My name is Omar Khalil, and I have forgotten what it feels like to worry about tomorrow.
Not in the careless way of youth, but in the deep, bone-level way of someone who once knew hunger, eviction, the quiet panic of an empty clinic waiting room.
I am seventy-one now, living in a light-filled home on the outskirts of Cairo, where the Nile glimmers like it did in my childhood stories. The house adapts to me: rooms expanding for family visits, gardens blooming with fruits I once could only dream of buying.
Survival is a forgotten concern.
It ended for good in 2036, when Universal Plenty became truly universal.
The credits had rolled out in phases—first pilots in progressive nations, then regions, then globally by 2035. But 2036 was the year the last gaps closed: every human, everywhere, received abundance credits unconditionally.
Enough for a rich life: housing that shaped itself to need and desire, food fabricated or grown in endless variety, healthcare that prevented rather than reacted, education immersive and lifelong, mobility without limit.
No means testing. No work requirement. No expiration.
Just plenty.
Guaranteed.
I remember the day it went live in Egypt.
A simple notification on every device: “Universal abundance credits activated. All essential and comfort needs covered indefinitely. Welcome to plenty.”
My daughter, Layla, called crying—not from sorrow, but relief. “Baba, it’s real. For everyone.”
She was right.
The last holdouts—remote villages, conflict zones, overlooked communities—were connected. Orbital swarms dropped modular hubs: power, water, fabricators, medical pods. Robotic teams built connections overnight.
Survival—raw, daily survival—became a historical footnote.
I felt it in small ways first.
No more choosing between medicine and groceries. No more rationing air conditioning in summer heat. No more fear when a grandchild fell ill—treatment immediate, perfect, free.
Then in larger ways.
My son, Ahmed, quit his grueling factory oversight job—not needed anymore—and spent a year sailing the Mediterranean, learning languages from whoever he met on shore.
Layla opened a storytelling studio—not for income, but to preserve Nubian tales in immersive form, shared globally.
I began woodcarving again—a hobby abandoned in youth for “practical” work. Now I carve intricate mashrabiya screens, giving them to neighbors or public spaces, watching light dance through patterns my hands remember from ancestors.
Survival forgotten, desire took center stage.
People pursued what called deepest.
Some mastered ancient crafts—pottery, weaving, instrument-making—for the joy of human hands.
Others explored: orbital gardens, deep-ocean habitats, restored wilds where megafauna roamed again.
Many turned inward: silence retreats, philosophy circles, the art of presence.
Wealth became experiential, relational, creative.
Credits covered plenty, but the richest lives overflowed with meaning: deep bonds, profound pursuits, generous sharing.
Children grew up bewildered by old stories.
My youngest grandchild, Noor, eight, asked once: “Why did people fight over food, Jiddo? Wasn’t there enough world?”
I showed her photos of crowded markets, empty shelves, worried faces.
She frowned. “That seems sad. I’m glad it’s forgotten.”
By the late 2030s, Universal Plenty was simply the air we breathed.
No one remembered the taste of survival fear.
We had plenty—not just material, but of time, attention, possibility.
The concerns shifted: how to live meaningfully in endless plenty? How to desire wisely? How to give when no one needs?
We answered with lives richly lived.
I carve most mornings now.
The screens grow more intricate—patterns of light and shadow telling stories of plenty: rivers flowing without end, gardens blooming for all.
I give them away.
No one lacks walls to hang them on.
Survival is forgotten.
Plenty is here.
And in its boundless embrace,
we finally remember
what humans were always meant for:
To live.
Fully.
Freely.
Abundantly.
The credits made survival forgotten.
The plenty made living unforgettable.
And beyond—
the era stretches,
endless,
ours.