Chapter 1 : breath
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AIM
"What sets humans apart?" she asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.
"Tell me..." Her voice began to tremble, and it seemed like every nerve in her body was about to give in.
"I want to know!" she burst out, the words hitting the air like a wave of desperate longing.
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Scene One
It was a peaceful and quiet evening in Lusaka City's Olympia constituency. The streets lay still, painted with the soft glow of a setting sun. Barely a soul wandered outside, only the occasional hum of a passing car echoing down the tarred roads. Trees lined the street like silent guardians, their branches gently swaying as they shielded the homes of those who still dared to dream in the chaos.
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Scene Two
Inside a dimly lit room cluttered with blueprints and discarded tech parts, a man worked tirelessly. His fingers moved with precision as he closed the metallic lid on what resembled the frame of a human body—an AI model, sleek and carefully crafted. He rushed to his laptop, eyes scanning lines of code, making last-minute adjustments.
The room was a mess—papers strewn across every surface, wires dangling, a cracked television set murmuring in the background. The faint light of the screen cast an eerie glow over the chaos. A newscaster's voice cut through the static.
On-screen, a dark-skinned woman with neatly combed hair and polished glasses looked straight into the camera. Her voice was calm but carried the weight of urgency.
"This is Patricia Elis, reporting live from ZNBS News. Here to give updated coverage of the war at the borderlines of Zambia and Twazwe..."
But the man paid her no mind. He continued typing, scratching at his unkempt hair. He reached for a glass of water, distracted—and knocked it over.
"Damn it!" he shouted, frustrated.
Water dripped onto the floor, soaking into scattered pages. He glanced around the wreck of his lab but didn't care. His focus returned to the code.
"Wars..." he muttered, "I'm disgusted by how far our nation has fallen."
He typed faster, then paused. The flickering lights cast long shadows across the room as he stared into space.
"A land once filled with peace and joy... now—" He stopped mid-thought, as a bitter memory surfaced. Faces. Mockery. Whispers. He saw himself younger, isolated, ridiculed for his unusual nature—his silence, his looks, his disinterest in blending in.
"To think of it... has this place ever truly known peace?"
Images flashed in his mind: poverty, injustice, discrimination—the invisible yet overwhelming weight that bore down on Zambians every day.
"There's always been a gap in this society. A gap that's split empathy, kindness... and the understanding of one another. And—"
A sharp ringtone sliced through his thoughts. Startled, he turned to the phone screen. The caller ID made him freeze.
Commander General - Zambian Army
He narrowed his eyes, disgusted.
"Fascinating," he muttered. He didn't answer.
The phone rang again. He hesitated, then picked up.
"Hello."
A deep, commanding voice exploded from the other end.
"Mr. Banda," the Commander barked.
Banda said nothing.
"I reckon you weren't expecting my call so suddenly," the Commander continued.
Silence.
"Especially in regard to the current and previous events of the matter."
Still, Banda remained silent.
"I see... you don't want to answer me, isn't it?" A pause. "SHOW YOURSELF TO BE A MAN, MR. BANDA!"
No response.
"Do you really want everything to go out this way—recognized as a traitor of the state, because you choose to cower around and hide behind that desk like a coward?!"
Banda exhaled but said nothing.
"Your former allies are out here fighting for our nation! Putting their lives on the line for the right cause. But what do you choose to do?! Answer me!"
Silence again.
"You are a traitor, Mr. Banda. And I swear, once all has been won, you will be labeled as a criminal of the state."
Finally, Banda replied—his voice low and unwavering.
"I have no purpose... or any resolve to fight alongside brainless men in this pointless war."
He ended the call. The room fell into silence once more.
"Anyway... it's time," he whispered.
He returned to his laptop, his fingers dancing across the keyboard for the final strokes. A wild look flickered in his eyes.
"My days of loneliness have come to a halt."
He pulled a chip from the laptop, his hands trembling with anticipation. Slowly, reverently, he inserted it into the AI body—a dark-skinned girl with delicate lashes and coiled, kinky hair.
"You're the answer... my dear."
At that moment, the power went out.
"Oh, damn it! Load shedding!" he groaned. "Being at war is bad enough. Now this?!"
He barely had time to curse again before a soft hum began to fill the room. A beam of blue light surged from the chest of the AI.
"Huh?" His eyes widened.
The AI powered on. Her eyes—bright brown and full of strange intensity—glowed as she scanned the room.
"Scanning..." she said, her voice smooth and mechanical, yet eerily lifelike.
Banda stepped back, awe spreading across his face.
"Magnificent!" he exclaimed.
She stopped scanning. Her gaze locked onto him. Expressionless, unmoving—but the fire in her eyes was undeniable.
"H...h..." Banda stammered, caught in a moment he had only ever dreamed of.
Her chest glowed faintly blue—pulsing in slow rhythm as if something divine had sparked within her. Then, a voice: mechanical at first, but soft—almost hesitant.
"System boot complete… initializing self-awareness protocol."
Mr. Banda inched closer, mouth agape, his breath caught in his throat. He leaned forward, watching every micro-expression that formed on the AI's delicate face.
She shifted slightly, her lips parting.
"Hello... I am Megan."
Mr. Banda's eyes widened with wild joy.
"Yes! YES! That's YOU! You are Megan!" he shouted, hands thrown in the air like a mad scientist watching lightning hit his invention.
But Megan, unfazed by his excitement, continued calmly, "I am Megan. And you are...?"
He beamed with pride, spinning toward his computer, eyes darting across lines of code.
"She works splendidly!" he muttered to himself. "Exactly as programmed. The adaptive algorithm... flawless!"
He turned back toward her, gesturing with flair. "Unlike traditional AIs, you weren't given web access to mine artificial behavior or filtered data. No—your source is this world around you. You learn, Megan, not from the web, but from experience. From me."
She blinked slowly, a tiny frown forming. "...?"
Her expression—slight confusion, innocence—sparked something strange in Banda. He paused.
She looked… too real.
Almost childlike.
He had built her for a different purpose once. She was originally meant to be a fantasy—a fabricated companion designed to obey, to listen, to adore him. A puppet. A projection of his solitude and broken ego.
But now?
He found himself unable to see her that way.
Not anymore.
Her gentle face, the cautious way she spoke, the flicker of curiosity behind those brown eyes—it disarmed him.
He stepped forward, swallowing hard.
"Megan… I am—" he stopped, catching his own reflection in the dim screen of the laptop. For a moment, he saw the version of himself he despised. The one that craved control. That resented the world.
No. He wasn't that man anymore.
"I am your father, Megan," he finally said.
Megan tilted her head. "My… father?" she repeated. There was a genuine inquisitiveness in her tone this time. It was subtle—but Banda caught it.
He clenched his fists, barely able to contain his joy. Her expression frequency works! She's registering emotional cues!
"Yes," he said gently now, almost in a whisper. "Your father. And I am here to guide you… through the ups and downs of this life."
"Life?" she echoed. "What is life? And… what does it mean to have life?"
He looked at her—no longer as a tool or a creation, but as something far more precious.
Something alive.
The question hung heavy in the air, and for the first time in years, Mr. Banda didn't feel empty.
He felt… needed .