Some people buy a smartphone and become better organised. Others buy a smartphone and begin a long, emotional relationship with a device that seems to know more than they do.
This is the story of Baba Chuka, a proud man in his fifties, his brand-new phone and the family who had to live through the first month.
The Unboxing
The phone arrived on a Saturday, in a white box with a picture of a happy person on the front. Baba Chuka held it up like a trophy. “This,” he announced, “is the future.”
His daughter Adaeze offered to help set it up. “No, no,” he said. “I know how to do it. I am a man of the world.” He threw the instruction booklet over his shoulder with the gesture of a man who disliked paper. It landed in the plantain bowl and remained there for three weeks.
Within five minutes, the phone asked him to create a password. He typed “password”. It said, “Too weak.” He typed “password123”. It said, “Too common.” He typed his own name. It said nothing, but he felt judged.
The PIN Problem
At last, he created a PIN. He chose a number he would never forget, and then promptly forgot it. The next morning, the phone locked itself and asked for the code. He typed his birthday. Wrong. His wedding date. Wrong. The year of the national football victory. Wrong, though he felt it should have been right.
After five attempts, the phone said, “Please wait one minute.” He waited. Then it said, “Please wait five minutes.” Then fifteen. At one point it said, “Try again in one hour,” and Baba Chuka stared at it like a man who had just been told his own house did not recognise him.
His wife, Mama Chuka, who had been calmly knitting in the corner, said, “Did you write it somewhere?”
“Of course not. That would defeat the purpose of a secret.”
“Then how will you remember it?”
He opened his mouth, closed it, and picked up the plantain bowl, which also contained the instruction booklet.
The Accidental Video Call
The next problem arrived on Tuesday. Baba Chuka wanted to call his old friend Mr. Eze. He pressed a button that looked like a telephone. It was, in fact, a video call button.
Mr. Eze answered, but the screen showed only the ceiling of Baba Chuka’s sitting room, a small part of his ear and, briefly, a close-up of his nose. “Hello? Hello?” said Mr. Eze. “I can only see your nostril.”
“It is the phone,” said Baba Chuka. “It is shy.”
The call lasted twenty minutes. During that time, the camera showed the ceiling, a lamp, the family cat and one accidental view of Baba Chuka’s slippers. Mr. Eze did not mind. He said it was the best conversation they had had in years, because he could not see his friend’s face and therefore did not have to pretend to listen.
The Online Shopping Surprise
By week two, Baba Chuka had discovered online shopping. It was, to him, like a market that came to your house and politely asked what you wanted. He browsed with delight. He pressed buttons with confidence. He added things to a cart, removed them, added them again and, one evening, pressed “Buy Now” on something while looking away.
Three days later, a delivery rider arrived with a large box. Inside was a set of twelve wooden spoons, a pair of pink slippers in the wrong size and a small machine for making ice cream.
“I did not order this,” said Baba Chuka.
Adaeze examined the receipt. “You did. It is your account.”
“Then the phone ordered it itself.”
It was a defence that did not hold, but the ice cream machine was kept anyway, and the family ate surprisingly good ice cream for a week.
The Phone Takes Over
By week three, the phone had begun to talk back. It suggested songs. It reminded him about appointments. It offered to “optimise” his battery, which he agreed to, though he had no idea what that meant. Once, late at night, it spoke aloud to him: “I did not quite catch that.” He nearly fell off the sofa.
“It is spying on me,” he whispered to his wife.
“It is the voice assistant,” she said. “You pressed the wrong button.”
“Then it is a very nosy assistant.”
Mama Chuka sighed and finally took the instruction booklet from the plantain bowl. She wiped it, opened it and began to read. Ten minutes later, she knew more about the phone than he did. Twenty minutes later, she had changed the PIN, recovered his contacts and silenced the voice assistant. Thirty minutes later, she had found the missing ice cream recipe.
The Smart Decision
That evening, Baba Chuka sat beside his wife, watching her thumb glide over the screen like a pianist. He cleared his throat. “My dear,” he said, “I have decided to appoint you as the official manager of the phone.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. It will free me to focus on bigger matters.”
“Such as?”
He paused. “Such as making ice cream.”
She laughed. He laughed. The phone, sitting on the table, glowed softly, and the screen displayed a notification. “Congratulations. You have become smarter.”
He chose not to ask who it was talking to.
