As Kamal Bhikha stirred his millet porridge, he noticed Aminata give a chuckle and cup her hand around her nose.
"What?"
"I forgot to get my papers back from the basement," she replied, popping a piece of chicken in her mouth. "And then I didn't even get a fork."
Before she could rise, Kamal jumped to his feet.
"I'll get them for you."
The Faculté des Sciences et Techniques, or FAST, was blocky and stained inside and out. Against the warm-hued sand of Bamako, the building was a little lighter in color, its balconied façade punctuated with roundish trees. Slipping through the entrance, Kamal hurried down the staircase to the basement.
He'd descended into pool of darkness. Somewhere only the custodians came, swimming in both stale smell and chemical odor... and sometimes, Dr. Aminata Sow, to nab some peace and quiet while developing her research papers. Turning on his phone's flashlight to find the nearest light switch, Kamal aimed his phone ahead, projecting a panel of dim white and sweeping it side to side. Racks, cylinders, and carts swept past the glow, followed by something at which Kamal did a double take: a large, black sac, hanging from the ceiling.
It was about the size of a refrigerator, but rounded with organic irregularity. Something inside it pulsated, just barely stretching and relaxing the banded surface. Clearly coupled with something alive. Kamal was transfixed. Up until now, his Multisensory Hallucination Broadcast System (MHBS) had been the craziest thing anyone had seen in the University of Bamako. His mind flitted through possibilities. The university administration had been considering adding a biotechnology department to FAST. Was this some premature project? Some sort of bioengineered chrysalis?
Startled as he was, he hadn't forgotten his intentions. A neat stack of papers caught in his phone light. Kamal knew the report inside and out, that it detailed the impact of an experimental membrane antigen on antibody response to malaria. A week ago, he'd finished studying it for Aminata in an informal peer review. He wasn't sure if she really did think he'd helped to refine the report more than any other professional in FAST, or if it was just in his imagination.
His chest was growing hot with the thought of her reading his notes on it. She could've been thinking of him while doing so, thinking of what a good colleague he was. The feeling almost made him dizzy. He took up the stack from the table, keeping the papers all clamped together with one hand and holding his phone with the other.
At once, a noise like tearing paper ripped through the air. Kamal jumped back in alarm. The movement felt oddly leaden, and Kamal became aware of a lethargy which had set over him, as if the tender butterflies in his stomach at the thought of Aminata had been siphoning his energy all along.
A streak of glowing green sliced through the chrysalis at an angle, and Kamal nearly dropped the report. The lower portion of the chrysalis split at the green streak, revealing layers of translucent, dark-turquoise membranes. Nearly like an insect's wings, though spattered with ripped holes.
Over the course of five minutes, an animal extricated itself from the chrysalis, while Kamal stood engrossed, trying to make sense of such a great scientific mystery. Gradually, he lost his confidence that science would help at all as the animal became more obviously akin to something from myth. His undergraduate minor had been in ancient Greek culture, but it had been something by which he was fascinated for its own sake, not because it would have ever applied later in life. The hero Bellerophon had tried to ride to Mount Olympus on Pegasus' back, ruffling the feathers of the gods. Now, Kamal stood before an insectoid, caricatured version of the winged horse, damaged with empty holes and sporting a torn-up cone on its head, almost like the lesser horn of a rhinoceros. Like a unicorn. Splintering cracks and squelches of slime accompanied its efforts.
Any more thoughts of Greek mythology and he'd end up in Jahannam for shirk, the greatest sin in Islam and nearly unforgiveable. His thoughts switched to the Burāq, the winged animal on whose back the Prophet Muhammad had flown from Mecca to Jerusalem. In Sahih al-Bukhari, she was "handsome-faced and bridled, a tall, white beast, bigger than the donkey but smaller than the mule." The Burāq before him, who had nearly extricated herself from her chrysalis, seemed much bigger. She was horned and dark, insectoid and splotched with gaping holes, but what did the details matter?
The longer he stayed, the more he felt he would faint from exhaustion, despite his racing heart. The Burāq was an incredible sight, but it struck him that if he stayed down here any longer, he'd be unconscious in minutes.
Or...
The Malian Armed Forces had contacted him a week ago, having grasped the potential of a technology that could induce any realistic hallucination in any unsuspecting target. Was someone messing with it?
Breathing sharply, Kamal backed away and dashed back up the staircase, bursting from the FAST into the dry, bright day. A painful squeeze seized his unadjusted eyes, but he didn't care.
In the ISA, or the Institute of Applied Sciences, he saw his laboratory was vacant, save for a lone janitor. His prized array of computers, antennae, and machines sat in the center, powered off.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, trying to speak against his own breaths. "Did anyone come here in the past few minutes?"
"No. It's just been me," the janitor replied.
Kamal closed his eyes for a second, rubbing his forehead.
I need coffee.
Marching past the twin Malian flags displayed near the entrance of the cafeteria, sweating like a pig, Kamal made his way to his seat and sat down before Aminata. She was done with her chicken, and had moved on to her katta, a wheat flour pasta that looked like scrambled reeds on a plate. At least, it was a cheap version of the special dish.
"Your papers," Kamal said, putting her report on the table. His sweaty fingers had made dark, wet indentations on one side of the stack. Already, he was wishing he could just disappear.
"Thanks."
At Aminata's smile, Kamal melted a little inside. He remembered the Burāq. The MHBS hadn't been activated, but in his current cognitive state, recovered from the odd fatigue, he cringed internally. Mythical Islamic beings didn't just appear in faculty basements. Either some other computer/neural engineer was developing a similar technology nearby, which was unlikely, or someone had laced one of Kamal's recent meals with an unwanted substance.
After lunch, he returned to his lab. Standing before a counter laden with computer parts, he closed his eyes again, being mindful only of the hum of air conditioning and the sterile smell of the place. Then, he plopped down in front of a desktop, pulling up Chrome.
Internet in Bamako had gotten a lot better since 2022. When Kamal was 18, it had taken four hours to fill out his college application, and he'd had to convince the owner of the Internet café he was using that he could pay the money back later in exchange for just thirty more minutes of an Internet connection. At present, however, the university's Wi-Fi was returning results in an instant.
"Unicorn with holes chrysalis" proved a worthy search. He had only half-expected to see anything close to the twisted take on the Burāq in the FAST basement. Yet, a startlingly close match came from an unexpected source: an American children's program. Queen Chrysalis, it read. The fictional antagonist of fantasy television broadcast. But there was one discrepancy; surely, any animal who ferried the Prophet Muhammad to Heaven could hardly be villainous.
Kamal sat with his chin on his forearm, scrolling slowly through the online article on this fantasy character. He followed a hyperlink to a YouTube video: a segment of an episode from the children's program. Putting thoughts of hallucinations and Islam aside, he let himself admire the cute animation, full of unicorns and magic.
"What's that?"
The voice came from behind him. Kamal closed the tab, simultaneously annoyed and embarrassed. Turning around in his rolling chair, he immediately stood up from his chair at the sight of Mr. Ambièlè Gueye, vice dean of the ISA.
"Mr. Gueye."
"Dr. Bhikha. I hope you're doing well," the balding man said. His voice was naturally low and smooth, and he smiled slightly as he spoke. In Kamal's eyes, it all culminated in an air of arrogance.
"Uh, yeah. I hope the evening's been treating you well, too."
"It hasn't. I'm planning to consult with Dr. Sow, but I feel I should speak with you first."
"I'm sorry, is everything okay?"
"Not exactly. A few days ago, I'd discovered some particularly offensive information in regards to Dr. Sow."
Kamal wasn't sure how to answer. It felt uncomfortable, discussing something like this so close to an afternoon prayer.
"You see, the campus has a standard of morality to uphold. And..."
Ambièlè leaned to the side to look past Kamal at his computer monitor. Just the home screen was showing.
"... I'd never thought of you as very effeminate."
"I'm not," Kamal said quickly. "I was just sort of... randomly curious."
He cringed at himself for the second time that day.
"Dr. Bhikha, I want you to meet me in my office after the Asr prayer," Ambièlè said.
"Understood, Mr. Gueye."
As if taunting him, the catty voices of children's fantasy characters replayed in Kamal's head like a broken record. Ambièlè exited the lab, and Kamal stood alone by his computer, wracked with an uncertainty only matched on that day a decade ago, when he'd sent his undergraduate application.
A headache was setting in. He still needed coffee.