/

 

Key Mama resolved to keep this unintended consequence hidden from her ancestors, as she feared their haunting — they hadn’t granted her special powers to turn them into tools for bloodshed. A deep breath filled her lungs as sweat beaded on her soft skin, embraced by the high air humidity.

As a child, she was taught that survival required strength. But over time, she came to understand that tears could be portals to transformation. She spent countless hours refining her ability, mastering the art. Tears did not simply fall; they offered passage, a chance for her targets to step forward and prosper. To step through the portal, one had to surrender to the tears. Liquids do not search for answers—they are the key.

//

Anyone is irritated.

Why tears?

No cause, no reason, no warning.

Sure, Anyone has felt low before—

stressed, overwhelmed, endlessly wired.

But this?

No nightmare—because no sleep.

No pain—because dulled.

No allergies—because tested.

No heartbreak—because resilient.

Not even an onion nearby—just because.

Anyone sits still, staring at the screen.

Desperate to decode the unexplainable,

Anyone swipes at the teardrop with a fingertip.

The device should be able to analyse it. Should tell them something.

The gadget whirs, its algorithms analysing the tears.

But the screen only blinks:

“Keyboard not responding. Press any key to continue.”

A bitter laugh escapes. The glass of gin clinks against the desk,

fingers stiff from the cold.

Anyone keeps trying.

Anyone keeps crying.

Anyone keeps trying.

 

/

 

Every morning, she walks the same path to the market. The air hangs thick as all the trash gets burned and as she gets closer to the market area, it holds a particular smell. One she recalls in her dreams. She could walk this way blindfolded, as the fragrance of burned electronics guides her to her sector where the old devices and technical hardware are sold. The more she approaches, the sounds under her feet start to change. The glittering bits and pieces of shattered screens mix with the muddy soil, cracking under the weight of her steps. She’s a rare figure in this male-dominated area. They call her Key Mama.

She is known as the best middleman in town. Dealers loudly praise the used devices she sells to them at fair prices. Due to the lack of options, this may be the only place where  these nearly obsolete items can still be sold. In her opinion, the traders sell the second-hand electronics at prices far too high, often with no proof of function. She doesn’t even blame them; survival is tough. But she also tries to keep a professional distance from the sellers as Key Mama is still the only woman on site. What truly matters to her is the key to the treasure. Or the “trasher box,” as she also calls it. The storage is full of used appliances, shipped from one side of the world to the other.

First, she wipes the blend of sweat and dust from her face. The handkerchief changes from white to a slightly greyish brown. Swapping the tissue for her key, she hears faint, numeric murmurs through the wooden slats — echoes of the still-charged devices. She opens the lock while simultaneously starting to lift the ledge door. One must know how to handle portals.

Once inside, she removes the dust cloth to uncover the stacked piles. Aged software chat at slow speed, some sluggish and worn. She fishes for the wobbly plastic chair from the dark corner, sits. Electrified by her presence, the machines seem eager to share their most vivid memories. Voices overlap. In this very moment, everything lingering between zeros and ones is of interest. Some recall holy water sprinkled over them to stave off a crash; others boast of wild robberies involving motorbikes and machetes. Key Mama revels in it all. Even if she could leave this place, the daily travels might keep her here.

One of her favourites was the Failing Softies: A software movement, camouflaged as technical errors, they aim to gift users with inefficient, unpredictable moments. Fed up  with the obsession with flawless technology and short lifecycles, they started to rebel. “Keyboard not responding. Press any key to continue.” Indications like this are their way of challenging users, encouraging them to embrace technical failure. “Who told them to insist on solving every glitch rather than seeing it as an opportunity to slow down?” Another Softy adds “Yeah, what is it with this idea of digital technology as a simplifier?” Barely visible on Key Mamas face, a smile — secretly happy to sense the vibrations.

She cherished listening to the touching stories of worn-out operating systems. Who wouldn’t want to unload of all their anecdotes shortly before becoming trash and the being burned? Even if they carefully looked after their hardware — no visible cracks, their surface still smooth and shiny — at a certain point, they just seem too slow for this world. “Not up to date” is what they get declared, as if they had a choice. Sometimes they even go out of fashion. “Fuck velocity,” they protest. “Fuck the need for the latest applications.” Key Mama could totally relate.

//

 

Then, something unfamiliar—

a weight in the chest, something warm crawling up from the toes.

Love?

All gadgets Anyone found so far, built to predict and guide,

only flash cryptic errors.

The air purifier hums, filling the space with artificial warmth.

And yet—this moment feels real.

For the first time in a long time, Anyone feels human.

The tears keep coming, unrestrained:

Water, electrolytes, proteins, lipids, and mucins running.

The gin’s burn blends with a bitter taste of regret. A savour of past mistakes.

Decisions made too fast. Too carelessly.

Not enough time for apologies, for people.

Profit dictated every pursuit, every calculation.

Anyone feels deeply sorry.

Disoriented by this unfamiliar tenderness,

a brief reprieve—

then the search resumes.

At last, another untested device comes into view.

 

/

 

The moment the teardrop hits the screen, a chemical reaction — fueled by malicious antibodies — leads to a direct feedback loop to the brain. Blood splashes all over the place. Edgy crystals fuse with blood cells on the screen. — Key Mama lost control of the portal.

Even the Failing Softies are startled, as they hadn’t considered this possibility before. For a moment, they all sit together in silence. Making a tech billionaire regret getting rich through exploitation wasn’t a bad thing, but causing a head to literally explode doesn’t quite sit right these days.

For Key Mama, it wasn’t necessarily the gruesome demise of Anyone, the tech billionaire, that disturbed her most, but the thought of someone having to clean up all that mess this person left. She just couldn’t bear it — and she knew her ancestors couldn’t, either. No one should have to do this cleaning job. At the very least, they should earn good money for it.

 

/

 

In the evening, a light wind usually lingers in the air. Key Mama loves the atmosphere at this time of the day. The market grows quieter; the male voices slowly start to diminish and fade away.