Abdulai Rahaman:
Joe, another phone dead. Screen went black like it saw a ghost. These things arrive shiny as miracles, then break like promises. What kind of magic is this?

G.I. Joe:
(laughs, tired)
American magic, brother. The gods over there are restless. They don’t want devotion — they want a repeat sale. Planned obsolescence is their sacrament.

Abdulai:
So the gods send gifts that don’t last?

G.I. Joe:
Exactly. They rain phones from the sky and call it progress. But the wiring’s cursed. The software forgets you. The battery gives up the ghost. It’s a cargo cult messiah — arrives looking like salvation, leaves you stranded with a cracked screen and no signal.

Abdulai:
People line up for them anyway.

G.I. Joe:
Of course they do. Hope is a powerful app. Even when it keeps crashing.

Abdulai:
Then what do we do? Wait for the next miracle?

G.I. Joe:
No. We wait for each other. Be patient. Help is already moving, just slower than the ads promised.

Abdulai:
You always talk like there’s a map.

G.I. Joe:
There is. We meet in Kenya. Kisaruni. Nelly’s school. High ground — not just geographically. Minds before markets. People before products.

Abdulai:
(smiles)
So not another phone?

G.I. Joe:
No. Something harder to break. Knowledge. Community. Maybe even forgiveness for the old gods — but no more blind worship.

Abdulai:
Then I’ll hold on. Even with a broken screen.

G.I. Joe:
That’s all you need. The signal’s still there. Just not on their network.