We Finally Made it to Mars

And We Made a “Transcendent Discovery”

A Martian holding The Substance

“‘The creatures we encountered were other worldly . . . yet not extremely unlike us, that is to say, they bore an uncanny resemblance our counterparts, the type that inhabit areas like West End, Atlanta. Their inky skin twinkled like one of our Great Lakes in the moonlight. Bleached ivory fangs directly contrasted their burnt ebony pigmentation from behind their dark, thick lips. Quite a sight that was. At times we feared for our lives as the Martians — I suppose they are to be called Martians — performed strange rituals, gyrating their bodies, their faces painted, and their limbs moving faster than that runner, the sprinter the black folks loved so dearly . . . Hussein Lightning, I believe it was, or something like that. All in all, the planet seems eerily similar to the continent of Africa in more ways than one. Enough about our nappy-headed neighbors. My fellow astronauts and I discovered something life-altering in our short time on the planet.’ To hear more of this firsthand account from Garvan Callaghan, one of four recently-returned astronauts that made the trip to Mars, tune in tonight at 8:00 for the full interview.” The reporter’s voice faded away, much like his unfortunately absent hairline had no doubt done years before.

The barbershop bell chimed. “What’s all this about?” wondered Cornell, glancing up at the television screen while scarfing down the last of his donut.

Old Kunta Hawkins answered, gesturing with his clippers toward the spot on the wall where the reporter spoke from. He was noticeably indignant in his response. “These white folk talkin bout s-s-some-some Space Odyssey type nonsense. I tell ya… these astronauts made them Mars people out to be black folk, and that wasn’t no accident. Why he have to mention West End, huh? They know we live here. They stirrin up some trouble, and I don’t like where this is headed, don’t like it one bit.” A grim look spread over his face as he shook his head, taking a seat by the window.

“Aw, they got him started now!” Kunta looked up and saw Marcus emerging from the back room. Marcus continued, “Old man, you better drop them conspiracies and pick up them clippers, fo they cut yo foot clean off!” He chuckled heartily, clearly taking pride in his witty comment.

“That’s not funny, Marcus!” a voice called from back. Seconds later, Laila emerged, scowling. “I happen to agree with Mr. Hawkins. In fact, I’ll go as far as to say that this was yet another instance in which powerful white men paint themselves to be heroes for having survived a life-threatening encounter with our people. Nappy-headed neighbors? This Garvan guy done messed up. And don’t even get me started on the Hussein Lightning comment; they know full well what the man’s name is, after all, he wiped the floor with Americans for how long? Not to mention the blatant -”

“Don’t get you started? I think it’s a little late for that,” sniggered Cornell, leading the others in a melody of laughter.

Laila’s glare shot across the room immediately silencing her workmates.

Marcus whispered loudly, half-pouting, “I only shut up ’cause she has scissors in her hand.”

By now, the reporters were entirely drowned out by the sounds of the city. It was truly summer in Atlanta. Kids hollering outside, parents scolding and chatting, shop owners advertising, Dolla Dan selling junk out of the trunk of his car, horns honking, the occasional gunshot here and there. With one swipe of her phone, Laila airdropped her playlist to the sleek, teal Beats Pill 8.0+ that rested on the counter in front of the mirror. She, Cornell, and Marcus rapped along with Chance, Kanye, and Atlanta native Childish Gambino when some classics came on.

It was about 8:30 in the morning, still half an hour until opening, so everyone was surprised when the barbershop bell tolled. In strolled Devon Atwood, basketball in hand, as always. However, today, he was laughing hysterically.

Porsche Martin made conversation while serving her husband breakfast. “Dear, have you read the news yet?”

They lived in a modern Buckhead mansion with all the works. Imagine every piece of the newest technology, paired with the fanciest and most expensive furniture. Sunlight spilled into the sunroom freely, reflecting off the white interior to create a heavenly scene. The Martins were the epitome of living lavish.

“No, darling,” replied Bentley, barely looking up from his croissant and omelette, which sat in an elegant dish on the diamond encrusted coffee table, “would you be a doll and fetch me a copy?” He afforded his wife the most charming smile he could muster while keeping his eyes fixated on the holographic TV that occupied the entire west wall of the room. He glanced at Porsche over the brim of his glasses. She retreated. When his wife returned with a copy of the daily issue of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, Bentley grunted his thanks and waved her off, pushing aside his empty plate. Porsche complied and scuttled away with his dish, her platinum blonde bob swaying as she absconded.

Bentley cracked open the paper and scanned the headlines. A true businessman, one particularly caught his attention. As he liked to say, opportunity didn’t just knock on his door, it screamed his name. Apparently, while on Mars, Bentley’s friend and golf partner, Clemens, had been a part of a revolutionary discovery. The odorless, white crystal was brittle in its solid form, but dissociated in water and could conduct electricity in an aqueous solution. The astronauts actually believed that this discovery could be life-altering, for the better of society. Only good could come out of this, not to mention the money, and the fame that would come with Mr. Martin having his name plastered across every package of the stuff! Before making some important calls to get in on the action, Bentley’s eyes searched the page for the name of The Substance. He had nearly lasered the page in half when he came across it: “ . . . sodium chloride, colloquially referred to as salt . . .”.

Meanwhile, Bentley’s 12-year-old son, Aston, was outside with the dog. He liked how realistic the dog’s breaths were, like a soothing hum. Aston spent a lot of time with the dog, but he never fed it. He didn’t have to. All it needed was the sun. Other than some soft barking from Jaguar, Aston’s dog, the neighborhood was entirely silent.

“Well, what is it, boy?” asked Kunta impatiently.

Devon held up his finger, until he could stop laughing. He grabbed his stomach and sat down next to Kunta.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hawkins,” he began, still panting.

“Cut the chit-chat, D. You came up in here laughing like the president just fell down the stairs of the Air Force One and his toupee fell off. So this better be good,” Cornell asserted in a too-intimidating tone.

Devon explained how the whole Mars expedition had to have been a fluke because the only thing the astronauts had to show for it was some salt. It was just too good to be true; everybody knows white people have no use for salt whatsoever.

“Next thing you know, they’re gonna tell us they went to Mercury and Neptune and found some curry and Old Bay! This ain’t about to be the first time they take credit for something we been doing and pass it off as some ‘transcendent discovery’,” Cornell exhaled, visibly irritated. The snake-like vein on his temple bulged, as if running away from his shape up.

Marcus quipped, “Transcendent discovery? Wow, let’s all give a hand clap for Cornell for his excellent vocabulary,” he mocked on despite the cold glare he was received with, “Nelly’s talking like he just applied to Cornell. Keep talkin’ like that and you just might get promoted to the house, and I’m not talkin bout Congress!”

Laila was about to intervene when she noticed Kunta’s uneasiness. He was looking out the window, frowning, his usually perfect posture drooped.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Hawkins?” Laila inquired, her voice dripping with concern.

“Y’all listen to me,” replied Kunta gravely, “this salt thing ain’t no joke.”

He was bombarded with questions from all angles. Devon asked him how he could believe the Mars trip was real. Cornell asked what was going to happen as a result of salt entering the wrong hands. Marcus claimed that a little salt never hurt nobody, except a snail; that would definitely hurt. Laila was silent.

Kunta’s response was vague and ominous, “Something’s coming, something bad. I can feel it.”

Porsche helped her husband straighten his tie and flatten his collar. “You look fabulous, dear,” she swooned, her hot pink lips curling into a girlish grin as she peeked into Bentley’s eyes.

Mr. Martin looked past his wife, instead glancing towards the set, silently commending himself for a job well done. It was his time to go on. He sat down on the couch, his eyes slits as he adjusted to the bright TV lights. His interviewer reached over and shook hands with Mr. Martin and initiated light conversation in the minutes before the camera would start.

The cameraman announced, “Live in 3, 2,” leaving the last second silent.

Then Bentley blinked and found himself posing for a post-interview photo-op with the four astronauts.

Devon raced across the lawn and dashed to the front door. He swung open the screen, and before he could even knock on the door, his older sister, Kayla had already opened it for him. Kayla was fifteen, roughly two years older than her brother.

“Where’ve you been?” asked Kayla, searching Devon up and down.

“I went to the barbershop, and then I was at the court,” he stepped inside and put his weather-beaten Wilson down next to the faded welcome mat, “then, on my way home, they were unloading trucks full of salt on Abernathy, so I had to go around the other side.” Devon looked up at his sister anxiously. He was supposed to have been home at six; he was more than two hours late.

“Relax, I’m not gonna tell on you. Now come on, we’re missing the interview!”

Devon ripped off his vintage Jordan 13s and flung them into the corner by his basketball as he stood up to follow his sister into the living room. The two of them joined their parents, who barely noticed them, on the old, tacky three-seater. Devon settled onto his preferred part of the sofa, the left armrest, the one with the lumpy duct tape holding the purple and gold fabric together.

Flann Mc-something was talking about how salt was so good; it was unlike anything he’d ever tasted before, blah blah blah. His twin brother, Flynn, kept blushing and running his fingers through his dirty-blonde hair. Flynn was definitely tense, and perhaps even agitated over the whole thing. Devon remembered what Kunta had said, the way he’d acted. Now Devon himself was beginning to feel like something bad was on the way.

When he hopped down from the armrest to go to bed, it was just before nine thirty.

“Hey, son,” Devon’s father said as he happened to look up during a commercial break, “you goin to bed already? You must be tired from hoopin all day.”

Devon nodded, and peeked at his sister peripherally.

His dad smiled. “Alright, goodnight, D.”

Devon’s mother was reluctant to let him go to sleep without having eaten. In fact, his mother and father started arguing on the matter. Devon did not await the verdict; he slipped away during the dispute.

Once in his room, Devon dove onto his bed and sprawled out, his legs hanging over the foot of the too-small twin. Everything that was said at the barbershop began to replay his mind. These thoughts were interrupted by a rapping at his door.

“It’s me,” called his sister’s voice.

Devon let her in. When Kayla asked him what was wrong, he told her everything without hesitation, how Mr. Hawkins had reacted strangely to the day’s news reports. They agreed that the only thing left to do was to wait and see if Kunta’s intuition had any merit.

Aston sat in the middle of the vast lawn, confused and upset. His dog, Jaguar, lay next to him, unresponsive. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Jaguar was the best dog ever; all he need was the sun. Aston stared into the sun for a long time. Something didn’t seem right, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Was the sun always purple? He couldn’t remember. All that thinking was making Aston hungry, so he went inside to find his mother; she would make him any salty snack he desired. After satisfying his appetite, he would find his father and ask for a new dog to replace Jaguar.

Devon was running. He zipped across lawns and dove behind bushes, hoping they would lose sight of him. Unfortunately for Devon, they were still hot on his trail. Angry robot unicorns were chasing him all around Atlanta. He was on foot; the killing machines pursued him through the air. He ran and ran all around West End, and across town until he could not run anymore. Not because he was tired; he still had a little left in him. But because he literally could not run any further and hope to leave with his life. He was in Buckhead, his back against the gate to the community, robot unicorns whirring angrily overhead. It was over for him.

“D, did you hear what I said?”

Devon woke with a start in a cold sweat. His mother was saying something to him, but he didn’t hear it. He was just glad to find that the robot unicorn apocalypse had been a nightmare, and that nothing was trying to rip him to shreds, not yet at least.

“Yeah, Mom, I heard you,” he yawned.

“Okay then. I’ll be back around eight, so you and your sister go on ahead and have dinner without me if y’all get hungry before then.” Randi Atwood kissed her son on the head before scampering down the stairs.

Still in his rumpled Nike t-shirt and shorts from the day before, Devon rolled out of bed and made his way to the bathroom.

He cupped his hands beneath the faucet and splashed cool water on his face. It was refreshing, until his eyes started to burn.

On the other side of the city, white people were having a good ole time. It was barely afternoon, but everyone that was anyone was out to eat. Salt had become a menu item at every restaurant in Buckhead.

“Wild salmon with braised white beans and Edwards bacon for the lady. I’ll have the — uh — crab-stuffed trout with haricots, no almonds please. And my boy here will just have some crab cakes with corn.”

“But father, I want the sauteed lemon chicken,” Aston whined.

His father gave him a look that warned, “Chicken is the poor man’s steak”. Aston grinned.

The waiter nodded. “Will that be all, Mr. Martin?”

“A bowl of salt for the table, please.”

Mr. Martin looked around the restaurant while he and his family waited for their orders.

Bone’s was hopping with people with an appetite for salt. Everywhere one looked, another was pairing an elegant dish with mountainous spoonfuls of salt. They were pouring it on, drinking it almost. Salt and steak, salt and fish, salt on the side with every dish. Rich people threw their heads back and snorted; everyone dumped salt down their throats simultaneously. What a great time.

Bentley felt his pockets growing heavier. He blinked.

“Here you are sir,” said the waiter as he placed the Martins’ dishes on their table.

Devon’s wheels whirred as he pedaled hard and fast on the sidewalk. The wind popped in his ears. All he could smell was salt, everywhere. The air was so dry, and it was so hot. He honestly felt like he a novice swimmer wading in the Dead Sea, far from the shore, yet unable to drown. His bike’s rusty joints rattled as if the poor old thing had arthritis. Every ounce of moisture had been sucked up from the earth and his wheels wreaked like a burnt balloon. It was so hot, so dry. He pedaled harder. Devon pursed his hopelessly chapped lips as he tried — to no avail, for the sun and the salt dried his tongue — to hydrate himself with his own saliva. His tongue hung out, limp. Devon pedaled faster. He was almost there. Sweat was building up on his body in the form of pure, crystalline salt. His watch read 2:00, but the sun had a temper like high noon. He looked up at the purple, vengeful sun that beat his back like a master would whip a runaway slave. Devon swallowed his tongue and snapped out of it.

His bike’s tires skidded to a stop as he leapt off his bike in a frenzy. The barbershop bell rang as Devon burst through the door.

“Guys,” he panted, “the lake’s drying up — from all the salt — I passed it on my way to the court,” he huffed as Cornell offered him a bottle of water.

Cornell nodded at the TV mounted on the wall, “Yeah, and it gets way worse than just the lake, D,” he sighed as he raised the volume.

It was a scene of a hospital, one in the white people part of Atlanta. Devon had never been to Buckhead physically, but it looked pretty much the same as it had in his dream. There were white people everywhere, all sick. Coughing and choking; their tongues were swollen. Every white person in the city must have been cooped up in that hospital, because a black man was reading the news.

“. . . and they are calling it sensory overload, it is a potentially deadly condition if not treated properly,” proclaimed the most politically respectable black man in Atlanta in a voice that sounded similar to that of Carlton from that show Devon’s grandparents made him watch.

“Proper treatment ain’t no secret,” screeched Marcus, “I bet one taste of their beloved tasteless rice, and they’ll be back to normal in a jiffy,” he spat mockingly with a plastered-on smile.

The room was spinning.

Kunta shook his head in an I-told-you-so way that all grown-ups had down pat.

Laila shrugged; that’s what they get for trying to take away one of the few things that we can claim for ourselves; seasoning is definitely a black thing.

Cornell said that the white man just couldn’t handle the flavor — but salt wasn’t even anything serious, imagine how they’d react to pepper or, God-forbid, Mama or Big Mama’s home cooking.

Devon stared at the TV and considered his feelings. The images on the news were horrifying yet hilarious. White people coughed and gagged, faces green and grins gone. They did it to themselves, though. Nobody commanded them to trek to Mars, take sideswipes at black people, and then overdo it with salt just like had with everything else they had taken. Hopefully there was a lesson learned somewhere in there.

Marcus interrupted his thoughts, geeking, “I stand corrected. A little salt never hurt nobody, except snails . . . and every last cracker in Atlanta!”

This is a slightly edited version of a narrative I wrote and submitted last year for a school assignment. ❤ if you enjoyed this, so more people get to read it

Onyeka C. Arah