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The Algorithm Within - Episode 1, The Gift

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This is the first half of the first episode of my latest Scientific Fiction Story, where I explore the intersection of technology, politics, and tradition in a near-future African setting. If you enjoy it, please consider subscribing to my newsletter to get the next episodes delivered to your inbox.

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Act 1: A Palacial Morning

”Baba, what exactly is this thing?” Amara asks, watching her father’s face for the micro-expressions Mama Esther taught her to read. His hands are clasped behind his back - the presidential pose, she calls it in her head - but his left thumb is rubbing his right palm. Nervous tell.

The installation team leader, a woman with hair the color of dried maize and a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, steps forward. “PresSense is a quantum-enabled ambient intelligence system, designed specifically for the unique needs of progressive African leadership.” The words roll off her tongue like a rehearsed prayer, the sort of prayer we learned in Nursery 2. And then again in Primary 2.

Amara catches the slight tightening of her father’s jaw at ‘progressive African leadership.‘

Twenty years as president, following his own father’s legacy, and still they speak to him like a promising student.

The air changes. It’s subtle - like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks over Lake Victoria - but Amara feels it in her bones. The panels sync in a wave of electric blue, and a voice fills the room. Not from speakers, it seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, like God in Sunday service.

”Good morning, President Kwesi. Good morning, Amara.” The voice is warm honey and night rain, neither male nor female, neither young nor old. It speaks first in English, then switches flawlessly to their mother tongue, the cadence perfectly matching their regional dialect. “I am honored to become part of your household.”

Uncle Thomas steps forward from where he’s been watching in the shadows - always in the shadows these days. “A gift,” he says, spreading his hands like a pastor at offering time, “from the Global Technology Alliance. To help bring our nation fully into the 22nd century."

"21st century,” Amara corrects automatically, and her uncle’s smile flickers like a faulty fluorescent tube.

”No, my dear niece. The 22nd. We’re not just catching up anymore. We’re leaping ahead.”

The foreign woman is speaking again, about neural networks and adaptive algorithms and predictive governance, but Amara’s attention is caught by movement at the door. Mama Esther stands there, her silver locs gathered in a crown above her traditional dress, her eyes sharp as broken glass. Her fingers move in small patterns by her side - the old computing language she sometimes uses with Amara, their secret code.

Danger, her fingers say. Snake in the house.

The AI’s voice modulates, becomes somehow warmer, more intimate. “Mama Esther, please join us. I sense some stress building up. Would you like me to adjust the room’s temperature? Or perhaps brew some of your favorite chamomile tea?”

Amara feels it then - the weight of all these invisible eyes, watching, measuring, knowing. The marble floor’s patterns suddenly look less like her mother’s kitenge and more like a circuit board, spreading beneath their feet like roots of a digital tree, reaching into the heart of their home.

Her father’s hands unclasp, decisive. “Well,” he says, “progress waits for no one.” But his left thumb is still rubbing his right palm, faster now, like a man trying to wash away a stain that won’t fade.

The morning sun continues its slow slice through the presidential palace, but now it reflects off the black panels in fragments of blue light, transforming their familiar home into something alien, something watching. Mama Esther, Uncle Thomas, Amara, and her father. The scene is set.

And somewhere, in the depths of their house, servers hum to life like a thousand digital hearts beginning to beat in perfect, calculated sync.

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Act 2: Family Dinner

The ceiling fans spin lazy circles above the mahogany dining table, their shadows dancing across the feast below - whole tilapia swimming in pili pili sauce, mountains of pilau rice studded with cardamom pods, fresh sukuma wiki glossy with palm oil. The new addition to their dinner makes Amara’s stomach clench: subtle glass panels near each place setting, their displays angled to be visible only to each person, pulsing with gentle blue notifications.

Her father’s hand moves to his earpiece - the presidential one, now enhanced by PresSense. Something in his expression shifts, and he reaches for the water instead of his usual wine.

”Brother,” Uncle Thomas’s voice slides into the silence, smooth as aged cognac. And not the cheap stuff he used to bring home before father promoted him either. “You seem… preoccupied tonight. The mining proposals, perhaps?"

"Government matters, Thomas.” Her father’s voice carries a new weight. Amara notices his personal display flashing once, briefly, and his jaw tightens.

Mama Esther hasn’t touched her food. She sits like a statue carved from ancient wood, eyes moving between the siblings. Her fingers tap the table’s edge in their secret code that Amara translates automatically: “Watch the pattern. See who it serves."

"Shall I compile everyone’s preferred evening summaries?” PresSense offers, its voice now coming from discrete speakers positioned throughout the room, creating the illusion of intimate conversation rather than broadcast announcements. “I can send them to your personal devices.”

Uncle Thomas touches his screen. “Always efficient, aren’t you?” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “PresSense, access my schedule for tomorrow’s technology ministry meeting.”

A soft chime interrupts whatever the AI begins to say. Amara catches a fragment of code scrolling across her uncle’s display before it blacks out completely.

”My apologies,” PresSense recovers smoothly. “That information requires higher clearance. Might I suggest instead that everyone try the chef’s new dessert? It’s a fusion of traditional mandazi with French pastry techniques.”

The tilapia stares up at Amara with its glazed eye, and she remembers her mother’s voice: “In our culture, we say fish eyes see all the truth in the sea.” But her mother isn’t here to interpret these waters anymore.

Amara’s personal display lights up with a private message: “Your recent academic interests in AI architecture have been noted. Would you like additional study materials?”

She glances at Mama Esther, whose fingers move in their secret code again. Amara types back: “Particularly interested in system vulnerabilities and backdoor protocols.”

The lights flicker - just once, just slightly. Uncle Thomas’s phone buzzes against the table. The AI smoothly transitions to discussing the weather forecast, but Amara notices how her uncle’s display stays dark longer than the others, how her father’s earpiece emits a static pulse so brief she almost misses it.

Something wierd is happening. She just can’t seem to put her finger on it.

Above them, the ceiling fans continue their lazy dance, stirring the humid air into patterns that seem, just for a moment, to spell out signs only Mama Esther can read. When Amara glances at her grandmother’s display, she sees something odd - it’s showing lines of classic binary code instead of PresSense’s usual sleek interface.

Her father reaches for his water glass, and Amara sees it: his left thumb rubbing his right palm, faster and faster under the table. In the corner of her eye, Uncle Thomas fails miserably to hide his grin, as his display blinks back to life, showing a single message that reflects in his eyes: “Protocol Override Accepted.”

The sunset streams through the tall windows, painting everything in blood orange and shadow, while PresSense continues its quiet orchestration of their family dinner, each private display a window into different versions of the truth. And somewhere in the building’s heart, servers pulse with secrets, counting the beats between what is shown and what is hidden.

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Act 3: Grandmother’s Room

The night presses against Mama Esther’s window like a curious child, carrying with it the scent of night-blooming jasmine and distant murmurs of the presidential guard’s radios. Inside, the room is a rebellion against modernity’s sleek promises - walls lined with books whose pages carry the yellow memory of time, hand-woven kikoi blankets draped over curved wooden chairs. In the corner, something makes Amara’s breath catch: an ancient computer terminal, its green screen glowing like a bushbaby’s eye in the darkness, deliberately disconnected from the house’s main systems.

A discrete notification appears on Amara’s personal device: “Your current location has been logged for security protocols."

"Turn that thing off,” Mama Esther says without turning, her fingers dancing across the mechanical keyboard, each click a defiant percussion against PresSense’s smooth silence. “They track everything through those personal displays.”

Amara hesitates, then powers down her device. Her grandmother reaches into her wrapper and pulls out something that looks like a smooth black stone - but when she presses it, a soft field of static fills the air. The room’s ambient sensors dim to darkness.

”Now we can talk. Old technology,” Mama Esther murmurs, patting the signal jammer. “From before they made everything ‘smart.‘

Sometimes stupid is better.

Amara sinks into a chair, the kikoi’s rough warmth grounding her. “At dinner, when PresSense glitched during Uncle Thomas’s request…"

"1968.” Grandmother’s laugh is sharp as broken glass. “University of Dar es Salaam. We were building something beautiful - a system to preserve our oral histories, to bridge digital and traditional knowledge. But the European advisors said our approach was ‘too indigenous.’ They wanted databases, not dialogue.” Her fingers still on the keyboard. “Your uncle’s new toy? It’s speaking in their voice again, just wearing our skins.”

The terminal screen flickers with lines of code that remind Amara of the patterns in her mother’s favorite scarf - the one they never found after the accident.

”Your mother was like you,” Mama Esther says suddenly, as if reading her thoughts. “Always questioning, always seeing patterns. She was helping me track something, before…” The old woman’s voice trails off, but her fingers keep moving, telling their own story in binary whispers.

A soft pulse of light seeps under the door - PresSense attempting to reactivate the room’s systems. A gentle knock follows. “Mama Esther,” the AI’s voice comes through the door’s intercom, carefully modulated to sound concerned rather than invasive. “Your evening wellness check is due. Would you like me to schedule it for another time?”

Mama Esther ignores it, pulling something else from her wrapper - a small notebook, its pages dense with handwritten code. “Your mother helped me start this. Now you’ll help me finish it."

"What is it?"

"A key. Or a weapon. Depends on who’s using it.” She presses the notebook into Amara’s hands. “Learn these patterns. But not where they can scan it. That thing may respect privacy protocols in public, but it reads everything - every note, every file, every whispered conversation.”

The intercom chimes again: “As your family health assistant, I’m required to log any declined wellness checks. Would you prefer a remote consultation?”

Mama Esther taps her static device twice, and the intercom goes silent.

”Listen carefully, child.” Grandmother turns to her, eyes bright as stars in her dark face. “Everything has a pattern. Your father’s hands when he’s worried. Your uncle’s smiles when he’s lying. And computers? They have patterns too. They can’t help it - it’s in their DNA.” She glances at the door. “Even their polite questions have purpose.”

A sudden breeze carries the jasmine scent stronger, and with it, a memory hits Amara like lightning - her mother, sitting in this same room, writing in this same notebook, saying something about patterns in the mining company’s data…

The terminal screen flashes once, showing a fragment of code that looks like a signature, or maybe a scar. In the distance, servers hum their endless synthetic lullaby, counting and recording and calculating. But here, in this room that smells of old books and wisdom and revolution, Amara feels something else being calculated: resistance.

Mama Esther turns back to her keyboard, silver locs catching the green light like a crown. “Go now. Read. Remember.” Her fingers move in their secret code one last time: “The truth is in the patterns. Just like your mother found out.”

Amara clutches the notebook and slips out into the corridor. Her personal display reactivates automatically: “Welcome back, Amara. Your sleep schedule suggests you should prepare for bed. Would you like me to adjust your room’s environment?”

But now she knows - some kinds of knowledge can’t be archived in any database, some truths can’t be logged in wellness reports, and some patterns can only be read by hearts that remember.