Shifting Identities

Summary

Selected Shorts – “Shifting Identities”
Date: July 30, 2026
Host: Meg Wolitzer
Stories Performed: “Voices” by Daniel Kehlmann, performed by David Costabile & “Miracle in Lagos Traffic” by Chika Unigwe, performed by Yetide Badaki

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Episode Overview

This episode of Selected Shorts, entitled “Shifting Identities,” explores the malleable nature of self, and how identities are shaped by external voices, societal expectations, technology, and chance encounters. Through two stories—one comic and unsettling, the other sharply satirical and poignant—the program interrogates what happens when assumptions about who we are and who others might be are suddenly upended.

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Key Discussion Points and Insights

Introduction: The Fluidity of Identity

Timestamps: [01:15–03:33]

• Host Meg Wolitzer opens with a reflection on identity as both constructed and fragile, formed in response to others and easily unsettled by unexpected events or new contexts.
  • “Who we are isn't fixed. It's shaped and reshaped by the people around us and by the roles we learn to play… the more we see, the less certain those first impressions become.”
• Fiction is positioned as a “laboratory” for these shifts, inviting readers to witness the fracture and transformation of self-perception.
• The two featured stories both thrust their central characters into situations where identity is questioned or fractured by outside forces—the impersonality of technology, or the brutalities of social stratification.

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Story One: “Voices” by Daniel Kehlmann

Performed by David Costabile
Timestamps: [03:33–27:57]

Summary

Ebling, a reserved technician, finally relents and buys a cell phone. Quickly, he is besieged by calls and messages from strangers addressing him as “Ralph.” Despite all attempts, the misdirected calls persist. Over time, Ebling finds himself responding to Ralph’s contacts, vicariously living an alternate, more exciting life by impersonating a man he’s never met. The boundaries between his own mundane reality and Ralph’s imagined existence begin to blur, leading to moments of comic confusion, desire, and ultimately, disquiet.

Key Insights & Moments

• Technology as Shaper and Disruptor:

  • Ebling, a skeptic of technology, becomes enthralled yet destabilized by the sense of connection, secrecy, and possibility the misassigned phone number brings.
  • “A cell phone, in a way, is a perfect mashup of person and objects. It's a mini representation of a person…. But when there's a strange glitch, as in this story, the larger world and its randomness… may come beaming in.” – Meg Wolitzer [27:57]

• Seduction of Alternate Identities:

  • Ebling slips into Ralph’s life, responding convincingly to Ralph’s acquaintances and even borrowing their problems and passions.
  • “It was as if he had a doppelganger, his representative in a parallel universe, who was entering an expensive restaurant at this very moment to meet a tall, beautiful woman…” [13:35]
  • He experiences emotional and even physical revitalization (unexpected intimacy with his wife), driven by this new fantasy self.

• Comic and Tragic Dimensions:

  • The story navigates between Ebling’s comic misunderstandings (fumbling through conversations while knowing nothing about Ralph) and deeper loneliness.
  • Notable quote as Ebling realizes the precariousness of his own sense of self:
    • “I'd love to be like everyone else, but I've never understood how to do it.” [21:30]

• Ephemerality of Identity:

  • The calls and excitement eventually fade; Ebling is left with the emptiness that surfaces when his brief ticket to a new identity is revoked.
  • In the story’s final moments, humor is edged with pathos as a coworker remarks:
    • “Not so long ago you didn’t want anything to do with [a phone], and now you don’t budge an inch without it. Just relax. Nothing can be that urgent… who would be calling you anyhow?” – Roebler to Ebling [27:40]
  • The loneliness and caprice of social connection are starkly emphasized.

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Host Commentary: “The Malleable Nature of Identity”

Timestamps: [27:57–30:41]

• Meg Wolitzer frames the first story’s take on technology as a harbinger of identity confusion in the digital age, presciently paralleling today’s AI anxieties.
• She argues that stories like this unsettle our confidence in stable selfhood, forcing us to reflect on the accidents and externalities that shape our paths.
  • “We know who we are until we’re asked to question our sureties. That’s part of the job of good stories.” [57:15]

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Story Two: “Miracle in Lagos Traffic” by Chika Unigwe

Performed by Yetide Badaki
Timestamps: [30:41–55:06]

Summary

Set amid the chaos and color of Lagos, Nigeria, this story follows a middle-class woman desperately seeking a kidney donor for her sick daughter. After an encounter with a teenage beggar, Obike, in Lagos traffic, she enlists him—offering money, education, and supposedly a better life in exchange for his kidney. Her husband is initially wary, but soon swept by the prospect of a “miracle.” As the arrangement proceeds, the transactional and exploitative dimensions come to the fore, eroding the family’s sense of triumph and culminating in an unexpected twist when Obike and his family disappear before the operation.

Key Insights & Moments

• Identity and Privilege:

  • The story investigates how class and circumstance define both self-perception and attitude toward others.
  • The narrator’s unconscious self-satisfaction and lack of empathy are deftly exposed, often with sharp humor:
    • “God bless you, Ma, he said over and over again. His nails were clean. He looked like the kind of teenager I was used to seeing in our neighborhood.… What a difference… good food and a few months could make.” [53:43]

• Transactionality of Compassion:

  • What begins as an act of charity quickly evolves into a calculated business deal, with the narrator and her husband alternately rationalizing and disguising the risks.
  • Notable quote from Nze, her husband:
    • “This is the proposal: if it works, your family will be set for life. One million Naira. A job in my business. Obike can go to school. We’ll see to it. If your son isn’t a right match, then shame.” [39:30]

• Blinded Self-Perception:

  • The narrator frequently invokes her “spirit” or intuition as justification for her actions, unwittingly revealing her moral blind spots.
    • “My spirit whispered to me that everything would be all right, the same way it did the day I met Nze, after a series of really terrible boyfriends… But my spirit did not always get it right.” [50:11]
  • Even as she tells herself that they're enacting a miracle for Obike, the power imbalance is ever-present.

• Comic Irony and Final Twist:

  • The operation, along with the narrator's sense of moral and spiritual superiority, is undone when the recipient family vanishes without a trace—leaving the narrator’s certainty and planning in shambles.
  • The driver’s understated reaction highlights the disparities in understanding and worldviews:
    • “In fact, the house no even day again. It was as if Obike's house, a wood and zinc shack, had never existed. He said. It don't disappear like ghosts. Something in his voice sounded like he might have been laughing.” [54:40]

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Performance Reflection with Yetide Badaki

Timestamps: [55:18–56:19]

• Yetide Badaki discusses the power of Chika Unigwe’s writing and the narrator’s comic self-unawareness:
  • “There's a certain level of an inability to examine self, I think, for the narrator…. there's an almost comedic bent to how unself-aware she is.”
  • She reflects on Lagos as a living, breathing character in the story, full of chaos, color, and contradiction—mirroring the blurring and shifting of identities throughout.

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Thematic Conclusion by Meg Wolitzer

Timestamps: [56:19–58:08]

• Both stories, however different in setting and tone, probe the instability of identity: whether by technological glitch or the social asymmetries of wealth and want.
• Meg Wolitzer frames identity as ever in flux, inviting the audience to look at the blurry boundaries between self and other, privilege and need.
  • “We know who we are until we're asked to question our sureties. That's part of the job of good stories.” [57:15]

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Notable Quotes and Memorable Moments

• “I'd love to be like everyone else, but I've never understood how to do it.” — Ebling, “Voices” [21:30]
• “Not so long ago, you didn’t want anything to do with one [a phone], and now you don’t budge an inch without it. Just relax. Nothing can be that urgent… who would be calling you anyhow?” — Roebler to Ebling [27:40]
• “God go bless you, madam. God go give you anything where you want.” — Obike, “Miracle in Lagos Traffic” [31:55]
• “His family was going from zeroto one million because of him, and all for a small, noninvasive surgery to remove something he didn’t need anyway.” — Narrator, “Miracle in Lagos Traffic” [53:10]
• “There's a certain level of an inability to examine self, I think, for the narrator…. there's an almost comedic bent to how unself-aware she is.” — Yetide Badaki [55:22]

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Timestamps for Key Segments

• 01:15 – Host introduction to episode theme
• 03:33 – “Voices” by Daniel Kehlmann begins
• 27:57 – “Voices” ends; Host analysis of story & general commentary
• 30:41 – “Miracle in Lagos Traffic” by Chika Unigwe begins
• 55:06 – “Miracle in Lagos Traffic” ends; Yetide Badaki’s backstage reflections
• 56:19 – Final thematic wrap-up by Meg Wolitzer

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Final Thoughts

This episode of Selected Shorts masterfully threads together two tales of identity in flux—from the comic, existential uncertainty wrought by a cellphone to the unsettling commodification of personhood under social inequality. Both stories remind listeners of how unstable our place in the world can be, and how easily we might slip into someone else’s life—by accident, by design, or by desperate bargain.

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Transcript

[A]

Friends. If you love selected shorts, I think you should try Secret Life of Books, hosted by Sophie Gee and Jonti Claypole. It's a great podcast for all of us who love books and reading. Take a listen.

[B]

Is Wuthering Heights really a love story? Should you be afraid of Virginia Woolf? And Most importantly, is Mr. Darcy handsome enough to tempt you?

[C]

This is the Secret Life of Books.

[B]

I'm Sophie G, academic and writer.

[C]

And I'm Jonty Claypole, broadcaster and producer.

[B]

In this podcast, we tell the story behind the story of the literary classics everybody wants to read, feels they should read, or has already read and loved. We reveal their secret histories, hidden players

[C]

and big ideas behind the great books.

[B]

We show how they came into being, why they matter, and how they change the world.

[C]

The deeper we go, the weirder the questions. Is George Orwell's 1984, on some level, a comedy? Is Dracula the Freddie Mercury of horror? And why do so many literary honeymoons go wrong?

[B]

Whether you're a committed book nerd or just curious about the history of ideas, the Secret Life of Books is the podcast for you.

[A]

This week on selected shorts. What happens when your phone snatches your identity? And what happens if, instead of calling it support, you lean into a new person? Stay with me, Meg Wallitzer we promise not to keep you on hold. Who we are isn't fixed. It's shaped and reshaped by the people around us and by the roles we learn to play. Family, friends, co workers, they all help construct a version of us, and we do the same with them. We read context, appearance, behavior and quickly decide this is who someone is. And just as quickly, we decide who we are in return. But those identities are less stable than we like to believe. They shift as perspectives change, as assumptions fall away, as people reveal unexpected dimensions. The more we see, the less certain those first impressions become. Good fiction lives in that instability. It unsettles our confidence, placing characters in moments where their assumptions no longer hold, where the selves they thought they knew begin to fracture or transform. The two stories in this show explore exactly that. In the first, a man's sense of self is quietly rewritten by the voices on his phone. In the second, a family's understanding of who they are and who holds power begins to slip. Our first story is by Daniel Kelman. He's a German born playwright, screenwriter and novelist whose titles include Fame and the Director. His work often asks big questions through the lens of history. This story is a smaller, modern tale, but retains the sense of playfulness of his larger works. Also technology changes quickly, as do our attitudes about it. So it's worth mentioning that this story was first published in 2009. Our reader is David Costable, best known for his television work on Billions and Breaking Bad, among other shows. His stage credits include Caroline or Change. Here he is to read Voices by Daniel Kelman.

[C]

Voices Even before Ebling reached home, his cell phone rang. For years he had refused to buy one because he was a technician and didn't trust the thing. Why did nobody wonder about whether it was a good idea to clutch a powerful source of radiation to your head? But Ebling had a wife, two children, and a handful of acquaintances, and one of them was always complaining that he was unreachable. So finally he'd given in and bought a phone, which he asked the guy he bought it from to activate immediately. In spite of himself, he was impressed. It was absolutely perfect. Beautifully designed, smooth lines, elegant. And now, without warning, it was ringing. Very hesitantly, he picked up. A woman asked for someone called Ralph. Ralph or Raouf. He couldn't figure out the name. A mistake, he said. Wrong number. She apologized and hung up that evening. The next call.

[B]

Ralph.

[C]

The man's voice was loud and hoarse. What gives? What are you up to, you old bastard? Wrong number. Ebling sat up in bed. It was already past 10 o' clock and his wife was looking at him reproachfully. The man apologized and Ebling switched off the phone. The next morning there were three messages. He listened to them in the subway on the way to work, a giggling woman asking him to call her back. A man yelled that he should come over right away. They weren't going to wait for him much longer. You could hear music and the clink of glasses in the background. And then the same woman again. Ralph, come on, where are you? Ebling sighed and called customer service. Strange, said the representative, sounding bored. Simply couldn't happen. Nobody was given a number already assigned to someone else. There were all sorts of security measures to prevent it. But that's what's happened. No, said the woman. Absolutely impossible. And what are you going to do about it? She said she had no idea, because the whole thing was impossible. Ebling opened his mouth, then shut it again. He knew that someone else in his shoes would have lost it, but that wasn't his sort of thing. He was no good at it. He hit the off button. Seconds later it rang again. Ralph, said a man. No. What this number is. There's been a mistake. You've misdialed. This is Ralph's number. Ebling hung up and stuck the phone in the pocket of his jacket. The subway was jammed again, so he was having to stand today as well. On one side a man with a big mustache was glaring at him as if he were his sworn enemy. There were a lot of things about his life that Ebling didn't like. It bothered him that his wife's mind was always somewhere else, that she read such stupid books and that she was such a lousy cook. It bothered him that he didn't have a smart son and that he didn't understand his daughter at all. It bothered him that he could always hear his neighbors snoring through the part walls, which were way too thin. But what bothered him most of all was being on the subway at rush hour, always packed in, always jam full, and always the same stink. But he liked his work. He and dozens of his co workers sat under very bright lamps examining defective computers sent in by dealers from all over the he knew how fragile the brains of the little disks were, how complex and mysterious. No one fully understood how they functioned. No one could say for sure why they suddenly broke down or went haywire. For a long time now, nobody had attempted to establish the root causes. They simply substituted one component for another until the whole thing started working again. He often thought about just how much in the world depended on these machines, bearing in mind what an exception, even a miracle it was if they actually did the things they were supposed to. In the evenings, half asleep, he was so troubled by this idea, all the airplanes, all the electronically guided weaponry, the entire banking system, that his heart began to race. That's when Elke snapped at him, saying, why couldn't he just lie there quietly? She might as well be sharing her bed with a cement mixer. And he would apologize, thinking that his mother had long since been the one to tell him that he was too sensitive. As he was getting out of the subway car, the phone rang. It was Elka telling him to buy cucumbers on the way home tonight. The supermarket in their street was offering a special on them. Ebling said he would and hung up fast. It rang again, and a woman asked if he thought it over. Only an idiot would give up on someone like her. Or did he see it differently? No, he said without thinking. That's how he saw it too. Ralph. She laughed. Ebling's heart thumped and his throat was dry. He hung up. He was confused and nervous the whole way to the office. Obviously an original owner of this number had a voice similar to his own. He called customer service again. No, said a woman. They couldn't Just give him another number. Unless he paid for it. But this number already belongs to someone else. Impossible, she said. There were security measures. I know, but I keep getting calls for. You know, I'm a technician myself. I know you're inundated with calls from people who are absolutely clueless, but this is my area. I know How? Nothing she could do. She said she would pass on his request. And then? What happens next? Then she said they'd see. But that wasn't part of her job. That morning he couldn't concentrate on his work. His hands trembled and he had no appetite during his lunch break, even though there was wienerschnitzel on the menu. The canteen didn't have it very often, and normally he was already looking forward to it the day before. But this time he put his tray back on the rack with his plate still half full, went off to a quiet corner of the dining room and switched on his phone. Three messages. His daughter wanting to be picked up from her ballet class. This was a surprise to him because he hadn't even known she was taking dancing. A man saying, please call back. There was nothing in his message to suggest which one of them he meant, Ebling or the other one. And then a woman wanting to know why he was making himself scarce. This voice, deep and caressing, was one he hadn't heard before. Just as he was about to disconnect, the phone rang again. The number on the screen began with a plus sign and 22. Ebling didn't know which country code that was. He knew almost nobody in other countries, just a cousin in Sweden and a huge old woman in Minneapolis who sent a photograph of herself every Christmas, raising a glass with a big grin. To all the dear Eblings, it said on the back, and neither he nor Elke had a clue which one of them she was related to. He picked up. Are we seeing each other next month? A man asked loudly. You're going to the Luzerne Festival, aren't you? They're going to make it without you. Not the way things are, Ralph. You know I'll be there, said Ebling. That guy Lohman should have expected it. Have you spoken to Digital's people? Not yet. Come on, it's time. Luzerne can really help. Like Venice three years ago. The man laughed. Apart from that. Clara. Yes? Yes, said Ebling. Do you have a cold? You sound funny. I have to go do something. I'll call you back, okay? You never change, do you? The man hung up. Ebling leaned against the wall and rubbed his forehead. He needed a moment to get a hold of himself. This was the canteen. He was surrounded by co workers eating schnitzel. At that moment, Roebler was going past, carrying his tray. Hello, Ebling, said Roebler. Everything okay? Sure. Ebling switched off the phone. The whole afternoon he couldn't focus the question of which part in a particular computer was defective and how anyone could have arrived at the errors described in the dealer's cryptic reports. Customer says reset active inbeth display but indic zero just didn't interest him. Today. It was the same feeling you got when something was making you happy. He prolonged the moment. The phone stayed silent during the subway ride home. It stayed silent while he shopped for cucumbers in the supermarket, and all during dinner with Elke and the two children who kept kicking each other under the table. It slumbered in his pocket, but he couldn't stop thinking about it. Then he went down to the cellar. It smelled of mildew. There was a pile of beer crates in one corner and the component parts of a temporarily disassembled IKEA wardrobe in another. Ebling switched on the phone. Two messages. Just as he was going to listen to them, the gadget vibrated in his hand. Someone was calling. Yes, Ralph. Yes. Now what? She laughed. Are you playing games with me? I would never do that. Pity. His hand shook. You're right. In fact, I like to. Yes? Play with you. When Ebling looked around, he knew this cellar better than any place in the world. He had put every object in it there himself. Tomorrow you say when and where. I'll be there. You mean it? Up to you to find out. He heard her take a deep breathe. Nine o'. Clock. You make the reservation? Will do. You know this is crazy. Who's to care? She laughed and hung up. That night he reached for his wife for the first time in a very long time. At first she was simply incredulous. Then she asked what had come over him and had he been drinking? Then she gave in. It was quick, and even as he felt her still underneath him, it seemed to him that they were doing something transgressive. A hand tapped his shoulder. She couldn't breathe. He apologized, but it was another few minutes before he pulled away and rolled over on his side. Elke switched on the light, gave him a disapproving look, and retreated to the bathroom. Of course he didn't go to Pantagruel. He left the phone switched off all day, and at 9 o' clock he was sitting in front of the TV with his son, watching a second division soccer match. He felt an electrical prickling. It was as if he had a doppelganger, his representative in a parallel universe, who was entering an expensive restaurant at this very moment to meet a tall, beautiful woman who hung on his words, who laughed when he said something witty, and who brushed her hand against his now and again, as if by accident. At halftime, he went down to the cellar and switched on the phone. No message. He waited. No one called. After half an hour, he switched it off again and went to bed. He couldn't go on pretending that Sakar interested him. He couldn't get to sleep, and shortly after midnight he got up and groped his way back into the cellar. Barefoot and in his night shirt, he switched on the phone. Four messages. Before he could listen to them, the phone rang. Ralph, said a man. Sorry I am calling so late, but it's important. Malziker is insisting that the two of you meet tomorrow. The whole project. Maybe on the skids. Morganheim will be there too. You know what is at stake. I don't care, said Ebling. Are you nuts? We'll see. You really are nuts. Morgenheim's bluffing, said Ebling. You've certainly got balls. Yes, said Ebling, I do. When he wanted to listen to his messages, his phone rang again. You shouldn't have done that. Her voice was hoarse and forced. If you knew, said Ebling, I had a terrible day. Don't lie. Why should I lie? It's all because of her, isn't it? Are you two together again? Ebling said nothing. At least you could admit it. Don't talk nonsense. He wondered which of the women whose voices he knew was the one she meant. He would like to have known more about Ralph's life. After all, it was now, to a small extent, his life too. What did Ralph actually do? How did he make a living? Why did some people get everything and other people almost nothing? Some people achieved so much and other people didn't. Merit had nothing to do with it. I'm sorry, she said softly. It's often hard with you, I know. But someone like you, you're not like everyone else. I'd love to be like everyone else, said Ebling, but I've never understood how to do it. So tomorrow. Tomorrow, said Ebling. If you don't show up again, we're over. As he crept soundlessly back upstairs, he wondered whether Ralph actually existed. Suddenly he found it unbelievable that Ralph was out there, living, going about his business, oblivious to him. Ebling, perhaps. Ralph's life had always been intended for him. And some mere accident had switched their destinies. The phone rang again. He picked up, listened to a couple of sentences, and cried, cancel it. Excuse me? Asked a woman, her voice shocked. He came specially. We've worked so hard for this meeting so that I'm not dependent on him. Who could this be about? He would have given a lot to know. Of course you are. We'll see. A rush of euphoria such as he had never felt before surged through him. If you say so. I certainly do. Ebling had to fight the temptation to find out what all this was actually about. He had worked out that he could say anything, provided he didn't ask any questions, but that people got suspicious the moment he wanted to know something. Yesterday, a woman whose throaty voice he particularly liked had accused him directly of not being Ralph, all because he asked where in Andalusia they had been together on summer vacation for three years ago. That way he'd never learn more about this man. Once he'd stopped in front of a poster for the new Ralph Tanner movie, imagining for a few dizzying seconds that maybe he had the legendary actor's phone number and it was his friends, his colleagues, and his mistresses he'd been talking to for the past week. It was just possible Tanner's voice and his own were quite similar. But then he'd shaken his head with a lopsided smile and gone on his way. In any case, it couldn't go on much longer. He had no illusions. Sooner or later the mistake would be corrected and his phone would go silent. Ah, you again. I couldn't come to Pentagouel. She's back. Katya? You mean you're back with Katya? Ebling nodded and scribbled the name on a scrap of paper. He thought the woman he was talking to was named Carla, but he didn't yet have enough clues to risk calling her that. It was unfortunate that nobody announced themselves on the phone anymore. The numbers came up on the screen, and everyone went on the assumption that the other party already knew who the caller was before they picked up. I won't forgive you. I'm so sorry. Bullshit. You're not sorry. I swear. Ebling smiled as he leaned back against the side of the wardrobe. Or maybe not. Katya's amazing. She yelled for a while. She cursed him and made threats, and then even ended up crying. But because it was Ralph, finally, who had unleashed this chaos, Ebling didn't have to feel guilty. Heart thumping, he listened to her. He had never been so close to the very heart of an Exciting woman. Pull yourself together, he cut in. There was no way it was going to work. You know that. After she'd hung up, he stood there for a time, feeling a little faint, listening to the silence, as if Carla's sobs were still echoing somewhere. When he encountered Elke in the kitchen, he was so astonished he felt rooted to the spot. For a moment he'd believed she came from another life, or a dream, or that had no connection with reality. That night he pulled her close again, and this time, too, she gave in to him reluctantly. And all the while he imagined Carla swept away by passion. Next day he was alone at home and called one of the numbers for the first time. It's just me. Just checking everything's okay. What's this? A man's voice asked Ralph. Which Ralph? Ebling hastily hit the disconnect button, then tried again with another of the numbers. Ralph, my God. I tried you yesterday. I. Easy, said Ebling, disappointed that again it wasn't a woman. What's up? I can't go on like this. Then stop. There's no way out. There's always a way out. Ebling couldn't stop yawning. Ralph, are you telling me I finally have to take the consequences? I have to go all the way? Ebling went channel surfing, but he was out of luck. There seemed to be nothing around but folk music and carpenters doing things with planks and repeats of old series from the 80s. The whole afternoon TV gloom. How was he even seeing all this? Why was he at home and not at work? He had no idea. Was it possible he'd simply forgotten to go in? I'm going to swallow the whole container. Go right ahead. Ebling reached for the book that was lying on the table. The Way of the Self to the Self, by Miguel Orestos Blanco. The sun's disk on the jacket. It was Elke's. He pushed it away with the tips of his fingers. Everything comes to you just like that, Ralph. You get it all on a platter. You have no idea what it's like, always coming second, being one in a crowd. Always someone's last choice. You have no idea. That's true. I'm going to do it. I mean it switched off just in case this pathetic person tried to call him back. That night he dreamed about hares. They were large. There was nothing cute about them. They emerged from dense thickets. They looked more like filthy beasts than the charming little creatures from animated films. And they stared at him with eyes that glowed red. Behind him, there was a cracking sound in the bushes. He swung round, but his movement shook everything loose. Reality melted away, and he heard Elka saying it was unendurable. How could anyone breathe that loudly? Enough was enough, and she wanted her own bedroom. Starting the next morning, the phone was silent. He waited and listened, but it didn't ring. When it finally did so, in the early afternoon, it was his boss wanting to know why he hadn't come in the last two days, if he was feeling ill, and if his doctor's certificate had somehow got mislaid. Ebling apologized and coughed for good measure, and when his boss said it wasn't serious, these things happened. No reason to get excited. He was a good worker, and everyone knew his worth. He felt tears of rage in his eyes. The next day he sabotaged three computers and installed a hard drive in such a way that all the data on it would erase themselves. Exactly one month later, his telephone was silent. He came close a few times to calling one of the numbers. His thumb was on the callback button, and he imagined that only a second separated him from hearing one of the voices. If he'd had more courage, he'd have pressed it, or started a fire somewhere, or gone in search of Carla. At least there was Wiener schnitzel for lunch twice in one week, a rare treat. Roebler sat opposite him, chewing religiously. The new E14, he said with his mouth full. It's enough to drive you crazy. There isn't a damn thing inside it that works. Anyone who buys it has only himself to blame. Ebling nodded. But what are we supposed to do? Wrogler was getting loud. It's new. I want it, too. There's nothing else on the market. True, said Ebling. There's nothing else. Hey, said Rogler. Stop staring at your phone. Ebling twitched and put it in his pocket. Not so long ago you didn't want anything to do with one, and now you don't budge an inch without it. Just relax. Nothing can be that urgent. Roebler hesitated for a moment. He swallowed, then stuck another piece of schnitzel in his mouth. Please don't take this the wrong way, but who would be calling you anyhow?

[A]

David Costabel Performed Voices by Daniel Kellman I'm Meg Wolitzer. As I said earlier, this program is exploring the malleable nature of identity. The idea can be unnerving, but also comic. We're used to stories in which a character is somehow taken over by another character. But what if that event is precipitated by an object? A cell phone, in a way, is a perfect mashup of person and objects. It's a mini representation of a person and it includes their contacts, their preferences, and even their DNA, which is all over the thing. When it works as it's meant to, it can be a vessel of identity. But when there's a strange glitch, as in this story, the larger world and its randomness and endless conversations that we never knew about may come beaming in. When we return, Rush hour traffic alters two lives. You're listening to Selected Shorts recorded live in performance at Symphony Space in New York City and at other venues nationwide. Welcome back. This is Selected Shorts where our greatest actors transport us through the magic of fiction, one short story at a time. I'm Meg Wolitzer. On this week's program, we're showcasing stories that interrogate the idea of identity, how yours can shift in relation to the way other people see you. And on our website, selectedshorts.org, you can find your way to many stories that ask us to think about how social constructs like identity can be tested. And you can catch up with our podcast on that now suspect. Accessory your phone and please join our extended literary family by subscribing we know who you are. From contemporary Germany, we move to the richly complex world of contemporary Nigeria. Miracle in Lagos Traffic was written by Nigerian born Chica Unegwe. Her novels include On Black Sisters, street and the Middle Daughter. This story was a 2025 O. Henry Prize winner. Miracle in Lagos Traffic was performed by the subtle actor Yetide Badaki. You may know her from Star Strange New Worlds and television appearances on Criminal Minds and this Is Us. But now she brings us Chika Unegwe's Miracle in Lagos Traffic.

[B]

Miracle in Lagos Traffic the day after I ended my fasting for Ija, I was handed a miracle. With thinning hair and sunken cheeks, he'd rapped on the driver's side of the car window, begging for money. My driver, impatient with the slow moving traffic, began to wave him away and I, for some reason, said no to that. Maybe it was because praying and fasting had made me extra charitable. Find some change for him, I told the driver. I always left money in the glove compartment of the 505 for incidentals, never for the horde of beggars Lagos spawned. I agreed with Nze, my husband, that anyone resourceful enough found work to do, even in the present economy. Nze thought it was laziness and greed that drove able bodied men and women to beg. Inze would know he grew up poor and not once did it Ever occur to my family to accost citizens and ask them for money? The boy couldn't have heard me, but he glued himself to our car, and once he saw the driver open the glove compartment, he began to stand and raise his hands in thanks. He had a mouth full of small, surprisingly white teeth. The driver gave him a 1000 Naira note, muttering something he was wise enough not to let me hear. He likely didn't think I should be giving out money to someone who hadn't earned it, not when we hadn't raised his salary in the three years he had been with us. He asked about it once, after he learned that the driver of one of our friends earned 5,000 Naira more than he did. Nze told him he could leave if he was no longer happy to work for us. How many drivers earn 40,000 naira? NZE asked him. The boy was effusive in his gratitude. He didn't move on to other cars. He sprinted beside ours like a wild animal, chanting, God bless you. God bless you, madam. God go bless you plenty. God go give you anything where you want. I wasn't superstitious, but there was something about the prayer that made me feel that maybe I was really going to be blessed. Maybe this boy was the answer, the miracle that had necessitated the praying and the fasting in the first instance. So I wound my window down. Where did he live? Not far away. How old was he? Sixteen, he said. Same age as my twins, although he had the leathery look of an old man. Did he want to earn money? His head nodded manically, bobbing up and down so fast it made me dizzy to watch. He wanted to earn money. He could work hard, wash cars, cook whatever I wanted. Yes, madame. Thank you, madame. God bless you, madame. I gave him my address and asked him to pass by on Sunday morning, 11:00am could he find the house? Yes, he could. God bless you, madam. Nze wasn't happy that I'd invited a street urchin his words, not mine to the house. I told him not to be such a snob. It was foolhardy. He said he was going to tell the gate man to turn the boy back if he did turn up. Did I not know how dangerous that was? That he could be part of an armed robbery gang or kidnapping gang? Really, I said. If he was part of a gang, would he be begging in traffic? Nze had nothing to say to that. Armed robbers and kidnappers were raking in money. Only recently, a Protestant bishop was kidnapped on his way back to Onitsha from Lagos his driver killed on the spot. The kidnappers had asked for $100 million ransom, which his congregation raised. The bishop had come on TV to talk about how his abductors had fed him only once a day. Watery beans, like shit food you wouldn't even give to prisoners. As if the indignity of the terrible food was a worse crime than his abduction. How much do you think a begging gig fetches? I asked Nze. He grunted. He still didn't think it was a good idea that I had invited the stranger to our home. And how do you know that he'll be a fit? He asked. A sensible enough question, I admitted. But we wouldn't know if we didn't try, I said. Plus, my intuition said it would work out. The idea to ask the boy to come had landed like a dove on my shoulders. My pastor would say it was my spirit. Inze rolled his eyes. He didn't put much stock in my instincts or my spirit. I had been praying for a miracle, I told him. Inze did not believe in miracles. He said something to me about chasing shadows. I said something caustic back. Our voices were dangerous and low because we didn't want the girls to know we were fighting. A child his age shouldn't be begging in traffic. He should be in school, I said, trying again to convince my husband. It was thanks to a community scholarship that he had gone to a boarding school in Enugu and then on to Nsuka campus, which was where we met. He would never have met me otherwise. Or if he had, he wouldn't have dared to talk to me. He was the son of a palm wine tapper. I was solidly middle class, daughter of two college professors. Our orbits would not have crossed. Unwilling to give up my advantage, I continued, we'd be killing two birds with one stone. We could change that boy's life, give him a chance at the kind of life the government couldn't give him. And help ourselves too, I said. If it worked out, nze said, already sounding resigned. It would work out, I said. But even if it didn't, we wouldn't send him away empty handed. We would still give him something. A bit of money, new clothes. I was relieved that we had averted a fight. Nze and I had been fighting more than we used to. It felt as if in the last four months we'd fought more than we had in all of our 20 years together. The last thing our twins needed, with everything else going on, was for them to see their parents biting chunks off of the each other. But Nze and I agreed on little these days. Whatever, I said, he counted. I spent my weekends in church, he spent his doing whatever. An illness like that, Violeta said when I complained to her, would put stress on any relationship. Don't take any rash decisions, she warned me. Violeta was my best friend, and the illness was EJ's, one half of the twins. EJ's illness had started innocently enough, four days of coughing that we hadn't thought much of. Lagos's dust in the Hamattan was legendary. After all, houses were coated in dust. Everyone coughed. That was why we always stocked up on cough syrup and Ugolo. I gave Iji a routine Benadryl to soothe the cough and bita kola to suck on, since she could not bring herself to bite into its bitterness. When she began to throw up, her stomach cramping, we didn't panic. Nze had made fish the night before, and there was something dodgy about the fish. Even I hadn't felt very well after eating it. I was sure he hadn't washed the fish properly, but he was a man who cooked, and so I hadn't complained too much about how he ought to have washed the fish with alum first soaking it in warm water. I made EJ a pot of chicken soup and told her to stay home from school, watch Nollywood movies. You'll be fine soon, I promised. On the seventh day, she asked if we hadn't noticed that her face was swelling. She looked as if she had been wrestling a stronger opponent. Nze took her then to see our family doctor because he could take the day off work. The doctor was concerned, Nze told me when I returned from teaching tedious teenagers mathematics at the high school. The doctor had ordered more tests and would call us when she had the results. By the time the boy came on Sunday morning, accompanied by a man he said was his father. Nze had mellowed my brainwave, he said did not have to work the first time, but it made sense to try. And why hadn't we thought of it earlier? Lagos was full of people who would be willing to sell their organs for a bit of money, he said he meant poor people. Only recently a clip had gone viral on WhatsApp of a woman who rented a house with no kitchen, no bathroom, and a living room that was always full, flooded in the rainy season. She slept on a couch because she had no bed. Maybe we should meet these strangers elsewhere, nze said. In the future, maybe we should arrange to meet them at a restaurant, at least for the first meeting I could have replied that our proposal wasn't something we should be discussing in restaurants full of people, or that I was convinced we wouldn't need to find someone else. But I kept quiet. I was enjoying the fact that we were not arguing. The house seemed like a live thing, breathing and anxious, holding its breath to see how long our truce lasted. We hadn't told the twins what we were doing because what if, despite my spirit saying the boy would be a match, he wasn't? We mustn't raise their hopes, Nze cautioned, and I agreed with him on that. The girls had been begging to go to the beach at Landmark, so we sent them off with the driver. If they were suspicious at our suddenly giving in to this request, they did not say a word. The boy said his name was Obike. His voice was hoarse, and I couldn't remember if it had been like that two days ago. But he didn't speak much. His father did most of the talking. A small, wiry man dressed completely in black, he looked like a bird of pre prey. He was a roadside mechanic employed by a man who only paid him a commission. It killed him not to be able to fend for his family. He didn't want his son begging, but Obike insisted on earning money for the family. As the eldest child, sometimes Obike went to Balogun Market and did odd jobs running errands for traders. When they left him, I noticed that the hands holding the bottle of Coke he was drinking were calloused. They did not look like the hands of a teenager. His grip on the bottle was so strong I feared the bottle would break. He smiled sheepishly at everything in our sitting room, the tv, the bookcase, the huge sculpture of a woman carrying a child on her back I bought at Elegushi Market three years ago. When my son told me someone offered him a job, I said, let me come with him to make sure it's genuine. This city is full of ritualists. Obike's father cackled. He spoke Igbo, comforted by the fact that we were Igbo too. He had quickly switched from pidgin English to our language. He come to Lagos as a young father 10 years ago, lured by the stories of how easy it was to make money in the city. He'd left Udi, where his farming brought little in, and moved his family to his wife and three children, to the city where he'd hoped to progress. Ten years and nothing to show for it. He was too ashamed to go back to Udi with which mouth would he tell people that his son was a beggar? That his wife sometimes pretended to be deaf and dumb, walking around with a placard in traffic asking for alms? We all do what we have to do, I said, wondering when to bring up the reason for our meeting, the job we hoped his son could do for us. Then Nse got right to it. He didn't believe in wasting time on small talk, buttering people up. He'd always say that he hadn't spent years running his own successful business to waffle around when there was business to be discussed. So this is the proposal. If it works, your family will be set for life. One million naira. A job in my business. Obike can go to school. We'll see to it. If your son isn't a right match, then shame. Obike's father opened his mouth. Shut it. He reminded me of a fish. He brought out a handkerchief and wiped his bald head as if he was sweating. Obike looked confused. He turned to his father. Papa. His voice squeaked. There was a silence, and Nze spoke into it. I didn't know what exactly the doctor had said about the risks, but Nze said there weren't any. Think about it, he said. Later I would tell Nze that he should have told the truth. There was no surgery without risks, even if those risks were minimal, like the doctor had said for both Ije and the donor. If it worked out, the boy would be better off after it than he was now. If I were in their shoes, I thought, I'd take the risk. Inze should have made that case. The doctor had called us a few days after Ej's test to discuss the results. He rattled off a diagnosis, introducing a whole new vocabulary into our home. Renal disease, dialysis, kidney transplant. The disease hung around like a monster st sucking up air in our house. There was no cure, the doctor said. She either went on dialysis for life or had to get a transplant. But for the transplant there was a long list and very few options for donors. Perhaps her twin could donate one. People don't really need two kidneys, the doctor said, as nonchalantly as if he were discussing Amaka's EJ's twin, deciding to get a haircut to chop off her hair. If she was compatible, that would be the best, he said. I wanted to gouge out his eyes. God forbid, I said. There must be some other way. How could I ask a healthy 16 year old to give up a kidney for her sister? I would sacrifice for my daughter. But it wasn't her sister's place to do that. I tested, but was no match. Something about HLA compatibility or whatever. NZE was an AB blood type to EJE's A, which ruled him out too. There was no need to ask Amaka to test because we were never going to allow her to donate her kidney. She was still young, had her whole life ahead of her. Besides, if something went wrong, we could lose both. Both children. It was Rioletta who told me about the black market. She introduced us to some man who said he could get us a donor, but it go cost. He wanted 100,000 naira for every person he brought to us that was tested. And if there was a match, we'd pay 20 million naira before the surgery and half of that after. Where were we supposed to get 30 million naira from? And how many people would we have to go through to find a match? Plucking Obike from traffic had not been planned. That he would match was an unexpected bonus. Never mind what my spirit told me. My intuition. My spirit did not always get it right. When I was pregnant with the girls, I was sure I was having boys. I had bought boy clothes and held boy names under my tongue. When EJ started coughing, my spirit hadn't been able to detect that something was seriously wrong with her. So who was to say that it wouldn't have led me astray this time? But it had been right enough times in the past for me to trust it. In the most notable example, I had planned to travel to Enugu by bus with for a wedding. I woke up that morning with a heaviness in my chest that I knew was my spirit's way of forcing me to listen to it. The bus I would have been on was attacked later that day by unknown gunmen just after the Niger breach. The paper said no one survived. Now, with Obike, my spirit whispered to me that everything would be all right, the same way it did the day I met Nze, after a series of really terrible boyfriends. Besides, Obike was perfect. His father had asked for some of the money upfront, so that Obike didn't have to beg, so he could stay home and eat well and sleep well. We gave him 250,000 naira, more money than the family had ever seen at once, his father said, and we went further, thinking up new ways to help the family. Because the fire had been lit inside us, we sent the driver to their house with bags of rice and tubers of yam, crates of soft drinks and cartons of juice. It was as if we were marrying Obike, fattening him up before the wedding. The driver brought back their thanks. I didn't tell him what our business was, but I saw a look creep into his eyes the first time we sent him over with foodstuff, a look both sly and judgmental. Whatever it was, he knew better than to speak his mind. Nze said it was jealousy. The last time I saw Obike, his skin shone as if he'd shed his previous skin. He looked like a church hymn, all glorious and pure. His eyes gleamed like something new. He'd grown supple on our foot. He'd come to say thank you before going into hospital the next day to begin the procedure. I was surprised that he'd come to the house as well. That hadn't been the plan, but I was touched. If I were in his shoes, I might have been overcome with gratitude too, and visited my benefactors. Nze wasn't home when Obike came, but the girls and I were. The twins were awkward around him, as if they didn't know how to behave with this boy who was giving a part of him to save one of them. But they talked a lot about him. When the family was alone. EJ offered him a drink, and when she brought it, she and Amaka sat at either side of him. They didn't ask him any of the questions they wondered about, like what his hobbies were or what his favorite food was. And he appeared to be intimidated into quietness, the way boys of his age often were in the presence of girls. After a short while, my daughters disappeared into their bedroom. Obike did not seem to mind. He smiled at me, white teeth flashing. His family was going from 0 to 1 million because of him, he said, and all for a small, non invasive surgery to remove something he didn't need anyway. He sounded like Nze talking to his father, using the same words my husband had used, non invasive small surgery, in and out, as if he were mocking him. But that couldn't have been it, I thought. God bless you, Ma, he said over and over again. His nails were clean. He looked like the kind of teenager I was used to seeing in our neighborhood. He could have been any of my neighbor's children. What a difference, I thought. 250,000 naira, good food and a few months could make. Once EJ came out of hospital with her new kidney. We were going to go on holiday, somewhere fun we had never been to, like Ghana or Senegal. We talked of maybe even bringing Obike with us. He'd never been on a plane before. Imagine taking him on an airplane, I told Nze, giggling like a child high on our munificence. The girls couldn't stop talking about it. What would they do on holiday? How nice it would be to have a brother. What else to call someone who was giving you a kidney? The house bubbled with our happiness, the walls glimmering in ways I hadn't noticed before. The monster that had been sucking up air disappeared, disintegrated into nothing. The day of the procedure, the sun shone with a stunning brightness. The plan was for the driver to pick up Obike and drive him to the hospital while Nze and I drove with Eje. That morning, even Nze joined me when I knelt to offer a prayer of thanksgiving. My heart is full, full, Lord, I said, unable to articulate my joy. Underneath that joy was an anxiety that Nze dismissed when I mentioned it to him. Eje would be fine, he said. There was very little risk to her. But every surgery carries some risk, I said, repeating the doctor's words. Not for Ije. What does your spirit tell you? Listen to it. I closed my eyes and an assuring calmness washed over me. This time I was certain my spirit would not deceive me. Nothing could go wrong. We had Obike, grateful for the life we were giving him and his compatible kidney, a competent doctor. It's all up from here, isn't it? I asked Nze. We had just arrived at the parking lot of the hospital when the driver called me. Obike was nowhere to be found. In fact, Madame, the driver said. In fact, the house no even day again. It was as if Obike's house, a wood and zinc shack, had never existed. He said. It don't disappear like ghosts. Something in his voice sounded like he might have been laughing.

[A]

Miracle in Lagos Traffic was performed by Yetide Badaki. Badaki was born in Lagos, and this story really resonated with her. She spoke with us backstage at Symphony Space.

[B]

I think one of the most wonderful things is when a writer so evocative and there's a certain level of an inability to examine self, I think for the narrator, and I think I'm really going to lean into that. There's an almost comedic bent to how unself aware she is. I don't know how many listeners have had the joy and the adventure and the excitement of visiting Lagos. It is a character all of its own. You try to find different ways to describe it to people that have never been. You say, okay, think New York, but you're in tropical space, and there's just color and sound and there's just sensation everywhere. And I love the way that that was woven in such a short space into this world that was Yetide Bedaki

[A]

backstage at Symphony Space I'm Meg Wolitzer. This story is set in one of the world's most unforgiving metropolises. The city doesn't just frame the narrative, it presses in on it. Its restless, molten energy makes it feel like lives could blur, even swap, without warning. And somewhere in that slippage, there's a strain of humor that's sharpest, maybe where the gaps between people are widest. There are pleasures and pitfalls to creating what we call the not entirely sympathetic character. The pleasures may be obvious. You get to have a little fun with someone else's flaws. The pitfalls involve being unfair, putting your thumb on the literary scale. The narrator of Miracle in Lagos blithely demonstrates her ruthlessness and carelessness with someone else's child. Unegwe lets the character reveal herself through her own words, and to me the depiction feels entirely fair. These two very different stories are unsettling in different ways, but are linked by the underlying thread of identity and how it is constructed. Daniel Kelman plays with the dark side of a dominant technology, almost as if the cell phone has taken the place of the robot, an object of fascination and suspicion in the 50s, and he anticipates our current locus of anxiety, AI anchika. Unegwe has offered up extremes of social disparity, identities framed by privilege on the one hand and want on the other, that it takes only a chance encounter to scramble. As I said at the beginning of this program, we know who we are until we're asked to question our sureties. That's part of the job of Good Stories. I'm Meg Wolitzer. Thanks for joining me for Selected Shorts.

[B]

Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our team includes Matthew Love, Drew Richardson, Mary Shimkin, Vivienne Woodward and Magdalene Robleski. The readings are recorded by Miles B. Smith. Our mix engineer for this episode was Joe Plord. Our program's presented at the Getty center in Los Angeles are recorded by Phil Richards. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Deardorf Peterson Group. Selected Shorts is supported by the Dungannon Foundation. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space.