The heart is known to glitch. It was clear from the day Wale brought home that Davidson’s girl. He came in through the door with a swagger to his step, intoxicated with some mutated form of happiness. I sensed danger from the very beginning, but Wale rarely, if ever, pays any mind to me. Some days he acts like he ain’t got a mind at all. Davidson's girl, as I liked to call her, was formally known as Sadé. Now, hate is a strong word. I know this to be true. I also know that Sadé was a lying snake. This is a fact, has always been a fact, and will always remain a fact. And I know better than to associate myself with liars. Wale does not, never has, and perhaps never will.

The day Sadé strolled into the duplex was the beginning of all trouble. I remember eyeing her cautiously from my cage, watching her movements with a sort of determined indifference. Wale followed behind her. I immediately perked up, eyes staring intently at his unshaven beard and unrecognizable gait. Wale had been gone for what seemed like infinity, leaving the bowl to rot in the corner.

You learn to discern his state of mind by the people he welcomes home. I’ve grown to accept him in all of his stages of being. He is not one personhood, but many, and his facets of him attract a multitude of people. 

Mama Wale visited sometime back in the year. At the same time of year, Wale usually has that silly tree up, the one with all the bells and flashing fluorescent lights. He was in a festive-crying mood. He was slowly recuperating from a terrifying motorcycle accident. Sprawled over the couch in a fetal position, he gave the impression of an infant learning to heal all over again. It was the week following the accident, and Mama Wale came driven by a mix of sympathy and obligation, but mainly obligation. Wale, however prodigal, remained her son. 

In the days preceding her arrival, Wale wrestled with terrible insomnia. His nights were frequented by bizarre nightmares, all of which were vivid reinterpretations of his previous motor crash. There were moments when there was an undeniable stillness about him. He’d called Mama Wale the night before she visited, pleading for company. “Anyone, just anyone—as long as I’m not alone Ma,” he’d pleaded through the receiver. 

The week afterward, he had Jones over, colleague, friend, and brother all at once. He was in a betting mood.

 If there’s anything that I’ve learned from living with Wale it’s this: Three consecutive hours of The Martian Chronicles is enough to lift any man out of his woes. Jones had lost sourly, more than just the game. He was at a loss for words, was fifty bucks negative as far as money went, and had somehow managed to lose his dignity in the process too. “I haven’t seen you this happy in a long time, Wale. It’s good to have you back man,” he said, ivory-white teeth beaming against smooth charcoal skin. Wale seemed elsewhere, immersed in the transient euphoria that came with winning such games. 

“You know, for a while,” Jones started again. “ I thought the accident took more than your fiancé, and maybe some degree of your sanity too.” Releasing a faint chuckle, he gulped down his whisky shot. 

A maddening fury unleashed itself in Wale’s eyes. As if desperate to prove Jones right, he got up from the couch, his movements cloaked in ruthless silence. He hobbled towards the door, struggling to balance his weight on his good leg. Opening the door, he gestured for Jones to leave. 

“Get out,” he mumbled. 

“Wale, is that you talking or the alcohol?”

“Get out!” 

Jones hesitantly made his way to the door. Once beyond the door frame, he turned to face Wale.

“You can’t keep living this way. Man, it’ll kill us both.”

Wale began to close the door, only to be stopped halfway by the wedge created by Jone’s left foot.

“And would you do us all a favor, and remember to feed the poor thing every once in a while,” he grumbled, motioning to the cage.

Wale slammed the door for good this time and returned to business as usual.

A couple of months after that, the elderly couple next door visited. Mr. and Mrs. Lopez had known Wale since he was a boy and tried desperately to salvage what remained of their love for him. It quickly dawned on them, however, that Wale was no longer the boy they once knew. He had been in a generous mood that day, but there was an underlying sorrow about him. 

As he gave them the remaining chocolate balls from his fridge, Mr. Lopez couldn’t help but ask, “You don’t intend on living this way forever, do you, son?” 

Mrs. Lopez cast her husband an ugly glare as if he had just uttered the abominable. Her eyes seemed to be saying, Certain thoughts need not be verbalized, especially if they’re as outrageous as yours, Eric.

Wale only managed a weak smile. It was the best a man could do during times like this. 

He appeared to be contemplating something but his lips failed to reveal what. 

“She’s not quite dead,” he explained.  “Simply transformed.”

Mrs. Lopez's eyes crinkled in genuine delight. “You’ve always been quite the poet Wale. I’m sure Sadé loved that about you.”

A deep furrow formed between Mr. Lopez’s sparse brows. His wife sensed poetic undertones. He sensed a man caught within a deep realm of hallucination. He knew better, and he knew that she did too, but certain thoughts need not be verbalized.

After an hour of aimless chatter, the couple got up to leave. “Before I forget, Wale,” began Mr. Lopez. He shoved his spotted hands into the pockets of his trousers before searching vigorously for something.

 “I figured…the little bud in the corner could use some of this,” he explained before handing over a few unidentifiable treats. “The poor fella looks a bit skeletal-looking. Healing can be hard, son, but no need to drag everybody else down with you.” Mr. and Mrs. Lopez laughed in unison.

Wale gave a hesitant nod before escorting the couple back home. Once he returned, he tossed the treats into a garbage bin and dozed off into a much-needed nap, the first one he’d taken since Sadé first died. 

I never did know what to make of Wale’s demeanor, especially when he was with Sadé. At least with all the other guests, he seemed accessible, familiar, and not encumbered by love’s demands. Wale was never himself around Sadé, and she knew this. She secretly loved that about him, how willing he was to bend to her will. He gave little thought to her random bursts of anger or occasional bouts of pensive silence. It was an immortal and unusual hypnosis, one that lingered long after she died.

In the beginning, I didn’t understand the implications of Sadé's absence. I only assumed she would be back, but she never did come back. Her absence hit Wale harder than that motorcycle it seems. The only difference was that he survived that, but Sadé’s death seemed completely beyond him, beyond the both of us. I wasn’t sure if he would survive the heartbreak, or if it was something that could even be survived. He proved me wrong.

I’ve always known love to be a peculiar thing, and the lack of it to be dangerous. I was never, however, made aware of its resurrectionist properties. That is until the day Sadé came home again. 

“The manual should be somewhere right over there,” the lady with the prominent cheekbones was saying. Her tapered buzz cut, accompanied by her casual business attire, gave her an air of respectability. She motioned towards Wale’s mahogany table, which he drifted towards with unbreakable curiosity. 

“And I have approximately five months before my free trial expires, is that right?” Wale asked, with his gaze still fixed on the mysterious manual. 

“That is correct.”

“And what happens if I am…unsatisfied with the product?”

The business lady chuckled heartily before saying, “I’ve been running this company for ten years, Wale. And I have yet to meet a client who was anything but satisfied with this technological innovation. I guarantee you, you will be satisfied.”   

“But what if I’m not? What comes—”

“Well, we’ll work something out.”

“And what of her second memory tank?”

“I assure you that the tank is in safe and capable hands, Wale. Once the transferral process is complete, I’ll have my boys bring it right over.”

“I see…thanks.”

The business lady turned her head toward the cage and raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“Ah, I see you’ve got one of those hybrid creatures,” she said

Wale did not respond.

“Costly, aren’t they?” she asked.

Wale gave a somber nod.

“My daughter wants one of their kind for her 18th birthday, but I never did like the putrid smell of their purple fur, nor their ghastly claws. And the last thing I want is another sentient being under my roof!” she continued before releasing another hearty chuckle.

Wale appeared humorless.

The business lady shifted awkwardly to her left before saying, “I should get going. If you need anything else, be sure to give me a call. Have a splendid day!” 

She whipped out a business card, imprinted with the words Project GRIEF, which she placed on the table alongside the manual. She gave a tight grin before hurrying out of the duplex, briefcase in one hand and clipboard in the other. Wale stood perplexed, eying the card with newfound disgust that was quickly replaced by perplexity. 

After some time had passed, he began to unbox the large package that the delivery men had helped him carry earlier. After multiple futile attempts, the cardboard gave way to the force of Wale’s cutting tool. Once the packaging came undone, he took a solemn step back.

“They got every feature right. This is unbelievable,” he muttered as the cutting tool clattered against the cold tile floor. He circled the humanoid robot slowly, dazzled by its uncanny resemblance to his late fiancé. He stroked its luminous black hair and stared admiringly into its cognac eyes.

What a strange way to heal, I think. 

Wale then convulsed with frightening agony, slumping to his knees. Tears slithered down his cheeks, leaving behind an almost iridescent shine. He hammered his giant fists against the ground, overtaken by misery.  I looked on with distaste. Men don’t cry, at least that’s what Wale often muttered to himself amid any crisis. He would repeat it to himself like a mantra, waiting for its healing properties to start kicking in like a drug. Only this time, there was no mantra, simply a man suffocating in his discomfort. After a few minutes, he finally mustered up the energy to stand. 

With his chest still heaving, Wale rose from the floor. He performed a second circle around the artificial being before pausing in reflection. He grabbed the manual and proceeded to flip through its content wildly. Finally, he came to a page on which he stayed fixated for a while. He then jerked his head up, as though a maddening genius unleashed itself within him. 

“Hey, Sadé?” he uttered, voice cracking with uncertainty.

  The machine made a whirring noise, and its golden eyelids began to blink with disturbing fervor.

“Speak. I am listening,” it responded at last.

“Sadé, why do people die?” Wale asked with his lips open in dire anticipation.

The machine cocked its head to one side as if processing the limits of Wale’s absurd question.

“There exists an infinite number of inexplicable occurrences, which govern the human condition. Death is perhaps one of them,” it explained.

Wale remained silent as though evaluating the validity of the robot’s response.

“Hey, Sadé?” he uttered again, this time with more certainty than the last.

“Speak, I am listening.”

“Sadé, do you…love me?” he asked with a profound intensity whirling in his eyes.

The machine again cocked its head to the side before replying, “With every fiber of my being .” A gentle smile unfurled across its slender, frubber face.

Wale released a tired laugh before tucking the manual into the back pocket of his True Religion jeans.

“You heard that, boy?” he asked, staring at the cage with newfound consideration.

“She loves me. She loves me,” Wale whispered before making his way toward the kitchen to make himself a meal.

He emerged a short time after, with a stainless bowl of deep-fried beetles and another bowl filled to the brim with water. He positioned them in front of the cage before quickly unfastening the latches of the cage. I eyed him tentatively, refusing to budge from the dark corner of my metal haven. 

“Go on boy, no need to be afraid now,” Wale was saying.

Clumsily, I made my way toward the bowls, acutely aware of how ravenous I was feeling. Wale gave an encouraging nod as I began to lap up water from my bowl. Again, I eyed him carefully and was taken aback by what I saw. 

There appeared to be an eminent glow about him as if he himself had been the one revived. It was strange, quite like nothing I had ever seen before. What a wondrous reawakening.