Temper: A Novel

by Nicky Drayden

  It is Uncle Yeboah.

  Kasim and I look at each other. I shake my head, and press my fingers over twin bullet wounds inked onto the page.

  “Not him,” I whisper. “Anyone but him.” I go numb all over.

  We read silently after that. The meerkat soothes the gazelle’s wounds, tries to nurse her to health, but her wounds only grow larger. Eventually, a kitten and a baby sparrow gnaw their way out of the bloody tangle of ruptured flesh. The wounds never quite heal, and the gazelle never reclaims the grace she once had. She denies the meerkat’s offers to help rear the helpless creatures that had emerged from the wounds, but she does so with respect and without laughing. Mabio still dreams of riding her on occasion, but is content to be her friend.

  Kasim closes the book. Puts the book back into the box. Closes the box. Puts the box back onto the closet shelf. Closes the closet door. Closes the door to Mother’s room.

  But we can’t close our minds off to what we had read.

  “It’s a children’s book,” I say, leaning over Mother’s desk to crack open the living room window and let out the stuffiness plaguing the air. I tug at my collar, breathe deeply, but it doesn’t help. “It could mean nothing.”

  “It could mean everything.”

  “Well, what should we do? If Mother finds out that we know—”

  “She can’t find out!” Kasim snaps.

  “It’s not fair. Uncle Yeboah has never given us a single thing. What about last narrow season when we nearly froze because we couldn’t pay for coke?” My fists ball. My lip trembles. My voice shakes so hard, I’m not sure how long I can keep it together. “Or all the dinners we’ve spent scrounging through the cupboards for stale bread and expired jellies? Or how we never get to see our own mother since she’s busting her ass all hours to raise us on her own? He owes us, Kasim. He owes Mother.” And a whole lot more than the four hundred fifty djang I need to rid myself of these voices.

  “What if he doesn’t even know we’re his?” Kasim asks. “What if we come out with the truth and cause a rift in our whole family? We have to keep this quiet. It’s going to stir up too much pain.”

  “You of all people want to bury the truth,” I say. “That’s rich.”

  “You shouldn’t have dug it up in the first place,” Kasim spits back at me. His eyes are wide and bloodshot. His nostrils flare. He’s the one who’s supposed to be talking me down, telling me everything will be all right. He’s not, though, and there’s something—off about it. Kasim is upset about this, but there’s something else that’s been weighing heavily on him. Something bigger than discovering that our father is our asshole uncle. My pain becomes secondary, and I lay a hand on his shoulder as he has done for me countless times, hoping there is some speck of grace within me to soothe his temper.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask him. “You’re not behaving like yourself.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you!” he shouts, shrugging me off. The front door slams a minute later. And a minute after that, the queasiness sets in.

  I let the matter drop for the time being. I’ve gone seventeen years without a father. I can go a few more days, no problem. Since the incident with the great-aunts, we haven’t exactly been welcomed back into the Mazibuko home. That’s all fine and good. I’d rather confront Uncle Yeboah at his office anyway, away from the strain of family drama. But I will confront him. I need to know why he left us to fend for ourselves. He knows. Sometimes we lecherous folk pretend like we don’t, but we do. Nice smile, nice eyes, thanks for the prize, and eight months later, she’s at your doorstep, a bundle under each arm, claiming that if you’d just take a peek, just hold them for a few moments, you’d see how much they look like you . . . but you don’t look, don’t hold them, because you’re not the father, and can’t be because you’re too young, and can’t even remember the girl’s name anyway . . . you know. It happens.

  You can’t let an asshole like that off, no consequences. You’ve got to fight tooth and nail to get to the truth. To get him to acknowledge his responsibilities and to support his obligations. To get him to explain how he could so easily abandon his children.

  “Kasim?” I call up to the top bunk, two nights before school starts back up and this horrid month-long break comes to an end. He avoids me as much as he can during the day, but he has to sleep.

  For a long while, nothing comes except the chirp of crickets, the echoing barks of street dogs in the distance, and the unquiet of my own mind.

  “What?” he finally says, voice punching through the darkness.

  “I hate us being like this. Why don’t we take some time and talk about things tomorrow. We could go to that new Rashtra place . . . you know what I’m talking about? What’s it called?” I say, feigning a slight lapse of memory.

  He doesn’t fall for it. “You know what it’s called.”

  “Right . . . Bhagesh Palace. I hear they’ve got a red curry that’s so spicy, it’ll make your whole face go numb.”

  “That’s not a selling point.”

  “Come on. I’m paying. It’s my narrow season gift to you. Or a peace offering, or whatever. Please. I want to make things up to you.”

  “You want to make things up to me by taking me to a restaurant a block and a half over from Yeboah’s office? How convenient for you.” The missing “uncle” doesn’t go unnoticed.

  “Oh, yeah. He does work around there, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes. He does. What were you going to do, excuse yourself to the restroom and then slip out to go beat the truth out of him while I’m left to foot the bill?”

  “No!” I lie, so easily. He’s not buying, so I quickly bolster it with another. “I would have come back for you . . .”

  The bed creaks as Kasim rolls over and settles for sleep. “You know, the best thing about holding this lie within me, Auben, is that I’ve gotten a whole hell of a lot better at spotting yours.”

  Shit. My tongue is definitely the sharpest tool in my duplicity arsenal, but it isn’t my only tool. People look down on lesser twins. Maybe they claim not to these days, but looking around, you notice things. Sure there may be plenty of lesser twin teachers, but administrators, forget about it. We’re store clerks, but never shop owners. Foot soldiers, but never ranking officers. They tolerate us like impish children, encouraging our aspirations, and yet firmly reminding us of our limitations. Reach, but don’t reach too high. Even though they’re far from flawless, they’re always looking to chastise us for our lechery, or for our greed, or for our lies. They expect our lies. What they don’t expect is the truth.

  And truth in the hands of a duplicitous person is perhaps the most dangerous weapon of all.

  Kasim thinks he’s won, but I’m going to get him to come with me so I can give Uncle Yeboah the shakedown, and I’m going to do it without telling Kasim a single lie. Without telling anyone a single lie.

  “Can anyone name the Seven Holy Wars in order by year?” Msr. Ademola asks the class. When ey gets no response, ey tips eir glasses down and peers about the room, eyes hungry for blood. Students keep their gazes aimed at their worn desks, at the pencil-pocked ceiling tiles, at the broken concrete schoolyard outside the windows. They look anywhere, except back into Msr. Ademola’s eyes. It’s only the second day of class. How can ey expect anyone to know this already?

  “This is a secular school,” a mousy fem kigen with a slight Nri accent says from the back of the class.

  “Being secular doesn’t exempt you from history—” Msr. Ademola looks down at eir class roll “—Msr. Egwu, is it?” Ey makes a hostile mark on the page. “Anyone else?”

  I raise my hand, stare Msr. Ademola down. My stomach churns.

  “Yes, Mr. Mtuze?” ey says directly, without referencing eir roll sheet. “Perhaps you’re in need of a bathroom break already?” My reputation precedes me. So maybe, on occasion, I’ve left class to use the restroom, only to come back twenty minutes later reeking of sanjo smoke or worse. This is definitely going to be an
uphill battle, but Msr. Ademola’s reputation has preceded em as well—a bitter, hard-as-nails Gabadamosi Preparatory reject who apparently got the boot for giving poor marks to the wrong Mzansi noble. Eir default attitude is one of defensive indignation and offensive hostility.

  Fortunately, I’ve come prepared for war.

  “No, Msr. Ademola. I wish to answer the question.”

  “Fine. Proceed.” Eir lips prune up like ey’s sucked the life from a lemon.

  “First, there was The Benevolent Legion War. Then The Great—” My cheeks bulge. I take a moment to gather myself, then continue. “The Great Hurt.”

  “Are you okay, Mr. Mtuze?”

  “Fine, Msr. Ademola. I think it’s something I ate.” Maybe the steaming double portion of mala mogodu I had this morning—beef offal stew with pap, spinach, and a handful of raisins for sweetness. Traditional comfy food. Kasim had lapped his up, then happily went back for seconds and thirds, but it has never agreed with me. Something about the chewiness of the offal and the grittiness of the pap, the slipperiness of the cooked spinach, and the squishiness of those bloated raisins—it’s like all the best parts of a sinus infection sneezed into a bowl. I’d forced down spoonful after spoonful, slicker on my tongue than all the lies I’ve ever told. And now my stomach churns and gurgles loud enough to draw a look of disgust from the kid in front of me. “As I was saying—” My cheeks bulge again, and this time they do not remain empty. I place my hands over my mouth.

  “To the infirmary, now, Mr. Mtuze!” Msr. Ademola slings a hall pass around my neck, a big block of wood attached to a tarnished chain, then ey shoves me out the door.

  At the end of the hallway, I lose my mogodu in the waste bin, and my stomach eases after a long drink of cool water. I walk high and tall, taking a detour past Principal Boro’s glass-fronted office, a place I know all too well. My fingers play against the worn edges of the words Hall Pass branded into the wooden stick, just as the mark of duplicity had been branded upon me after Discernment. I stiffen once I realize that my free pass is not foolproof. What if Principal Boro asks me where I am going? I can’t say to the nurse, because it would be a lie, and if I tell em I’m off to the theatrics department to learn how to orchestrate a mammoth ruse on my brother so that I can confront my deadbeat father, well . . . sometimes the easiest truth is that of avoidance.

  “Lechery consumes me, and I it . . .” Ruda bellows into the auditorium filled with dark recesses and empty seats. The stone-faced theatrics teacher sits alone, front and center, clipboard and pen in hand.

  Chaste Ruda moves gracefully within the confines of her lie, all the undulations we had witnessed with that holler whore come to life under the limelights. Colorful, skintight leotards reveal every curve of her body, every pucker and detail. She might as well be naked and covered in paints. I steady myself against lecherous thoughts. Kasim is in love with her, and for whatever strange reason, she’s into him, and I can’t come between that. Ruda continues to play out the audition with unexpected ruefulness. Damn, I feel for her. Could have sworn she’d spent the last four years on a street corner, consumed and consuming, twinless.

  The teacher stands as Ruda’s head drops and the scene ends. “Magnificent!” he screams, and a smile cracks through his stoic face. He stuffs his clipboard and pen under his armpit to give Ruda a brisk ovation. “We have found our Daughter Sarr!”

  The four other Sarr prospects standing in line with me, also clad in near nothingness, clap politely, though they are visibly disappointed. They offer hugs to Ruda, and Ruda accepts them with such humbleness. Then she comes to me, the last in line. She looks me over, tugs at my black wig, pinches at my blaringly bright leotard.

  “What are you doing here?” she asks, unable to contain her amusement.

  “The sign said ‘open auditions,’ and I was open.” I offer her a shrug and an apologetic smile. “Sorry about how our evening worked out last year.”

  “If I had a djang for every fourth-story apartment I had to suddenly evacuate via fire escape . . .” She rolls her eyes. “Seriously. That wasn’t even the worst part of our narrow season. Not even close.”

  “Same here. That wasn’t even the worst part of my day. Bad time in Nri?”

  “Our whole family is officially banned from the beaches, so . . . yeah.”

  “Do please tell!”

  “Nkosazana got sick right after we left your place. I offered her some feverfew to help with the chills, but she refused, and was miserable and cranky our whole trip. We got into a fight. Proximity was broken. Sea cucumbers were put where no sea cucumbers ought to go. Paramedics were called. Paramedics were bitten. Law enforcement was called. Sirens. Glass bottles. Tear gas. I got sixteen stitches.” She points to a reddened scar along her jawline. “Lovely time. Highly recommended.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Seems like you have a story there yourself.” She runs her finger along my neck scar, and her touch lingers a couple seconds too long.

  “Oh, you know. Fight with Kasim. Broken proximity. Climbed a mountain. Attacked by a caracal that I’m pretty sure was the devil. Found out who my dad is.” My words are light and airy, but their weight bears down on me hard. “Typical narrow season antics.”

  “Sooo typical. Almost boring, really.” Ruda laughs the pain away, right along with me, but I catch a hint of hesitation in the corners of her eyes and at the turn of her lips. “So back to my original question . . . what are you doing here?”

  “I want to write a play and I need your help.”

  Ruda perks as if we’ve started speaking the same language. “Please, dear sir. Step into my office . . .”

  We find a quiet nook backstage among the mountains of old wooden set pieces, and sit cross-legged, facing each other. Thick velvet curtains help to dampen out the intonations of actors auditioning for other parts and the scrape of heavy stage props being moved about. I feel like I’m caught in the aftermath of a typhoon that cut through a fairy tale. Upturned houses, trees lying on their sides, donkey parts everywhere, a flattened oryx-drawn coach, man-sized mushrooms. All hand painted with the same diligent care. It’s dizzying.

  “So,” I say, focusing my senses, leaning into my knees with my elbows. “Basically, I want to scare the shit out of Kasim. Get him so wound up and out of mind with worry that he’ll do anything I say, and go anywhere I want to take him—specifically our uncle’s office building. He can’t get suspicious either. We’ll have to incorporate it into our daily routine somehow.”

  “Then all the world is our stage . . .” Ruda’s lips part to reveal a duplicitous smile.

  “Exactly. But my budget is tight. Not a lot of money for props or actors, but I can work it off. Maybe help build sets or sew costumes or whatever.”

  “Not necessary. We’ve got tons of stuff we can borrow from the department. And I can call in a few favors from a couple fellow thespians who owe me big.”

  “Hmm. Well, that was easy. I thought I’d have to sell you my soul to get you to cross your little love buddy.” I make an appropriately inappropriate gesture to match what had gone down on our couch during their make-out session. My eyes fall to the curve of her lips. Aggressive, Kasim had said. Nice.

  “Ugh, don’t remind me.” She laughs cruelly, then looks up at me and catches the shock on my face. “Don’t get me wrong! Kasim’s a nice enough guy, but it was either listen to him talk about the endemic dung beetle species of Mzansi for another two hours, or find a way to shut him up. So I found a way to shut him up.”

  Ruda doesn’t like Kasim? My mouth hangs agape as I mull the possibilities. Should I break things off with Nkosazana first? Or keep Ruda as my secret lover? Definitely break things off first, I think. Ruda deserves better, though if I played things right, Nkosazana could be my side piece. I clamp my jaw tight, and stiffen my brow, realizing I must look as overwhelmed as a doe-eyed fawn. My heart flutters with delight, and then drops like a stone as I realize . . . Ruda doesn’t like Kasim.

  He’ll be cr
ushed.

  “So, you want to scare Kasim,” Ruda says, her rough hands rubbing together like sandpaper. “What’s the thing he’s the most afraid of?”

  Losing you, I think.

  But I say, “Wu. He tries to hide it and pretends he doesn’t believe, but that stuff makes him super nervous. Did you see how he was about to bolt when we pulled up to that mystic?”

  “Brilliant. Are you familiar with Biobaku?”

  “Sure. That fancy dish with the swordfish wrapped in seaweed.”

  Ruda shakes her head. “No, no. That’s briabaka. Biobaku was a playwright several centuries ago who wrote over a hundred plays. I’m guessing you and Kasim don’t get out to the theater much?”

  “Not a once.”

  “Well, in any case, Biobaku wrote a play called The Five Curses of Akerele. We put on a production of it a couple years ago. It’s about an ostentatious socialite—renowned for throwing lavish, gluttonous parties. He gets cursed by a wu witch, as they used to be called, and loses the ability to enjoy the finest pleasures in life, one sense at a time, until left with nothing, he gnaws off his hands and feet, and takes a donkey as a lover.”

  “Mmm. Bestiality. Just what I was aiming for . . .”

  “It’s a lot more complicated than that. Biobaku was a genius. Anyway, we’ll just use the second act. After the setup, and before the downfall. The part where Akerele is driven to insanity by the wu witch’s antics.”

  I nod. “And speaking of driving, we’re going to need a coach to get us across town fast.” Excessive? Maybe. Ruda seems like she’s all in, though, so why not reach for the stars?

  “Yeah, yeah. Mind tricks. Coach races. This is going to be so much fun,” Ruda says to me. She scoots closer and begins to go into detail about the play and how it can be translated into our open-air production. We sit there through the remainder of her theatrics class. When the bell chimes, neither of us budges a muscle. Shortly after, the lights go out, all but a single dingy yellow light hanging above us like a moon. I look up into the rafters and see a set of silver-painted stars dangling from rope. It’s almost romantic.