she couldn’t control, her every move directed by strangers’ whims.

Behind her trembling smile, panic formed. The world could see her eyes—her true eyes—and read the fear. Would she do it? Would she leap onto that beam because they said so? Or would she disappoint them and lose everything?

The poll countdown ended. Her wrist holo-band glowed, displaying the final vote. Amina swallowed hard, her vision flickering as the implants refocused. She whispered, “Okay… I see what you’ve decided,” voice barely steady, heart pounding, eyes capturing every detail for her VIP audience.

And then she waited, perched at the top of that tower, caught between fear and duty, wondering what this job would cost her next.