Four Minutes Fast
The waiting room had eleven chairs, a photograph of a mountain, and a clock that ran four minutes fast. Amara had been holding the same folder since eight, and the ceremony wasn't until ten.
The man beside her stretched out his legs. “Fourth time I’ve sat in this room,” he said. “The first one was mine. Since then I’ve come with a friend three times.”
“Do you know how long it takes?” Amara asked.
“Twenty minutes, if the judge’s on time. She’s never on time.” He put out a hand. “Roland.”
“Amara.” She lifted the folder an inch. “I’ve been sitting here since eight.”
“Everybody is. Nobody’s ever been late to this in the whole history of the country.”
Amara opened the practice app on her phone. “Ask me one. Go on.”
“All right. How many provinces are there?”
“Ten. And three territories.”
“See, I’d have said two.” Roland shrugged. “I’ve been a citizen since 2003. Nobody’s tested me in twenty-three years.”
She scrolled down. “There’s another section. Other countries.”
“That’s not on the test.”
“I know. I want to see.” She tapped it. “Oh — Ghana. Easy. How many regions does Ghana have?” She thought for a second. “Ten.”
The phone said sixteen.
“That’s wrong,” Amara said. “It’s ten. It’s been ten my whole life.”
“It says they changed it in 2019.”
“I left in 2016.” She stared at the screen. “Nobody told me my own country got six new regions.”
Roland held out his hand for the phone. “Give it here. Do Portugal. I was born in Lisbon, I’ve been away since I was nine, and I’ll still get this one.”
“How many districts are there on the mainland?”
“Twelve.”
“Eighteen.”
Roland sat back and looked at the photograph of the mountain for a while. “Well,” he said.
“My mother still says I’m abroad,” Amara said. “Ten years, and I’m abroad, like I’m on holiday and I’ll be home for the weekend.”
“That’s how it goes.” Roland folded his arms. “You learn the new country for a test. Nobody tests you on your hometown, so it just changes without you, quietly, and one day a phone tells you.”
A door opened and a woman with a list said Amara’s name. The clock on the wall said four minutes past ten, which meant it was exactly ten.