Alien Stories. E.C. Osondu
oh boy, how they loved my act. I pulled no stops. I made each of the clients wear a colorful dashiki and I had them gather around in a circle and then encouraged them to empty their minds and get rid of their old personalities and visualize themselves sitting under an iroko tree in an African village square. I started my enactment with the obligatory proverb about how it took a village to raise a child—popularized by a female politician. Allow me to make a little confession here: in all my years growing up in Africa I had never heard anybody use that particular proverb. Oh well … different strokes and all that, but it is a cute proverb all the same and my guests lapped it up.
I told my guests an African folktale filled with talking animals and cruel kings and precious princesses and trembling subjects. I made them sing and dance and had them play the parts of different animals within the story. They were all truly transported to the heart of the eternal drumbeat that was Africa.
No wonder they Instarated my enactment as outstanding.
Ling, my colleague, had received less than stellar ratings. Let us just say her ratings had been abysmal lately. The truth hurts, right? I know. But sometimes you have to bite the bullet, swallow the bitter pill and say the truth even if it did not make everyone feel gruntled. Ling’s fire was dimming; at least that was what most people at the Ranch were saying.
Ling’s ratings were slipping; it was there for all to see. In her Selfcrit, instead of asking herself the seven critical questions and providing answers to them, she was busy blaming the clients. She complained that her clients were the wrong sort. She said her clients did not give her the chance to display her creativity and expertise.
She seemed to have forgotten our Two Suggestions. As the Suggestion Book always reminded us, these were not rules but suggestions because we were free moral agents and not mindless automatons.
Suggestion Number 1: The client is always right.
Suggestion Number 2: When in doubt, see Suggestion Number 1 above.
I pulled up Ling on my Palm screen and typed a smiley face.
Ling responded with a teary face.
I typed a sad face with a frowny mouth and sad eyes.
Ling responded with a requested that we meet in person.
I obliged.
“Chinese food, food, food, that is all they want me to talk about,” she said.
She’d been crying and her heavy makeup was ruined. Her red cheongsam was all askew. She was not looking good. Still, one needs to be a good colleague and we were all one here at the Ranch and we should be our brother’s or sister’s keeper as the case may be.
“Ling, my Instaratings were quite low at one time, remember? They were all a little less complimentary, but I pulled myself up by the bootstraps and refused to be down at the mouth, and look at me today.”
I bit back my tongue as I reminded myself not to come off as boastful or immodest. I had a responsibility to help Ling get back on her feet and be the best she could be so the Ranch would fulfill its corporate destiny and raison d’être.
“What can I do to help?” I asked.
“To be honest, I don’t know. I think the problem is China. They want to talk about Chinese food. I wouldn’t have a problem talking about General Tso’s Chicken and Peking Duck and Sesame Chicken if that would open the door to great Instaratings, but the clients hardly give me a chance. I think some of the guests would prefer that I cook them Chinese food. The truth is, I wouldn’t know how to cook the stuff if … You know, I don’t even like Chinese food.”
Ling realized she’d gone a little too far. What she’d just said verged on being too big of a self-reveal. This was not Selfcrit. And even in Selfcrit one was not allowed to suggest one was incompetent or less-than in any possible way. The language of Selfcrit was slanted just so, that one did not come across as a slacker.
One said stuff like: I struggle to connect with my clients at every level sometimes.
I am not often at my optimal cheerfulness.
I need to work really harder at being more perfect.
I need to be more fired-up.
I must become the role I play every day.
We were all colleagues at the Ranch and were all fit and competent and were the best to be found and had been found worthy in both character and learning. We were the chosen ones. It was a grievous error to admit that we were less than competent or not the best or not the peak of the pack.
I honestly wanted to help Ling.
“Look, Ling, I know how less than encouraging these less than optimal Instaratings could be, but have you considered maybe telling Chinese folktales? Chinese legends are amazing. My African folktales are usually a big hit with my clients.”
“Chinese folktales? Hmm, they are not like your African stories, you know. In Chinese folktales those who do good end up being punished. No good deed ever goes unpunished.”
“Ah,” I said.
“Have you heard the one about the four dragons that tried to save the people of China from drought?”
“I have not, but I think dragons are cool,” I said.
“Once, there was a drought, and the Chinese people were dying of starvation and thirst because there was no rain. When the four dragons heard the cries of the people, they decided to intercede on their behalf by pleading with the Jade Emperor to send down rain. The Jade Emperor said he would send down rain but promptly forgot about it. The dragons decided to get water from the sea and pour it down from the sky like rain, and when they did this, people were happy. However, when the Jade Emperor heard what the dragons had done he was furious at them for usurping his role. The Jade Emperor called down four mountains to imprison the four dragons. The four kind-hearted dragons ended up dying in their mountain prison.”
“Ah,” I said again, even more emphatically this time. “That one sounds a bit uncheerful.”
“You see what I mean?” Ling asked.
I indeed saw what she meant, but I was not going to tell her that.
“You can always be creative with your stories, you know. I use a bit of creativity every now and again, myself,” I said.
“You do?” Ling asked, sounding a little bit ominous.
I glanced awkwardly at my Palm screen.
“I see, you have to get back to work,” Ling said.
I half nodded.
“I am so sorry I’ve been such a pest,” Ling said. “I must learn to pick up after myself.”
“We all have our less than optimal moments,” I said.
I watched from the corner of my eyes as she schlepped away with her head bowed.
My Palm screen lit up in blue, and a message scrolled across.
You have clients. You have clients. You have clients.
I straightened up and put on my game face, or rather my Africa enactment face. I was ready to go get ’em.
I checked my Palm screen.
My heart thumped loudly. It was so hard I could hear it in my ears.
It was somewhat true what they always told us about being an enactor at the Ranch—no two clients were ever the same. This was the fun part of our calling.
“Jambo!” my client greeted me, over-cheerfully.
“Jambo!” I hailed back, slightly raising the pitch of my voice to match his high-octane enthusiasm.
He was wearing a dashiki and had a necklace made from seashells and cowrie beads around his neck. He began addressing me after shaking my hand vigorously and elaborately.
“Ah,