This story is part of Imagine 2200: Climate Fiction for Future Ancestors, a climate-fiction contest produced by Grist Magazine. Imagine 2200 asked writers to imagine the next 180 years of equitable climate progress, and the winning stories feature intersectional worlds in which no community is left behind. Read all 12 stories in the collection.

Eketi arrived at The Green House on Feb. 17, two weeks late for her residency. Harmattan was wearing off, and everywhere was becoming hot again. It was the year 2100, and Eketi was returning to Lagos after a short, unsuccessful career as an environmental journalist in Uyo. She had not intended to be late. In fact, she had never imagined she would arrive late at anything she spent the last three years dreaming and praying and worrying about. But when the acceptance message popped on her smart pad, she had found it difficult to muster enough enthusiasm to pack her bags and leave her failures in Uyo behind. Said failures had wrapped themselves around her neck and simply refused to let go. They took her sleep, tightened her chest, and manifested themselves as multiple voices in her head telling her things she could no longer refute, because she was no longer certain they were lies.

Her career had not been going as planned, but she didn’t think she would be fired. She had it planned out in her head: Put up with her micromanaging editor for two years, lead the reporting on a big story or two, get enough experience and credibility to eventually apply for a long-form reporting grant. But her story on Big Oil divestment had gone south. Her competence called into question; words were exchanged. Heavy words, words that still caused acute pain even in recollection. After she was given her sack letter, a day before the acceptance message popped on her smart pad, her editor had given her the password to access Soji, his AI unemployment therapist. “A lot of our former staff have found it useful,” he had said, patting her shoulder. Shame swelled in Eketi’s chest afresh. She shook her head, willing herself to move on. 

Eketi took in the green duplex she would be calling home for the next three and half months, a hideout for all six residents of the Green Nigeria Youths Fellowship. Flowers grew on top the short fence and crawling plants were all over the building like a robe. An electric keke glided past as she swiped her card on the gate’s sensor. It took her three attempts to do it right. Her hands were shaking and her back ached terribly. She had entered the wrong train twice on her way here. She grew up in this city and had practically spent most of her adolescence here, but it still managed to elude her every time. She felt stupid. But why should she? Lagos was constantly changing—the government was always changing something. Closing off a street, uprooting buildings, erecting mini dams, hydrokinetic plants, artificial carbon trees … it was new every time. If it weren’t, “getting lost” would not be listed as a trendy activity on Lagos Vox. 

She stepped into the grass-carpeted compound, a battered box made of recycled car tires in each hand. Tucked in a discreet corner of the compound almost out of her eyes’ view were compost bins, categorized waste baskets, and a biodigester system powered by human waste. She stood still for a while in the eerily quiet compound, a sharp contrast from the stories her great-grandmother used to tell her about a Lagos that was noisy, congested, and a huge threat to mental well-being. Every time she told those stories, Eketi wondered what it must have been like to live in that bustling city rife with tribal tensions and famous for being a land of opportunities. Lagos was no longer that place. After going underwater around the year 2050, people took their energies and opportunities elsewhere. Now, it was a slow city mildly abuzz with 10 million people, quiet enough to host a residency. 

Eketi entered the house without finesse—one box had scraped her knee, and her palm was sore from trying to hold up the other one. The living room was a tidy but startling neon green. Minimally furnished with simple white sofas and a center table carved in the shape of the Nigerian flag, the room boasted a few real plants. 

“Welcome to The Green House, Eketi Edo,” the smart house system spoke. “Take the stairs to your left, and you’ll find your room on your right.”

“Great.” Eketi shrugged. There was no human to receive her, and she was glad she would not be seen in her current hideous state. She climbed the stairs and found the room with her name across the door. 

A quick swipe in one attempt and this time, there was no green. Just white. A lot of white. A small bed. A desk. A closet. A mini fridge. A bathroom. The plan was to put away her things, take a bath, rummage through her boxes for something to snack on, but she collapsed on the bed and fell into a deep sleep. She woke hours later to cackling laughter and several voices talking over themselves. Someone was knocking playfully and supplementing the effort by saying “ko-ko-ko.”

Eketi opened the door to a small group with measuring eyes. Her fellow residents. She recognized them from their headshots on the Fellowship’s website. She opened wider to let them in.

“If it isn’t the late resident!” Tracing gruff voice to face, she saw it was Chimezuo. Ecocide lawyer.

“The digital house assistant said you had arrived,” a gentler voice said. “Are you one of those ‘arrive late in style people’?” The voice belonged to Bukky. Eco-anxiety researcher who always overshared on social media. She was wearing a shirt that said “Stop Deep Sea Mining.” 

Eketi managed a tired smile. She suddenly felt shy.

“But why are you late, sef?” Chimezuo again.

“Let her breathe, abeg,” a bespectacled person spoke from behind Bukky. Boma. Climate justice campaigner and carbon credits analyst.

“And who is stopping her from breathing?” Chimezuo said almost immediately.

“Sorry we were not here to welcome you. We went for an afrosoul concert.” It was Bukky again.

Eketi started to worry immediately that she did not fit into the group, that she did not look as well put-together as they did. That as the days went by, they would find her wanting, and she would be ousted as a fraud. She watched the trio continue to talk all over themselves, feeling an intense wave of gratitude they gave her no chance to speak. “If you keep quiet, nobody will know you’re stupid,” her mother used to say every time she failed the random Bible quiz in church. She was keeping quiet now. 

Another girl, Ajaratou—circular economy specialist—was peering into her closet, peeping into her bathroom. “Your room is better than mine,” she said, mostly to herself. Someone else was standing at the door, in but mostly out. Thick, short locs dangled across his face and the buttons on his white linen shirt were undone, an inner black tee exposed. He had a bag of plantain chips clasped in both hands. He gave Eketi a reluctant smile. She smiled back. He nodded and retreated quietly. Esosa. Documentary filmmaker.

Life at The Green House was routine. Eating was a collective activity; the cook was always overeager and the food too much. The morning always started with Bukky talking about how committed she was to exercise, something a lot of people couldn’t do because “if it were easy, everyone would do it.” There was a group session every morning after breakfast to discuss progress on personal projects. After, the group spent the day indoors or outdoors working on their projects individually. Socializing was left for nighttime and weekends.

Today, breakfast was moi moi and akamu, and it was Eketi’s turn to discuss her project. This past week, she had listened to everyone talk about their projects with certainty and a kind of pride she knew she’d never be able to muster for her own work. She was apprehensive. The discussion was like a bloodbath. They’d let her go last so she could listen to everyone talk about their work and be enthused about the joint publication they’d have to produce at the end of the residency. The publication would be a statement of their collective vision for a sustainable Nigeria. But Eketi was still not enthused. About the publication, maybe, but the group discussion, no. Yesterday, Boma had talked about his project involving the degrowth movement and the dismantling of the prevailing capitalist economic model, and Chimezuo had called it a “a little too idealistic.” 

“So was your work at one time,” Boma returned.

“To be fair, capitalism has delivered climate action,” Ajaratou put in. “Nigeria went green because the rich wouldn’t have thrived any other way.” 

“I’m not sure you even understand what your work is about,” Boma said. 

Eketi had spent a significant chunk of the night rehearsing, and she found it laughable. This project got her into the fellowship. A jury had read and believed it was residency-worthy. Why was she beginning to think otherwise? Her former boss used to call her stories “silly, little ideas.” He would call a senior journalist and say, “Come and hear the story Eketi wants us to cover o.” And everyone would gather, and her editor would insist she shared the idea “for constructive feedback.” Foolishly, she would share, and the feedback would destroy so violently she would run to the toilet to vomit spit like a pregnant woman.

There was spit in her mouth now. They were all seated around a table, the smell of breakfast still in the air. Chimezuo looked like he couldn’t wait to get back to his room. Bukky was giggling with Boma, and Ajaratou was writing something on a sticky note. Esosa looked like he was not in the room. His eyes were shifty and distant, and his fingers trembled slightly. 

She swallowed the pool of spit in her mouth and told them about her intention to document the reintroduction of Indigenous knowledge and ways of living into Nigeria’s modern realities.

“On the train on my way here, I overheard an old man remark about how civilized we are now. But isn’t it interesting that our celebrated modernity is about reclaiming the things we once thought primitive? You know, taking once-rejected traditional wisdom and innovating with it.”

Nobody said anything. She swallowed again.

“You see, we’ve been creating the new by reconnecting with the old. Progress has not been a distinct divide. It’s been a circle.” She was gesticulating now, some nervousness beginning to creep in. “Think about the many things we can begin to reimagine simply by learning more about the past.” She told them about the photos she had taken of modern houses with flat roofs, how they mimicked the ways the Yorubas used to build their houses. And the reintroduction of thatch barriers and the obi of the Igbos. “Even the prominence of protected areas—seas, forests—can be traced back to the precolonial ways of having sacred forests and rivers, and fishing and hunting and planting practices that allowed for the regeneration of biodiversity.”

“Hmm,” Bukky said.

“So, what’s the overall intention?” Boma asked. “Getting everyone to focus on the past for the sake of the future?”

“Or another rant about colonialism?” Chimezuo jumped in. He laughed and looked around as if to confirm if others were enjoying his joke as much as he clearly was. “You guys na, it’s the 22nd century!”

“She didn’t mention colonialism,” Ajaratou quipped. “I like the idea sha.”

“So, how will you go about this ‘reconnection’?” Boma does the quote with his fingers.

“I think the more important question is how this changes anything really,” Bukky said.

Eketi began to feel like she was in a Rapid Fire Questions episode on TV. They had begun to talk over themselves again. Esosa remained quiet. She held his eyes for a while, and whatever she saw in there made her feel deeply pitied.

“Can we just stick to the discussion format?” Eketi asked, wringing her fingers together.

She quickly told them what she had done so far, what she aimed to do this week, and how she would like to approach it for their joint publication. Their responses were a few noncommittal grunts and an “alright” here and there. Everyone left as soon as she was done. She remained seated, with the returned voice of her mother telling her to have stayed quiet. 

Eketi was avoiding everyone, so she came down after dinner was over. She hurried to the kitchen to make some eggs she would eat with a steaming cup of Milo. She found Esosa there, eating cookies and energetically stirring something in a wok. His body stiffened when he saw her, but he said nothing to her. She went about mixing her eggs. 

The omelette was a little too burnt and most of the spices had concentrated on one side, but she pretended to eat it with relish. Esosa was done with whatever he was making in the wok. It looked like some kind of Korean stir-fry. He transferred it to a bowl with a lid, made some fresh orange juice, and started to fry some yams. 

“Hungry much?” Eketi said, a feeble attempt at conversation. 

He shrugged and tucked a stray loc behind his ear. 

She mentally kicked herself for bothering. His yams were almost ready, and she was on her second cup of Milo. The silence had grown awkward between them. She was washing the dishes she used when he finally spoke. 

“I like your project,” he said, turning to her.

Eketi released a breath she did not know she had been holding. “Thank you.”

He nodded. He placed his food in a woven basket and covered it with a cloth. 

“Taking that to your room?” They were not supposed to eat in the rooms.

He raised one thick brow. “Going to report me?”

She shook her head. He walked away. 

Ajaratou came into the kitchen then. She sneered after him. “That one,” she said pointing with her lips, “that one is a troubled soul.” 

“How?” 

“You did not hear it from me. Better leave him alone.”

“I’m not holding him.” Eketi was feeling defensive, and she hated it. 

“Indeed.”

Eketi spent the remainder of the night wondering why Ajaratou said Esosa was a troubled soul and why, without any context, she was inclined to agree, what with him always appearing perpetually fatigued. On occasion, Esosa was calm only to become so fidgety like he wanted to jump out of his skin the very next minute. His nonchalance at morning meetings also felt rehearsed, his performance hanging on by a thread.

His room was right next to hers, so eavesdropping became another routine for Eketi. Every night, she would press her ear against the wall to learn more about him. Most times, there was talking. A lot of talking he didn’t seem quite capable of in person. Sometimes, she heard “fuck!”, hiccups, gasping, crying? It sounded like crying. During the day, she would watch him and try to make sense of whatever she thought happened at night. Eketi began to worry that she had become too invested in someone else’s life. She brought this up with her e-therapist, who suggested that it might be because she didn’t have the courage to face her own life.

Today, there was a group trip to the Lekki Conservation Centre. They were on a solar-powered train weaving its way leisurely through the city. Eketi was seated next to Esosa, who was busy taking photos. His body was hanging out the train, and it was different to see him so immersed, so involved with something. 

She peered out the window to try catching the sights that had him so engaged. The train was currently at Yaba, a busy market area that still managed to be a booming tech hub. Whatever was left of the Lagos spirit resided mostly in Yaba, with its colorful shops, noisy traders, and vibrant young population. There was a signpost announcing an altruistic vacation to Delta State that involved mangrove planting in the creeks. Someone had written on a wall just beside the governor’s e-poster that they fixed solar panels. A man was getting into a fight with another man for using his keke to charge his own. 

Eketi texted her friend about the keke fight, which didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Why is it that I never ever see any serious fights in this Lagos?

Esosa was done taking pictures and had resumed his quiet self on his seat. There was a loud “Hallelujah somebody!” on the train.  A short, stout woman began preaching about Jesus coming soon. “Brethren, tomorrow may be too late,” she shouted at the top of her voice.

When her sermon was over, she asked for donations to support the minister of God. When she retook her seat, a middle-aged man began to walk around, advertising his decomposable pads and diapers made from banana stems.

“Sure you don’t want pads?” Esosa asked, turning to her. He was all charm, a lopsided smile on his face.

Shocked that he was starting a conversation voluntarily, she blubbered a bit. “No. I use discs.”

“My sister uses discs too.” He was nodding. He looked out the window again. “Do you know this place?” 

The train was gliding by the Third Mainland Bridge.

“Yes. Makoko. Home of asoebi.”

He shook his head. “It used to be a fishing community. You know, canoes. Stilt houses. Clinics on water. Stuff like that.”

“Did my undergraduate thesis on Makoko, and I never came across that information.”

He shrugged. “Why do you think that is?”

“Cos you made it up?” Eketi said carefully.

He laughed. It was a titillating sound, and she was hearing it for the first time. “For God’s sake, Eketi!” 

She laughed too. He said her name perfectly, as someone who was from her village would. “A little odd you’re the only one with this information, no?”

He laughed again. “My great-grandparents used to live there,” he said when he had recovered from his laughter.

“Oh.”

“I think it’s easier to control what people know and what they care about with the kind of technologies we have now.” 

“True.”

“States are partnering with millionaires to keep everyone obedient and functional.”

“You sure you’re not a conspiracy theorist?”

He smiled. “See? I can’t even convince someone who cares about history.”

Eketi felt chastised. “But—”

“What if I told you Bayelsa went through a genocide fueled by climate inaction?”

Eketi said nothing. They sat in silence for a while before he spoke again. 

“There is a lot of stuff we don’t know, but maybe it’s good we don’t know. Because if we know,” he cleared his throat, “can we forgive it? Can we fix it? Can we look beyond it?”

“I guess not.”

He shrugged. 

The Lekki Conservation Centre was a 78-hectare nature reserve. Established in 1990, it was a biodiversity hotspot home to the rich flora and fauna of the Lekki peninsula. It also housed an urban agroecology farm where domestic animal rearing had been seamlessly integrated with mixed cropping agriculture and the preservation of wild animal species. The Centre was proof that humans could thrive alongside nature without separation, a binary way of thinking that dominated environmental discourse in the 21st century. 

The agroecology farm was impressive. They were shown some native endangered seeds from a time when the world was obsessed with genetic modification, and lab-grown seeds thrived at the expense of native seeds. The group also saw a demonstration of farmers using the black ant as a biological pesticide, an idea borrowed from Indigenous farming practices in precolonial Africa.

“This farm is our past meeting the future,” the head farmer said proudly. 

“See?” Esosa said, tapping her shoulder from behind. “You should believe more in your ideas.”

Warmth flooded her cheeks. The next day, Eketi had to talk about her project, and she felt more confident. She started by talking about the agroecology farm and how it leaned into her ideas. “So, you see,” she said looking around the table, forcing herself to meet everyone’s eyes, “the idea is not so far-fetched when you actually open your mind to it.”

It was the third month of the residency, and Esosa did not show up to the morning meetings four times in a row. Eketi was worried—she had been pressing her ears to the wall at every chance—but the rest of the cohort thought he was acting up.

“But do you think he’s inside and not coming out of his room?” Bukky asked with a glance at the stairs. “I think he’s out.”

“He’s in,” Boma added. “The assistant didn’t say otherwise.”

“But what did he say was wrong with him?” Bukky asked, turning to her.

All eyes were on Eketi. She shrunk. “We are not that close.”

“Told you he was trouble,” Ajaratou murmured in a singsong voice. 

“He’s a strange one, I admit,” Bukky said. “But I envy him a bit. Eats a lot but doesn’t get fat. My dream metabolism!”

“As in! If I could do that, there’s nothing I won’t eat in this world,” Ajaratou said. “Nobody will be able to separate me and food.”

“I don’t think anyone can separate you and food right now,” Boma put in. 

Chimezuo laughed. “There’s a circular economy in her stomach.”

“Get out!” Ajaratou was laughing too. 

They moved on to other topics, passing a tray of baba dudu around them. 

“We should let the organizers know we think something is wrong with him,” Eketi said, interrupting. 

“What if,” Ajaratou asked, “he hacked the assistant and is out having fun, and you ruin it for him by snitching?” 

“He’s not out having a fun time.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“I thought you didn’t know him so well,” Boma said.

Eketi shrunk even further.

“But hacking? Isn’t that far-fetched?” It was Chimezuo. 

“He used to be a badass emojineer and tech bro,” Bukky said. “We went to the same school.”

Emojineers were linguistic virtuosos and masters of digital expression in mainstream emoji communication. This new information made Eketi feel like she didn’t know him at all. Yes, he said a few nice things, and she liked him a tiny little bit, but how did she imagine eavesdropping could reveal a person fully? 

That night, the rest of the cohort went for a live theater rendition of the EndSARS protest, but she stayed behind and glued herself to the wall against her better judgement. She was waiting for any sound of life. She decided to do what no one had tried: knocking on his door. 

She knocked a few times and for a few minutes. She said her name and said she was just checking in. She was returning to her room when she heard the door open.

Esosa’s room was dimly lit and in utter disarray. In the semi-darkness, she could see empty bags of chips, a stack of pizza cartons, and half-finished tubs of ice cream. His mini fridge was open and the smell of alcohol hung in the air.

“Esosa?”

Eketi found him in the bathroom, bent over the toilet bowl, emptying his stomach. He finished, rinsed his mouth in the sink and collapsed gently on the floor. She sat beside him. His skin was damp with sweat, and he smelled like he hadn’t showered in days.

“Esosa—”

He shook his head and lurched towards the toilet. He vomited some more and returned to the floor. He looked frail, breakable. His eyes were the most bloodshot eyes Eketi had ever seen.

“I have an eating disorder,” he said, his voice hoarse from misuse. After a long stretch of silence, he added, “Bulimia.”

Eketi nodded. 

“Don’t tell the others.”

“I won’t.”

“Increase lights,” she said to the assistant. Bright lights came on and he winced, his eyes struggling to adjust.

In the brighter room, Eketi sighted some laxative pills and a big bottle of agbo, traditional Yoruba medicine used for a variety of ailments, including stomach troubles.

She fetched him water in a glass.

“Don’t go,” he said when she neared the door. 

“I’m only going to bring a broom.”

“You don’t have to.”

She ignored him and returned with the broom. He watched her tidy the room in silence, sniffing and heaving intermittently. With the room tidy, she rummaged through his wardrobe for some clean clothes. He had only a few. She hung them in the bathroom.

“Go and shower. I’ll wait out here,” she said, helping him to his feet.

He began to cry but went into the bathroom. While he was showering, Eketi made his bed and had a quick trip to her room for some candles. She lit them and their smell began to waft around the room. 

Esosa emerged in clean clothes. Shadows of the candle flame danced around his skin. He was gaunt, his eyes were hollow, but he remained beautiful. 

She patted the bed, signaling for him to come lie in it. 

He climbed in and pulled the duvet over his chest. “Will you sleep with me?” he asked gently before his eyes widened in alarm. “Not, not with me. Not, not in that sense.” He sat up. “I’m sorry. I meant—”

She giggled. “It’s okay na.” 

He exhaled loudly. He did not return to his lying position. “Thank you, really.” 

She nodded. They sat together in comfortable silence. 

“You should seek help,” she said after a sigh.

He cringed. “If I go to a specialist, it is one more thing that’s wrong with me.”

She reached for his hand. “But if you go, it becomes one less thing that’s wrong with you.”

He sighed. “When it started, I told myself I had it under control. I told myself it wouldn’t get this bad, that it was just my love for cooking.” He laughed dryly at himself.

“You could die.” 

“I know.” He sighed again. “In the kitchen, I am in control. I can make things come out the exact way I want. Outside it, I can’t.”

“Is this about your personal project?” she ventured.

He winced. “A little bit. I’m making a film about my family.”

She waited for him to continue, but he did not. 

“Their life in Makoko?”

“Yes.” He reached for a tissue by his bedside and blew his nose. “My father was a very sad person. I always felt like he didn’t love me, and I didn’t know why until he died, and I found this journal about his life as a climate refugee. And somehow, the things he wrote about did not exist anywhere; it was as if he had made it all up, as if he had imagined some suffering to justify how bad a parent he was.” He blew his nose again. “But he didn’t imagine it. I did some research and my father’s story is true. And now …” he buried his face in his palms, “now, I feel I have a responsibility to get this story out. I quit my job and became a filmmaker just for this story.”

She waited a beat. “I don’t have all the answers, Esosa, but I know you can deliver this story.” 

“Perhaps. But it makes me struggle, it makes me …” He droned off. 

“Struggle is normal. I’m struggling too.”

“You’re not eating yourself to death, at least.”

She smirked. “But I’m self-sabotaging. I have anxiety attacks for breakfast. My whole life feels like running a race I already lost.”

“I don’t think you know how brilliant you are,” he said, turning to her. 

She bit her lip. “I believe everyone who compliments me is lying to me.” She shook her head, as if shrugging off the thought. “I just feel like I’m not meant to be brilliant, that I stumbled on it somewhere in my childhood, and it’s not mine to keep.”

Esosa squeezed her fingers gently. 

“You know, my mom used to call me ode, oponu, all those names for the mentally retarded. In primary school, my teachers would act like they couldn’t see my hand whenever I attempted to answer a question because I was always getting the answers wrong. I just don’t know how to not doubt myself. And sometimes,” she wiped a stray tear—was she crying? “I think I set myself up to fail so I can appease that voice in my head that’s calling me a failure. Like, ‘See? I failed. Can I go free now?’”

“Eketi —”

“I was fired from my last job. I don’t think I deserved it, but I don’t think I was a good journalist either. I’m seeking help already, so don’t worry about me.” 

He held her shoulders and hugged her real tight. She burst into tears, and hugging, they cried together. It was loud and ugly and intense.

After, they laid in bed, Esosa being the little spoon.

“I’ll get better, Eketi. I promise.”

“I’ll get better too,” she responded. “I’ll do yoga.” 

He chuckled. “Real yoga or American yoga?” 

She laughed. “Ode.”

He began to snore softly in a few minutes. She stayed awake, eyes wide open in the dark, contemplating her struggles and her many attempts to act like they did not exist. Not dealing with them meant they’d had ample time to worsen and calcify. She felt ready to try addressing them again. She made mental notes to finally log into Soji and update her profile on Job Finder. She also had to have that dreaded conversation with her mother.

The next day, she woke up feeling centered, like something had been fixed inside her while she slept. Esosa was not in the room, but he had left a note on the bedside stool. It was a quote by the 21st-century Nigerian writer, Eloghosa Osunde. Silence is a dangerous thing to give yourself to, especially if you were born to speak. 

This story is part of Imagine 2200: Climate Fiction for Future Ancestors, a climate-fiction contest produced by Grist Magazine. Imagine 2200 asked writers to imagine the next 180 years of equitable climate progress, and the winning stories feature intersectional worlds in which no community is left behind. Read all 12 stories in the collection.

Special thanks to this year’s judges, Annalee Newitz (@annaleen.bsky.social) and Omar El Akkad (@omarelakkad).