Destiny Hines

Memories of a Programmer

Adama Sawadogo

Almost like a daily ritual, he ended his day with these scripts in

the command prompt: git add . & git commit -m “courses addable” & git push. He saved his long day’s work before shutting the machine down with shutdown /s. Nobila always had his fingers invisibly glued to the keyboard. Now, it was time to go to bed and enjoy the movies of his long-time but vivid memories. Quickly, his desperate attempt to revisit his day and his successes and failures did nothing but drift onto the island of his nostalgic childhood memories.

The last time he telephoned Grandma back in the Homeland to Honest People, he felt as though he had just left. Their conversations were long and deep, as he would often pull out common memories that he had with her, some of which she had already forgotten. However, he avoided certain words and topics, as he knew that the old woman would not sleep days afterward just thinking about the distance separating them. He felt like it was just yesterday that he was farming with her, herding her sheep, and going on trips on foot for dozens of miles. This was one of the most cherished memories he wished to go back to. Or so he thought. His memories about the village where he grew up, his young uncles, his grandma, and the lake were so fresh that he could lose himself in them for a while. On his gran’s mat on the floor, under a thick and warm cotton blanket, laying on his belly, head up, he used to read his elementary lessons in front of the incandescent lamp. He was only nine or ten then. Best times ever!

Romantic memories sometimes stop by, but as he refuses to welcome them, they turn back and slam the door of his conscious mind that is crowded with sweet and innocent experiences. However, on rare occasions, he accepts the urge to look back at these beautiful young girls who had always had a crush on him only because he was smart, if not the smartest. Alas, the same way he refutes his memories, he ignored the girls. Now he wonders why he had not been courageous enough to talk to the teacher’s daughter, whom he

publicly denied but loved dearly in secret. To him, love and school could not sit on the same bench. Nevertheless, he could not forget the day when Biba deliberately came to him with the pretext of helping arrange textbooks. “Let me help my husband,” she said to her friend.

The shame and happiness were so intertwined that he did not even know what he felt at that moment. Today, he is certain about it. Nobila hid in the shadows of his natural shyness, which coincided with his “gifted” intelligence, to convince his peers and himself that one was the result of the other. He was as fascinated by his school performance as his peers were puzzled.

Like an unwritten law, a grandchild is always cherished if not venerated. The young boy enjoyed his life in the small village. It was not only the climate that suited his hobbies but also the environment, which he believed was the center of the world. One of his favorite activities was hunting red-headed rock agamas. He was known for his precision, despite his young age. At times, older peers of his would unanimously delegate him to aim first at the reptile on the tree with his slingshot. When it was time to chase the animal running to escape, his uncle would laugh at the ground at his amusing devotion to catching the agama. He cared less. Now retrieving these remembrances, his saliva rushed to his mouth when he thought of the delicious, well-salted, grilled agama meat they would savor at the end of the hunt. If he ever enjoyed barbecue, it was grilled agama barbecue. This thought just reminded him of the unfair fact that he has nothing to tell his “modern” friends what his hobbies are and what meals he preferred. Not only are his hobbies deprived of him, but mentioning them to friends would worsen his situation.

“What? You used to eat agamas?” they’d say. This country is an island to him!

An hour has passed since he agreed to the conventional call from the bed. He checked his phone. People from his home country were already in the daytime, blowing up his WhatsApp. Ironically, he ignored the messages because he did not want to receive a call from an uncle at this hour of the night, although he had been thinking about their shared memories. After a few swipes on Tinder, his rage escalated from the simple knowledge that these gals seemed too good for him or that he was a victim of a stupid algorithm. From the day he learned that users are classified based on algorithm-generated scores, he tried to swipe left often to keep his score high, but it did not

matter. Maybe he has been seen but swiped left on all the time.

Now, he put his favorite memory show on—fishing. Fishing was one of the things he could outperform his peers in outside of school. While sitting on the inclined tree above the lake behind their home, excited nervousness would invade him at the sight of the cane indicator going down and up at the rhythm of a hungry fish trying to eat the bait for free. The indicator was a piece of old gumshoe, usually red or yellow, attached to the line and close to the hook in a way that would move when the fish is eating the bait—poor catfish. Nothing is free. He recalls these moments when he would dig for worms, holding them with either of his hands in the same way a freshman holds a pen. It is just a tool. When the cane indicator starts dancing, he holds the handle tightly, makes room for himself, and loosens up the line before pulling the cane with an angle less than 90 degrees relative to the water’s surface. If successful, the next events were spectacular, and even he was amazed by his skill. He would hold the cane with the ill-fated fish and walk from the top of the tree inclined over the river to the ground without holding any branches. Those moments were as memorable as first dates and graduation days. The village was heaven to him.

In spring, as he recalls, men and women talked about his abilities in playing Yoté. Yoté is a game analog to chess, except that it is constructed by digging 30 holes in a five-by-six layout. It’s one of the indicators of someone’s intelligence. When playing with the uninitiated, he laughs halfway through the game because he already knows that by the time they are done, his opponent will have lost. People tried to steal his techniques, but he seems to have countless patterns that he invents every day. At the rare times that he lost, he would refuse to eat, even at the begging of his grandmother. If the opponent decided to quit, he would burst into tears. It was more than a hobby; it was a commitment. However, since going to the capital to continue his studies, he has lost everything: no hobbies, no hunting, no fishing, no African chess. He stayed away from soccer, as it seemed violent and unintelligent.

Memories from the city? There aren’t that many. His life in the capital was limited to school and mosque. At school, he enjoyed overhearing classmates talking about him without knowing what he looked like: the only student who did well on the test. He was wellknown, and at the same time, unknown. His name was greater than his person. Still, he thought the key to getting what you wanted was

to focus on school and religion.

At one time, he said wisely, “I do not waste my time on looking for mates because I know that if I succeed, they will come to me.”

Even though he was a teenager, he was often asked to lead prayers in the mosque. At dawn, he would replace the muezzin to call his fellow faithful to the prayer. This was what mattered to him. He now cries inwardly, knowing that his current environment is so contrary to his past. What can he do about it?

Today was a long day. Nobila rethinks about the code that he wrote for the day. What breakthrough did he make? What solution did he find, and what will be his next steps? He thinks about how big his goals, dreams, and responsibilities are. Tomorrow will be another day to conquer, another day to fight, another day to live joyfully on an island away from home. After all, maybe he likes it this way, though, because there may not have been the same sweet things even if he were home.