by Kwame Mbalia
I ignored him. He might have been right, but still, he didn’t have to come out and say it. Whatever happened to false encouragement?
I continued my warm-up until Granddad came over with a water bottle and a towel. He was chewing on a blade of grass, which he only did when he was worried. “Okay,” he said, “stick to the basics. A simple sparring match, three rounds, nothing serious.”
The sound of a small explosion filled the barn.
We all turned to see Reggie’s trainer standing over a ruptured punching bag that had hit the floor, sand spilling out. Reggie turned, saw me watching, and shrugged, then started shadowboxing.
“Sweet peaches,” Anansi and I said at the same time.
Granddad chewed the blade of grass even harder, as if he were having second thoughts, but then he shook his head. “You’ll be fine” was all he said.
I nodded, then someone caught my eye. A short curly-haired woman in hospital scrubs had opened the barn doors and stepped inside. She saw somebody she recognized and waved. “Who’s that?” I asked.
Granddad turned and grunted. “Hmm. Ring doctor. Travels with Reggie when he spars, just to be safe.”
“Reggie travels with a doctor? Is he sick?”
“The doctor isn’t for him. She’s here for his opponents.”
My jaw dropped, but Granddad studiously avoided my eyes and spat out the blade of grass before pulling another from his pocket. Who keeps grass in their pocket? And who sets up a boxing match like this for their grandson? I wanted to protest. Maybe it wasn’t too late for me to back out and take up a less threatening sport, like staring contests. But I didn’t have a chance to suggest it before Granddad turned around and started clapping. “All right, let’s get started. Tony, you ready?”
Reggie’s trainer flashed a thumbs-up before slapping his boxer on the shoulder.
I took out my earbuds and dropped them and the SBP onto a bench in the corner. Anansi was lying on his back with his eyes closed when I left him. Thanks for your support, I thought as I walked away.
Reggie and I both climbed into the ring. We had on our headgear, but I felt like I needed a football helmet as extra protection.
“All right, keep it clean, but take it serious. We ain’t here to hurt nobody. It’s just a tune-up, right?” Tony, Reggie’s trainer, looked between us with an eyebrow raised, and we both nodded. “Good. Let’s show them folks how we roll down here in Alabama.” He stepped out of the ropes and put a whistle in his mouth. “Touch ’em up, then wait for my whistle.”
Reggie’s gloves pounded into mine as we stood face-to-face. “Why so tight, little bro? It’s just a sparring match.”
We backed up. I bounced on my toes, ready to do this thing.
At least I thought so.
The whistle came and my fists went up, just as a right hook came howling toward the left side of my head. I ducked, and a left uppercut streaked toward my face. Somehow, at the last minute, I managed to twist my body so my shoulder took the blow.
The impact sent me flat on my butt.
“C’mon, boy, what’re you doing? Get up and get in the match!” Granddad’s gruff voice and the snickers from the crowd brought a flushing heat to my face. I climbed to my feet and rotated my right shoulder. It felt like a hammer had battered it.
Just a tune-up. Right.
As if he could hear my thoughts, Reggie grinned. Jeez, even his mouthpiece said JAWBREAKER. Was there anything peaceful about him?
The rest of the round was more of the same. Me ducking. Me slipping and twisting. Me trying not to die as fists the size of my face tried to punch me into another zip code. At the end of the round, Tony the Trainer (look, it’s how I remembered his name) blew his whistle and I collapsed onto the stool Granddad had waiting for me. I took a sip of water and tried to force some air into my lungs.
“You dancing or you boxing?” Granddad held up a bucket for me to spit out the water. “You know you can throw some punches, too?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Do you want me to call the match? Is it too much?”
“No, sir. Just—”
“Just what?”
“Just waiting for an opening.”
Granddad put down the bucket and placed both hands on my shoulders. “Sometimes, boy, you gotta make your own opening. Don’t wait for somebody to give you permission to do your best. You let ’em have it and leave all that other mess for the hogs. Fight for something! You got it? Grab whatever you need to grab deep down inside of yourself, whether it’s pride or honor or even just the love of fighting, and you fight for it. Got me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Got me?”
“Yes, sir!”
Round two started out the same, though. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t land a blow during Reggie’s barrage. The dude had punches that threw punches. He clipped me a good one on the top of the head when I didn’t duck fast enough, and it felt like a cannonball had grazed my skull.
Even so, Reggie was getting frustrated with all my defense. “You planning on fighting today?” he taunted. “Scared money don’t make money.”
The second round ended, and Granddad didn’t say much. He rubbed my shoulders and gave me a little water, but I could tell he was disappointed.
And that wasn’t even the worst part.
Just before the third round started, I heard it again.
Tristan?
A voice calling my name. Even stranger, a tingling sensation rippled down the fingers of my left hand and circled my wrist. The barn door was closed, but I swore I felt a breeze swirl around me. A humming song sounded faintly in my ears, and the dull thuds of a giant drum echoed around the barn.
“Oh no,” I whispered, looking around wildly to see if anyone else had noticed. But everyone seemed focused on the match. This was something only I could hear.
Well, there was one other person…sort of.
The SBP still lay on the bench at the edge of the ring, partially covered by a damp towel Granddad had dropped. I could just make out Anansi’s worried face as he tried to peer over the edge of the screen and into the crowd. He’d felt something strange, too, and it had left him shaken.
That makes two of us, I thought as Tony the Trainer blew his whistle for the final round.
Everyone had given up on me.
Tony kept glancing at me and shaking his head as he backed up. A few of the adults who’d gathered to watch—those that still remained—were no longer paying the sparring session any attention. Even Granddad seemed uninterested. He met my eyes…then looked away.
That hurt the most.
Reggie bounced on his toes and knocked his gloves together. Every time he did, it sounded like two cinder blocks slamming together. “C’mon, man, let’s get this over with. I thought the legendary Coach Strong would have some sort of prodigy for a grandson. No shade, but I guess we can’t all be great.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “That sorta sounds like shade to me.” I wanted the match to end so I could escape to a corner somewhere. Maybe a hole. With a bag of cheese puffs and some root beer. And—
A soft fragment of a song drifted through the talking crowd to my ears.
Tristan…
I looked up, confused. Reggie danced in front of me, shaking out his arms and rocking his head from side to side. “Did you hear that?” I asked.
“The ringing?” Reggie’s mouthpiece muffled his speech, but when he tapped his glove against the side of his head, I got the message. “Don’t worry, little bro, it’s only gonna get WORSE.” He grunted the last word as he ripped a right hook toward my temple. It missed by inches, but he followed it up with a barrage of jabs and straights that took every ounce of Granddad’s training to avoid. Bob, weave, duck, backpedal. Even with all that, a few blows landed. A right slipped through my guard and grazed my ribs. An uppercut nicked my chin when I threw my head back too slowly.
I backed up, panting. This was getting out of hand. Granddad stood on the ring apron, halfw
ay over the ropes, shouting something at me. Why couldn’t I make it out? Had I lost my hearing? Was I in a daze? Reggie stalked toward me and I was raising my fists when—
Tristan…
There it was again! From the crowd. I could hear a voice—a different one this time. No, several.
Tristan!
Help, please!
He’s coming!
So many voices. And beneath them I heard a rhythm. The rhythm. The one I hadn’t heard in a month. Not since a giant shadow crow had flown me through a gash of roaring fire.
Something surged inside me. A feeling. A power. But why here? Why now? Bright light flashed and caught my eye. The SBP was ringing. Was I getting a call? Or was it Anansi? I felt the tingling on my wrist again, like when your foot falls asleep. It felt like I was trying to wake up. Or someone was trying to wake me up. They needed me. I was being summoned to—
Reggie dashed forward and bull-rushed me into the ropes. His head ground against mine, and he looked up, a sharklike grin exposing his custom mouthpiece.
“You’re wasting my time,” he snarled. “Do me a favor and stay down.”
“What do y—”
Before I could finish, Reggie reared back, his right fist cocked behind him, ready to unleash fury. Then I understood. He wanted to end the fight now. His fist roared forward, a heat-seeking missile with a target lock on my face. If it connected it was game over, good night, thanks for playing.
I couldn’t let that happen.
Fight for something, Granddad had said.
Fight for something. Fight for something!
“Alke,” I whispered.
POP! POP!
NO ONE MOVED.
A second passed. Two. Three. An eternity. Granddad’s eyes were wide and Tony the Trainer gawked. The chatter and conversations had stopped. No one in the crowd moved a muscle. All attention was on the ring and the two fighters standing in the middle of it.
Well, one of us was still standing.
Reggie lay on his back, his eyes fixed on me, astonished. It looked as if this was the first time he’d ever been knocked down and he couldn’t believe it. Slowly, a furious expression crept across his face.
“Walter Strong’s two-piece special, no biscuit,” I said, bouncing on my toes. “You ready to box?”
Reggie slammed his gloves into the ground, then shot to his feet with a growl. I dropped into my stance, feet wide and gloves up, ready for whatever barrage he was preparing to unleash. But before the two of us could resume our battle, Tony the Trainer hopped into the ring and grabbed Reggie around his shoulders.
“Hold it, hold it! Just a sparring match, remember? Look at me.” The trainer checked Reggie’s pupils, but the boy kept shifting side to side to scowl at me. “Hey, come on, let me see. You good?”
The ring doctor stepped up, too. Reggie tried to wave them both away, but they insisted on doing their due diligence and led him to the corner. A hand clapped me on the shoulder. Granddad stood behind me, a hint of a smile on his face.
“Two-piece special, huh?” he asked. “You did good, boy.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Granddad.”
He pulled me into a fierce one-armed hug, then pushed me to the opposite corner. “Go take a break, get some water. Let me check on them, see if they need anything. I’m pretty sure this bout is finished.” He went over and crouched beside Tony and the doctor and murmured something.
I walked to the far side of the ring, nodded at a few people who congratulated me, and leaned against the ropes. My knees felt like jelly, and I let out a shaky breath.
He’s coming!
The words slipped in between my thoughts and hovered at the front of my mind. I stared at my wrist. Quickly, using my teeth to loosen the Velcro straps, I pulled off my boxing gloves. I hopped out of the ring, grabbed the phone, and slipped the earbuds back into my ears. While everyone else’s attention was focused on Alabama’s number one Intermediate boxing prospect, I ducked out the barn door.
“Anansi,” I said, “I need your help.”
I was sitting on a tuft of grass around the back of the barn, slowly unwinding the wraps from my wrists as the breeze cooled the sweat on my skin. It was a gorgeous afternoon. The sun draped the farm in warm golden rays. Birds sang their late-day chorus as insects buzzed and chirped in the cornfield behind me (no crickets…best believe I double-checked that).
The SBP was propped in front of me on the ground. On the screen Anansi rolled over and kept snoring. A strand of silk from the web he’d stretched across the top corner drifted over his mouth, floated away as he exhaled, and returned once more. I poked the tiny god once, then twice.
How could he be asleep at a time like this? “Hey! Did you hear those voices back there? What do I…? Hey, wake up!” I poked the screen again, harder this time, and the trickster god sprang to his feet with a cry and pulled the belt from around his waist in a flash.
“WHO WANNA ROMP?!” he shouted, looking around wildly, twirling the belt above his head like a lasso. He was in his partial-spider form—a six-legged, two-armed man with shining brown skin and twinkling eyes. Right now he looked disheveled, and his voice boomed out of the earbuds. I winced. Alkean acoustics were pretty impressive.
“Shh! Stop shouting. I need your help.”
Anansi blinked, then frowned when he saw it was only me. He rubbed his eyes, yawned, and put his belt back on. “Oh. It’s you. Boy, don’t you know it’s bad form to poke a sleeping god? You’re quite lucky I only let a little Diaspora out.”
I frowned. “Diaspora? What does that mean?”
Anansi raised one tiny eyebrow and sniffed. “It means a group of people who originally came from one spot and then dispersed. How do you think my stories got spread? Folks carried them when they left or were stolen from their homeland and told the tales wherever they landed. I’m big all over, if you didn’t realize. My stories have been shared by queens who were taken to Jamaica, and by workers in Jamaica, Queens. From Port-au-Prince, Haiti, to Paris, France, I’m—as that rhythmic poet says—good in any hood.”
“Soooo…”
“So Diaspora means there are people who are scattered across the globe, in cities and towns and farms, but can all trace their roots back to a single source. For you and me, it means that even though we come from two different worlds, we can claim each other as kinfolk because of where we originated from.”
I sat there and digested that for a second. It was a lot to take in, and for a moment I wished my best friend, Eddie, were still alive so we could break it down. Even if I could talk to his spirit, that might help.
Help!
My head snapped up, and I sprang to my feet. “Nice lecture, but right now I need something else.”
“I told you once, boy—I’m not giving you my secret fried-plantain recipe.”
“I—What? No, nothing like that. I think…I think someone’s in trouble. I sensed something strange in the barn. It looked like you did, too. The last time I felt that, I was in—”
“Alke,” Anansi finished. A sly expression crossed his face, and the spider god clapped his hands and hopped up and down on his six feet. “All right, boy, stop hoarding your gourds. Let’s go take a peek.”
“Hoarding my gourds?” I muttered.
“Come on! Brother Anansi’s got your back.”
Like that was going to make me feel better.
“I had the feeling over there.” I crouched behind the barn and aimed the SBP’s camera through a loose slat. A crowd was still gathered around Reggie, but that wasn’t what I was focused on.
Anansi sat on the edge of the screen and pursed his lips. “Did you use the sky god’s adinkra?”
I shook my head. When I was in Alke, Nyame, the sky god, had given me a trinket with the symbol of his power: the Gye Nyame adinkra. By holding it I could actually see stories, the story threads that tied Alke together. It was just one of several magical charms I’d been given on my journey, and I’d worn them on a band around my wrist.
“Nah,” I said. Something like that would’ve been really helpful right now. The only problem was…“I buried the bracelet.”
Anansi stared at me like I’d started talking out of my ears. “You what?!”
I didn’t meet his eyes. “I buried it. And the gloves—the ones John Henry gave me. I don’t know, I just…Having them nearby and not being able to see…anyone.” I almost slipped up and said Ayanna. “It hurt. Like homesickness, but for a place that wasn’t my home. Does that make sense?”
Anansi scratched his head and muttered something that sounded a lot like Heroes, I swear. Then he sighed. “We’ll talk about this later. Right now…Hmm. Yes, I can help, but I need a little permission.”
I shrugged. “Of course. I’m the one who asked you—”
“No, you giant bag of cobwebs, I need permission from this box Nyame trapped me in. I’m not supposed to use my powers, remember? You have to allow it.”
I stared at him suspiciously. “That sounds like something a trickster god would say.”
Anansi flopped backward and tipped his hat over his eyes. “Fine. I was just trying to help you. But suit yourself. I can go back to investigating the best napping position. Personally, I think hands-folded-over-the-belly-after-a-meal is best, but I need to study it some more.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I get it. You better not be planning anything, though. Otherwise, Nyame’s gonna hear about it.”
Anansi raised his hands innocently. As he did, an alert popped up above his head, the kind that asks permission to access your phone’s contacts list, or to know your location. Normally I’d automatically hit yes, but this time I felt the need to read the fine print aloud.
“‘Do you grant the recipient, Kwaku Anansi, the ability to manipulate the fabric of reality…?’ Wait, what? No!” I scanned the list. “‘Reinvent history’? No. ‘Own all stories from here on out’? No. ‘Exclusive audiobook rights to Fight for Our Lives: The Tristan Strong Story’? NO! Definitely not.”
