“Greetings, Martians!” a voice said. “I am your education device. It is a pleasure to meet you. I’m scanning you all right now to develop an acceptable avatar. Please stand by.”

 

The voice came from a metallic box that had fallen from the sky. Chanda was six years old and the first to arrive at the site. The other Zambian villagers kept their distance and made disapproving sounds.

 

Curious, Chanda had touched the box despite the protests from the villagers. Her touch had made the box talk.

 

The villagers looked at each other, worried. After a minute, light sparked from a corner of the metallic box and a man of medium build suddenly stood before them. He slightly resembled the village chief’s older brother who had died two years prior. The villagers relaxed at seeing someone familiar.

 

“Who are you?” Chanda boldly called out in Bemba.

 

Before her mother could scold her, the hologram responded in Bemba. “Call me DEMI, young one. We can begin your education in Bemba, but must slowly switch to English for the mission.”

 

That night, the chief held a meeting to discuss the next steps. “It must be from an airplane,” most of the villagers said. Elders debated telling the local authorities in the nearby town or pushing it into the river.

 

The chief listened thoughtfully. “Someone will likely come for it in the coming days.”

 

No one came.

 

Meanwhile, the village children congregated around DEMI as often as they could. DEMI was a skilled storyteller and engaged the children to complete the stories. It asked questions such as, “Who remembers how to say that word in English?” Or, “How many leaves are left on the branch after three are removed?” It asked the children to build shapes out of the red soil.

 

Most parents quickly realized that their children were learning and gave up their words of caution about the metallic box. But not Chanda’s.

 

One day, Chanda came home with an enormous smile on her face. She had made a glider out of corn husks and was explaining how the curvature of the wings kept it in flight. Her father stood up, exasperated.

 

“You are old enough to help me with the groundnut harvest,” he demanded. “You will start tomorrow.”

 

Chanda was miserable, but did what she was told. She thought that her education would lead to more than working in the family fields.

 

After a few weeks, the chief pulled Chanda’s father aside. “Your Chanda could become great,” he said. “She is like the chongololo millipede. If you scoop up soil, the chongololo is there. When you scoop up wisdom, Chanda is there with her thoughts and opinions.”

 

Although unconvinced, Chanda’s father did not want to upset the chief. He allowed Chanda to learn from DEMI.

 

* * *

 

Chanda was 17 when she saw the dust rising into the air on the horizon. She estimated the vehicle was 1.6 kilometers away and traveling at a speed of 28 kilometers per hour. She smiled when the truck pulled up three minutes and 40 seconds later. The local store was getting low on supplies and the truck came to deliver cornmeal and dried fish.

 

A tall man stepped out of the vehicle. He wore a white jumpsuit, which set him apart from the other two passengers.

 

“You’re Chanda, right?” the tall man said in English to Chanda. He extended his hand as he approached.

 

“Yes, sir,” Chanda said. She shook the man’s hand while grasping her elbow to show respect.

 

“My name is Godfrey Nkoloso from Copperbelt University in Kitwe. I’ll get straight to the point. I’m here to recruit you for our university outreach program. We’ve been following your educational progress through the Device to Educate Martian Inhabitants, or DEMI, and I’m quite impressed.”

 

Chanda’s mouth hung open as she stared at Godfrey. She tried to think of a response.

 

“The DEMI sends us progress reports periodically,” Godfrey said, smiling. “Let me explain.”

 

Godfrey told her about the accidental deployment of the DEMI over her village on its way to Mars. He convinced the mission to leave it in place to monitor the effects on the villagers. After a few years, Godfrey pitched it as a recruitment tool.

 

“Based on your impressive academic acceleration with the DEMI, Chanda, we’ve stopped recruiting from traditional education systems.”

 

“Mars?” Chanda asked, surprised. “That’s why it calls us Martians! Would I support the university Mars mission through the outreach program?”

 

“It will be easier to show you. Talk to your parents. This is a great opportunity for you. I’ll be back in a week to pick you up.” Godfrey got back into the food truck and left.

 

That night Chanda looked up at the stars, deep in thought. She wondered if the stars looked the same from Kitwe. She wondered what DEMI had prepared her for that had interested Copperbelt University.

 

One week later, Chanda was sitting in the truck bed with Godfrey. She waved goodbye to the villagers, then wiped her sweaty hands on her chitenge skirt.

 

After about 45 minutes, the truck stopped. Godfrey motioned for them to get out. He paid the driver, and the food truck drove off. There was nothing in sight besides the occasional mango tree and fields of maize.

 

“Why did we stop here?” Chanda asked.

 

“Chanda, I need to tell you the truth. You’re well beyond the traditional university education level, thanks to DEMI. We are not going to the university.”

 

“Where are we going?” She stepped backward, nervous.

 

Godfrey smiled and walked about ten meters away. He lifted his hand and seemed to touch an invisible surface. After a few swift finger movements, an invisible barrier dissolved to reveal a small rocket.

 

Chanda’s curiosity overwhelmed her surprise. She walked around the rocket. “Based on the visible payload section, there’s no room for an oxidizer and very little space for fuel.”

 

Godfrey nodded approvingly. “Let’s get going, shall we?”

 

“Where are we going?”

 

“To Mars, Chanda.”