The Queen of Hidrasie

By Matt J. McGee

The whole town had one table.

Baie’s great-uncle Dwall had brought it home with him back in 1960-something after a long absence across the African continent. He’d promised to return with the town’s first car.

Many in the tiny Burundi hamlet scoffed. Dwall would not succeed. Even if he did, what good was a car with no gas station for hundreds of miles?

Dwall eventually saw the wisdom of this, and when he returned eleven months later with the table, the locals all nodded. This, they agreed, was much more interesting, much more useful.

Dwall promised that, on his second trip, he would return with chairs. He made good seven years later, returning with four chairs the likes of which the town of Mwene had never seen.

After a quick demonstration, everyone took turns sitting. It was a day long remembered in Mwene.

Then Obat the Thief came to town.

Obat stole two of the chairs, leaving the town with two. No one would deny that Obat had a soft spot. Unfortunately, Obat also had three children to keep warm, and the chairs perished after having made for a few good fires.

Over the years many tried to lay claim to Dwall’s table and remaining chairs—some had even tried to mimic the small pieces of furniture. Unfortunately, few trees grow in their land-locked African region, lumber is scarce, and pre-made furniture hadn’t yet found Burundi, much less the village of Mwene.

When Dwall passed away in the 90s, Baie came into her uncle’s fortune. Along with six acres of land, her uncle had also left her the only true structure in Mwene. The building was ten feet wide and twelve feet deep, and its roof was enough to repel the rains and brutal African sun. Best of all, the table and chairs came with the building.

Baie suddenly became very popular with the men her age.

She found ways to get by, sometimes trading coffee and food for a chance to sit in the chair or use the table for some project. Meanwhile, the men toted her water with a smile. Baie repaid them with a returned smile or shy glance.

Then the American came to town.

He’d seen the country on a map on something Baie told the others was called “on a line.” When he walked into the hamlet, backpack over his shoulders, he came to Baie’s small structure and asked her if there were a place he could rest a moment.

Baie gestured to the table and chairs. The man nodded graciously and sat. His backpack landed beside him with a dusty thud. Baie asked if she could bring him some water. He nodded, said a polite thank you.

Then, it happened.

The whole town seemed to gather within minutes as the stranger took a flat device from his pack and unfolded it. He plugged something into the side of it, something that looked like a black finger, and pressed a button. It lit up blue.

Murmuring sounded all around. Baie sat in the other chair. She asked what he was doing, miming with flat palms to ask what the device was.

“The computer?” the American said.

Baie nodded like she understood. She felt the eyes of the whole town on her, as if she’d quickly been appointed ambassador. No doubt Baie would be expected to explain later.

Baie tried the word. “Compoodor,” she managed.

The American nodded and smiled. The town nodded and smiled. He explained that the computer could talk to the whole world. Few believed this. Some elders scoffed and said the American was a magician. Magicians weren’t welcome in Mwene. They were on a permanent blacklist with dogs and anyone who rode a bicycle.

Baie served the American three more glasses of water. He showed everyone the images on the screen; there was their own country, then he expanded the map to show Rwanda, Tanzania, and the somewhat nearby Lake Tanganyika.

Baie nodded. She’d been to the lake and heard of the other places. She didn’t trust Tanzanians. Obat the Thief was Tanzanian. Locals wondered why he didn’t return to his own country and become useful as a high seas pirate. They assumed he was hiding from authorities.

The American pulled his pack on, then handed Baie three francs. Baie was stunned at the currency in her hand. The American left, but another came by four months later. Locals assumed they’d talked to each other. When he too gave Baie three francs for a few glasses of water and a half hour in one of the chairs, Baie saw her opportunity.

The following year brought more Americans, three total, plus one Frenchman and a Belgian. This one was immediately suspect to the local elders, but Baie thought he was kind and likely unaware of his country’s past.

Later that month, Baie was sitting outside her shop, which now offered coffee and tea, when a woman came walking along. Her hair was long and lusciously brown, unlike Baie had seen before. She clearly had strong legs from walking, exposed by a pair of canvas shorts.

The woman asked if Baie had water.

Like any dutiful waitress, Baie stood and retrieved the woman a glass of water. Once it was empty she refilled it and filled the woman’s canteen.

“Compoodor?” Baie said.

The woman scrunched a brow and smiled. “You mean computer?”

Baie nodded.

The woman took out a device half the size of the first American’s and held it up. It glowed. Baie looked around; she didn’t want anyone seeing this new American’s magic.

“I have this,” the woman said. “Was there something you needed?”

Baie nodded.

Three weeks later a large box with orange and purple letters arrived, carried on the back of a donkey. The whole town watched Baie open the box. She took out a secondhand table and four more chairs.

Baie nodded and smiled.

Her business was about to take off.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Matt J. McGee writes in the Los Angeles area. In 2022 his work has appeared in Gypsum Tales, Sweetycat Press and Red Penguin. When not typing, he drives around in rented cars and plays goalie in local hockey leagues.

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