Review the progress of the Red Planet's first forests. Luxury domes with Earth-views like no other.
Month 1: Coming Home (Or: Why I Chose Rust Over Blue)
Let me paint you a picture: I'm standing at the observation window of the Elysium Planitia transit hub, watching my shuttle descend through that salmon-pink sky—the one that Earth-siders always call "wrong" but that I've learned to call home. After two months visiting Earth (Cambridge conference, family in Lagos, too much gravity), I'm back on Mars Colony 3 for a six-month sabbatical project documenting our terraforming progress.
The science says we've increased atmospheric pressure by 47% since the project began twenty-three years ago. The experience? Walking outside still requires a pressure suit, but the difference is palpable—less strain on the seals, easier breathing in the habitats, and—here's the thing that makes me tear up every single time—children are being born here who will probably, in their lifetimes, walk outside without suits.
My grandmother Adanna used to say, "Ebe onye bi ka ọ na-akọ ụka" (Where one lives is where one speaks from). I left Lagos at 24 for my first spacewalk. I've seen seventeen different planets. This rust-red one—with its impossible beauty and deadly atmosphere and stubborn refusal to be anything but itself—this is where I choose to speak from now.
My assigned habitat for this documentation project is what the marketing materials call "luxury" and what I call "excessive but I'm not complaining": Earth mahogany furniture (shipped at enormous cost), silk linens (impractical in low-humidity domes but soft against 0.38 G skin), and floor-to-ceiling windows framing those terraforming towers that dominate the horizon like cathedrals to human stubbornness.
The towers stand 500 meters tall, pumping greenhouse gases—mostly CO₂ and water vapor, with controlled methane releases—into the thin atmosphere. I can see three from my window. At night, their lights pulse like heartbeats. The math is simple: more greenhouse gases, more heat retention, more atmospheric thickness. The reality? We're trying to resurrect a dead planet, and somehow—impossibly, beautifully—it's working.
Back on Earth, we'd call this hubris. On Mars, we call it Tuesday.
Cost breakdown for the six-month sabbatical (because my Earth-side colleagues always ask): ₦8,500,000 Nigerian naira (roughly $12,000 USD equivalent) for the hab rental, all meals included; ₦3,200,000 for the documentation equipment grant from the Exoplanetary Research Foundation; and ₦0 for the view, which is the whole point.
The red dust already covers my luggage. That damn dust gets everywhere—a fact every Mars resident learns within their first hour and continues complaining about for the rest of their lives.
Month 2: The First Forest (Or: Life Writes Its Story in Rust)
The Eden Dome covers 50 square kilometers of pressurized paradise. Let me paint you a picture—and I mean this literally, because I'm documenting every square meter with high-res spectral imaging for my terraforming progress analysis.
The trees here have never known Earth. They're genetically engineered Pinus martiana (our nickname, not the official designation): broader leaves to catch weaker sunlight, roots adapted to oxidized soil with minimal nitrogen, trunks calibrated for 0.38 G and not a newton more. The science says they should thrive in these conditions. The experience? Walking among them feels like stepping into an alien's dream of what Earth forests might look like.
Pine scent—actual, real pine scent—mingles with the mechanical hum of atmospheric processors. The smell hits me first: organic, resinous, alive. Then the sound: rustling leaves (in artificially circulated air, but still), water from the melted polar ice stream, and underneath it all, that constant hum of the processors keeping us all breathing.
The rabbits are my favorite detail. Oryctolagus martianus (again, unofficial name). First animals intentionally introduced to Mars beyond the microbe experiments. They hop across paths of red dust, pausing to nibble engineered clover, their white fur collecting rust stains that no amount of grooming removes. Back on Earth, we'd call them dirty. Here, we call them pioneers.
I meet a woman named Dr. Sarah Chen—exobotanist, third-generation Mars resident (her grandmother was on the first colony ship). She's crouched beside the polar stream, examining something in a portable analysis kit.
"Dr. Okafor!" She recognizes me from my papers. "Come see this."
She hands me what looks like a rock. It's a fossilized leaf—from last year's growth, already preserved in Martian sediment. The oxidized iron in the soil accelerates mineralization. What takes millennia on Earth happens in months here.
"Life is writing its story," Dr. Chen says, "and Mars is a very fast editor."
The science says fossilization requires specific geochemical conditions. The experience? Holding proof that we're creating not just life, but geological history on a planet that spent four billion years sterile.
I collect a second leaf—with Dr. Chen's permission and proper documentation—for the girl I'm tutoring. Amara (yes, named after me—her parents are fans of my research) is seven, born on Mars, has never seen Earth's sky, thinks blue is a "weird color for air." She needs to understand what we're doing here isn't just science—it's poetry written in DNA and stone.
The forest tastes like possibility. The air (recycled, filtered, humidified to 40%) tastes metallic with a hint of pine. The water from the polar stream tastes like ancient ice and iron and the future.
Month 3: Olympus Mons (Or: Standing on the Roof of the Solar System)
The largest volcano in the solar system—27 km tall, 600 km across, towering over an entire hemisphere—deserves the ultimate sunrise. Here's what the brochures won't tell you: getting there is four days of hell in a pressurized rover, ascending switchbacks carved into lava flows that last erupted when Earth's atmosphere was still toxic to humans, camping in heated shelters while outside temperatures hit -80°C and your suit's heating system works overtime.
The math is simple: Olympus Mons is higher than 99% of Mars's already-thin atmosphere. The reality? You're essentially in space, tethered to rock by 0.38 G, breathing recycled air while standing on a shield volcano that could swallow Luxembourg whole (the caldera is 80 km across—I measured).
I make this trip with Captain Mbeki—old friend, fellow Lagos expat, pilot who's saved my life three times and won't let me forget it. He drives like he flies: efficiently, competently, and with a running commentary that oscillates between brilliant observations and terrible jokes.
"Remember Jupiter?" he says on Day 2, navigating a particularly nasty lava ridge.
"The ration paste incident? You swore you'd never mention that again."
"I'm just saying, Doctor, at least this time we have real food."
The summit at dawn is—and I'm an astrophysicist, I don't say this lightly—transcendent. The sun rises over a horizon so distant I can see the planet's curvature. The salmon-pink sky fades to that impossible butterscotch gradient that only happens at the edge of space. Earth is visible: a blue-green dot, bright enough to hurt.
I plant a flag. Not nationalistic—none of that matters 225 million kilometers from home—but personal. Dr. Aisha Okafor, PhD Exoplanetary Science, Cambridge. Lagos. Mars Colony 3. Year 2154 (Standard Earth Calendar).
My grandmother used to tell me, "Onye ji isi ya aga, ọ naghị efu ụzọ" (One who uses their head does not lose their way). Standing on the highest point in the solar system, flag in hand, Earth and the Sun and the infinite black all around me—I understand what she meant. We use our heads. We don't lose our way. We climb volcanoes on dead planets and call them home.
The flag will stand here for millions of years. Mars has no weather to erode it, no rain to rust it, no wind strong enough to topple it (the atmosphere is too thin for that). Long after humanity is gone—if we're foolish enough to let that happen—this flag will stand as testimony: we were here. We looked up. We went.
The thin air tastes like cold and metal and victory. The sunrise tastes like pink and hope. Captain Mbeki's terrible celebratory coffee tastes like burned beans and friendship—some things are universal across all planets.
Month 4: Gravity Therapy (Or: The Unexpected Benefits of Planetary Mass)
Here's what the brochures do tell you, and it's actually accurate: Mars at 0.38 G offers relief from weight that Earth-siders don't realize they're carrying until they don't have to anymore.
The Elysium Spa specializes in low-gravity therapy. Let me paint you a picture: I'm floating in a pool heated to exactly body temperature, doing "water aerobics" that would be impossible on Earth—full backflips, dolphin leaps, movements that feel more like flying than swimming. Through the transparent dome ceiling, I watch a dust storm swirl across the red plains, close enough to see the individual vortices but too far to threaten us.
The science says prolonged exposure to low gravity causes bone density loss, muscle atrophy, cardiovascular deconditioning (this is why Mars residents follow strict exercise regimens with resistance training). The experience? After a month back on Mars, my spine has decompressed by 3.2 centimeters (I measured). My chronic back pain—legacy of Earth's 9.8 m/s²—is gone. My movements have a grace I never achieved in full gravity.
Back on Earth, we'd call this "disability" or "weakness." On Mars, we call it "adaptation."
I meet Amara here—the seven-year-old I'm tutoring in basic astronomy. She's attempting to swim, which is hilarious in 0.38 G because every stroke launches her halfway across the pool. Her mother, Dr. Chantal Dubois (geologist, second-generation Mars resident), watches from poolside with the tired smile of parents everywhere.
"Dr. Aisha!" Amara shouts, propelling herself toward me like a small, enthusiastic torpedo. "Did you bring the leaf?"
I did. The fossilized leaf from Eden Dome, preserved in a clear specimen case. I pull it from my waterproof bag (because even in low-G pools, water finds a way).
"This leaf," I tell her, "grew last year. It died. Mars turned it into stone in months. On Earth, this would take thousands of years."
"Why?"
The eternal question. "Because Mars has lots of iron in the soil, and iron helps things become fossils faster. It's like... Mars is in a hurry to make history."
She studies the leaf with an intensity that reminds me of my own at that age, staring at Lagos stars and dreaming of touching them. "Is Earth in a hurry?"
"Earth takes its time. Earth has weather and rain and things that break down rocks. Mars is patient with some things, impatient with others."
"Which is better?"
The science says neither—they're different geological processes optimized for different planetary conditions. The experience? I give her the diplomatic answer: "Both are beautiful. Different, but beautiful."
She accepts this, then launches herself across the pool with a shriek of joy that echoes off the dome. Dr. Dubois catches my eye, mouths "thank you." Teaching the next generation—the ones who'll breathe Martian air, who'll never know Earth's blue except through screens and stories—this is why I'm here.
The pool water tastes like recycled minerals and chlorine (some things are universal). The post-spa tea tastes like chamomile and honey. The moment of watching Amara discover fossils and futures—that tastes like purpose.
Month 5: The Settlers (Or: Building Culture on Rust and Hope)
Ten thousand humans now call Mars home permanently. Let that number sink in: ten thousand. Three major colonies (I'm in Colony 3, the largest), eight smaller outposts, a population that's 60% Earth-born, 40% Mars-born, and 100% stubborn enough to make this work.
They—we—have built schools, theaters, restaurants, art galleries, music venues. Martian culture is emerging: not Earth-culture-on-Mars, but something new.
I attend a wedding in Colony 1's main dome—two-hour rover journey, but worth it. The couple: Jin-Sun Park (engineer, second-generation Mars resident) and Yuki Tanaka (pilot, Earth transfer from Tokyo). The ceremony blends Korean, Japanese, and Nigerian traditions (they included Igbo elements specifically because I'm attending, which makes me cry more than the vows).
The bride wears red (Korean luck). The groom wears white (Japanese purity). They both wear boots (Martian pragmatism—even formal events require proper footwear for potential pressure loss). The officiant recites blessings in four languages.
The toast is Martian wine—yes, Martian wine—grown from vines that have adapted to low-G and weak sunlight, producing grapes that taste nothing like Earth varietals. The flavor is tart, mineral-heavy, with a finish that suggests rust and resilience. Back on Earth, wine critics would probably hate it. Here, we call it terroir—the taste of place, and this place is Mars.
"To Earth," the couple says, raising glasses toward the blue dot visible through the dome.
"To Mars," the crowd responds.
"To home," they conclude together.
Home. My grandmother's word—ụlọ in Igbo, meaning not just house but belonging. These people—from a dozen Earth nations, speaking twenty languages, united by nothing except the choice to stay—are building ụlọ on rust and hope.
I dance at the reception (low-G makes everyone a better dancer). I eat greenhouse vegetables prepared by Chef Marchand, who's earned his Michelin star equivalent for "Best Mars Cuisine" three years running (the eggplant is extraordinary—adapted cultivars that thrive in Martian soil). I listen to a band play "fusion jazz" that incorporates the whistle and howl of dust storms recorded and synthesized into music.
At midnight (local time—Mars days are 24.6 hours, so we've adapted), I find myself on the observation deck with Dr. Dubois and several others, watching the stars.
"My grandmother," I tell them, "used to say the stars belong to those brave enough to reach for them."
"Did she know you'd come this far?" someone asks.
"She died before I left Earth. But yes. She knew."
The Martian night air (inside the dome, recycled and warm) tastes like community and wine. The stars beyond the dome taste like infinite and home. The knowledge that we're building something that will outlast us all—that tastes like legacy.
Month 6: Earth Rise (Or: The Blue Dot We Carry With Us)
The Arcadia Station observatory sits at the edge of Colony 2, designed specifically for Earth observation. Let me paint you a picture—and understand, I'm an astrophysicist, I've looked through telescopes at galaxies billions of light-years away, but this hits different.
Through the telescope: Earth. Blue-green marble. Heartbreakingly beautiful against the black. I can see weather patterns swirling across Africa—Lagos is under cloud cover today. The Arctic ice cap, smaller than when I was born but stabilized now thanks to the carbon sequestration programs. The lights of cities on the night side, twinkling like stars we built.
From here—225 million kilometers away—all of human history occurred on that distant point of light. Every empire. Every revolution. Every discovery. Every love story (including my own failed marriage, which seems very small from this distance). Every moment of triumph and tragedy and ordinary Tuesday morning compressed into that blue speck.
The science says this is called the Overview Effect: a cognitive shift in awareness when viewing Earth from space, characterized by a sense of awe, self-transcendence, and unity with all life. The experience? I'm crying. Again. (I cry a lot in this job. Professional hazard of being in the awe business.)
Amara is with me—final tutoring session of my sabbatical. I've been teaching her astronomy for five months now, and she's arrived at the age where she asks questions I can barely answer.
"Why is Earth blue?" she asks, eye pressed to the telescope.
"Water. Oceans. Seventy percent of the surface."
"We learned in school that Mars used to have oceans."
The science says yes—billions of years ago, Mars had a thick atmosphere and liquid water. The reality is more complicated: we think it had oceans, but the evidence is geological (ancient shorelines, delta deposits, oxidized minerals) rather than observational. We're reconstructing a ghost story from forensic evidence.
"Mars had oceans," I confirm. "Then it lost its magnetic field, and the solar wind stripped away its atmosphere, and the water evaporated or froze or went underground. The planet died."
"But we're bringing it back."
"We're trying to. We're—" How do I explain this to a seven-year-old? "We're giving Mars a second chance. Like... if someone's heart stops, and you do CPR and bring them back. We're doing planetary CPR."
She considers this, watching Earth through the telescope. "Do you miss it?"
"Every day."
"But you live here."
"I live here."
"Why?"
The eternal question. My grandmother's voice in my memory: "Onye ji obi ya eme ihe, ọ naghị agba ọsọ" (One who acts with their heart does not flee).
"Because," I tell Amara, "Earth will always be beautiful. But Mars—Mars is ours to shape. We get to decide what kind of planet this becomes, what kind of people we'll be here. Earth is the blue dot I came from. Mars is the rust dot I chose. Both are home. Both matter."
She nods like this makes sense. Maybe it does. Maybe the Mars-born generation will understand something we Earth-born are still learning: that home isn't the place you're from, it's the place you choose to build, to defend, to improve.
Through the telescope, I watch Lagos—or at least the clouds above Lagos. Somewhere down there, my cousin's family is having dinner. My mother (retired, still stubborn) is probably arguing with someone about politics. The market I grew up near is bustling with ten thousand lives that never think about Mars except as a headline or a movie.
And up here, 225 million kilometers away, I'm watching them through a lens, carrying Earth with me in memory and love and the choice to leave.
Here's what the brochures won't tell you: leaving Earth is easy. Ships leave weekly. The hard part is choosing to stay away—choosing rust over blue, choosing 0.38 G over familiar weight, choosing to build something new instead of maintaining something old.
I chose. And I'd choose again.
The telescope view tastes like salt water and memory. The dome air tastes like home (the recycled, filtered, carefully balanced home that humans built here because we're too stubborn to accept that planets are fixed). Amara's hand in mine, trusting me to explain the universe—that tastes like hope and responsibility and the future we're building one lesson, one forest, one generation at a time.
We are Martian now. But we'll always love that blue dot—the home we carry with us, wherever the species goes next.
(The red dust is still everywhere. I've given up trying to keep it out of my quarters. Some things, you learn to live with.)