. Preferably, their videos were taken in their bedrooms with bright, stable lighting, their expressions vivid and exaggerated, so that AI could extract as many still-frame images as possible. The object data set was paired with another set of Amaka’s own face under different lighting, from multiple angles and with alternative expressions, automatically generated by his smartstream. Then, he uploaded both data sets to the cloud and got to work with a hyper-generative adversarial network.
When Amaka was born, a local soothsayer had declared to Amaka’s father that his new son was actually the reincarnation of a female soul trapped in a male infant’s body. The “soul-body incongruity” would be a shadow cast over Amaka’s entire childhood—and a shame for his family. “Nah, I was just reading the news.” Amaka forced a lighthearted smile. “I still want my residence permit.”Amaka sighed in relief and hopped back onto his bed, returning his attention to the face displayed on his monitor.
No one had managed to track down the person behind FAKA. The videos’ information was encrypted; the account that uploaded the videos was disposable and had gone through multiple proxy servers. Consequently, conspiracy theories emerged. Was FAKA the work of anti-government activists or a foreign government, intent on undermining the current order?
Technology-wise, it wasn’t all that hard. With the help of H-GAN, Amaka easily duplicated a machine-generated model of FAKA’s facial portrait. From blink frequency and lip movement to the crude incongruity between the mouth area and its surrounding skin, Amaka’s model was a pixel-to-pixel mirror reflection of FAKA. As long as he knew how to set the parameters and match up each mathematical value between the fake and the original, he could fool every anti-fake detector and every human eye.
The sound of instruments from various ethnic groups combined in harmony. The shrill cry of the Batá drum and the low moans of thebell and the silvery melody of theflute, from the Igbo. The air vibrated from the music, like the tightening string of a bow drawn open inch by inch. The dancers, like young cassava shoots during monsoon, shaped their movement to the flow of the rhythm.
Creating a fake was one thing—creating a fake with multiple personalities was beyond Amaka’s capabilities. Somehow, this realization gave him a sense of relief. But now he had to face the consequences of failing Chi’s mission. Upon hearing Ozioma’s story, Amaka felt an idea, blurry and shapeless, darting across his mind like a fish. He scrunched up his face, thinking. “The mask …”,” murmured Amaka.
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