by Pike, Leslie
I keep ahold of her hand. “Thank you. It’s rare I talk about it. This may be the stupidest thing I’ve ever said to a journalist, but there’s something about you that makes me want to reveal myself.”
Her first response is a squeeze of my hand.
“Then tell me. It’s off the record, Zan.”
Taking a deep breath before I begin, I go back to my beginnings.
“I was born in the Transkei, in a fishing village at the tip of South Africa. It’s beautiful there. At least in my memory. Port St. Johns sat right along the coastline of the Indian Ocean.”
“That was during apartheid, I know.”
“Apartheid ended when I was nine. Everything ended when I was nine.”
“I read your parents were killed, but I don’t know anything more. It seems to be a story that’s remained private.”
I gaze into her eyes and all hesitation on my part vanishes. I want to tell her. For some strange reason. I need to tell her specifically.
“It’s hardly dinner table conversation, Belinda. You sure you want to hear it?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
Taking the last sip of my wine, I plunge in. “I was fishing that day. My friends and I were working the nets along the breaking waves. That’s how we’d catch our families’ dinners. By the time you’re eight or nine, Zulu boys know how to take care of themselves.”
“You’re Zulu? That’s never come up in any research I’ve done. The only time it’s been referenced is in your charity work for the Zulu and Xhosa tribes.”
“My father was Zulu. The Xhosas and Zulus were warring tribes where I’m from. But I feel a deep connection and responsibility to support the interests of both. You’ll understand why in a minute.”
I motion to the server, who responds quickly.
“What can I get you, sir?”
“I’d like a Grey Goose martini, olives,” I say. “Sure you don’t want one?”
Belinda smiles at the server. “A woman’s prerogative, right? I’ll have the same.”
“Great. Alcohol is sometimes the perfect companion for a sad story,” I say quietly.
“Anything else?” the server asks.
“No, that’s it for now.”
As she walks away, Belinda does a surprising thing. She raises my hand to her lips and gently kisses it.
“A kiss can be a perfect companion too. Now continue.”
“As I said, we were fishing that afternoon. And we were about oh, I’d say four hundred yards from the three-story hotel that stood along the road. It was the only building around. My father was the day manager and my mother was assistant to the owner. Fishermen would stay there, or tourists who wanted to be off the beaten track. It was for the whites. I never saw a black man staying there. Not once. They were the cooks and the staff. Anyway, that afternoon we heard an odd sound. Pop pop pop. And then a woman screaming.”
“From the hotel?”
“Yes. My friends and I froze in the moment. I can still see the face of the boy I was next to. We just listened for a few beats. One boy yelled, ‘gunshots’. That’s when we ran.”
“How horrible.”
“The gunshots increased. They were using automatic weapons on the staff and the guests.”
Her free hand squeezes my arm. “Who were they?”
“Boko Haram. Are you familiar?”
“Yes, of course. I know they’re a militaristic African Islamic group. They commit atrocities in the name of their god. And their divine purpose as they put it.”
“That’s right. On that day they committed an act of terror against people they identified as affronts to their religion, and innocents as well. They are not discriminating in that way. Whoever gets in the way is collateral damage.”
“Is that how your parents died?”
“My father was shot where he stood. My mother was raped first by how many I don’t know. Then they shot her in the head.”
A tear streams down Belinda’s face.
“You haven’t heard the worst of it yet,” I say quietly.
“Really?”
There’s a look on her face I remember from years back. Both the king and queen had it when first we met. It’s made of equal parts horror and pity.
“We first saw the shooters when one of the housekeepers came running out of a room on the top floor. There was no place to hide. She should have tried to hide in the room. There was a man at the bottom of the stairs and when she saw him she started screaming. He quieted her with a volley of gunfire. Sometimes in my dreams I see her body jumping with the bullets’ impact.”
Our drinks arrive just in time for us both. I know how heavy this story is. This out-of-context moment is welcomed.
“Thank you,” she says as the martini is placed in front of her.
The waitress can’t help but catch a look at our pained faces. She takes her leave quickly.
“Let me take a sip,” I say.
“Me too. Never have I wanted a drink so much.”
“Is this all too much for you, Belinda? I’d understand completely.”
“I want you to tell me. I’m just responding appropriately. Like any feeling person would. Please continue. We’ll just stop every so often for liquid courage.”
I lean in to her ear and kiss it softly. She rests her face against mine in response.
“Go ahead,” she says.
“Okay. So, it didn’t take them long to notice the six boys on the beach. We had actually moved toward them at first.”
“Did they kill any of the children?”
I sit with the question for a moment and she doesn’t press.
“It would have been mercy for some of us.”
“Tell me.”
“We were so scared. My best friend was a Xhosa. We didn’t hate each other like the adults. There was nothing between us but friendship. But Shahir was so afraid that day he let his bowels loose. That was the unforgivable sin they killed him for.”
I watch Belinda’s face. The sadness creeps in her eyes first. The horror of the truth needs no response.
“They kidnapped us. Boko Haram is known for taking children and making soldiers of them, or worse. But for me and my four friends left alive, we were taken to their camp, indoctrinated, and made into nine-year-old murderers. There wasn’t a choice.”
Tears are now streaming in rivulets. They come too fast to wipe away, so she holds a napkin against her face, catching them before they fall. My eyes are dry. I shed my last tear long ago.
“I’m so sorry you lived that…I mean, what kind of human beings…oh God.”
The reaction is heartfelt and genuine. I know there’s really nothing to say that’s the right response. It’s not words that comfort me, it’s the realization she is wounded just by hearing about my painful past.
“Give me your hand and I’ll tell you about who came and saved us.”
She reaches out and we hold on to each other. Behind the napkin I hear the quiet whimpering of her compassion.
“We were part of this twisted brotherhood for almost five months. They kept moving us from one camp to another, across borders. Then they made a crucial mistake. They took us into Mozia, where they had just established a temporary encampment.”
She lowers the napkin and I see the red nose and eyes. They look beautiful to me.
“Why temporary?” she says.
“Because King Mansa was already known for establishing a sophisticated intelligence agency within the country. Other independent African countries used it as a model. Another thing was his ability to recognize real threats to Mozians’ rule of order. Boko Haram was and is still a real threat. But not to our country anymore.”
“Why?”
“Because, he put all his available resources into rooting the evil out. Intelligence, soldiers, mercenaries, called-in favors. Whatever he could use, he did. To try to save the children. When we were within his borders he pounced. It was a dawn attack.”
“My God. It must have been an u
nbelievable sight.”
“There was one last trauma to live through. Boko Haram isn’t known for going peacefully. There were lookouts of course, and one survived to sound the warning. As soon as they were aware the soldiers were almost on them, they began the killings. There were about thirty boys in all and twenty-five men. They would have rather died then be captured and tried.”
Belinda’s hand covers her mouth.
“I was the sole survivor of the boys. All my friends gone in a flash of automatic gunfire. In the end only seven men were captured. All were put to death.”
She takes it all in for a few moments. The story requires that at least.
“How did you end up as part of the royal family?”
I trace my thumb over hers and let the memory wash over me.
“It was the queen. Her heart went out to me when she learned the story. She and the king came to visit me in the hospital that first week. I was a damaged child. Psychologically, physically, deeply scarred literally and figuratively.”
Her eyes narrow and her lips press shut as if she’s holding back a scream. Can’t blame her.
“At first I was silent. I had learned to survive by trying to become invisible, and I could do it again.”
Her face. It’s so filled with compassion.
“The queen would come by herself at least three times a week. The king and eventually their son came every Sunday. They’d stay in my room for hours at a time. They’d talk to me, not expecting an answer.”
She dips her head, taking in the enormity of what was given to me.
“What good people. How long did it take to start opening up?”
“Six months. That’s with the finest psychotherapy they could buy. The best doctors and nurses. But in the end I think it was the tenderness and eventually the love coming toward me that healed my spirit. That, and a little red ball. Tarik and Kwai would sit on the floor by me and roll it in my direction. It took two months before I’d send it back. They were remarkable boys.”
For the first time a little smile breaks out.
“You are a testament to the strength of a human being. It’s remarkable.”
“I’m still a work in progress.”
“I don’t know how you ever made it through. Oh, Zan. It’s such a heartbreaking story.”
“It took a whole year before they broached the subject of me becoming a member of the family.”
“How did Kwai react?”
“He was the eldest at ten, but I don’t think he understood. Tarik was eight but he was an old soul. Right from the beginning he welcomed me, befriended me. Taught me more than you can imagine.”
“And the king?”
“He only showed me love. His compassion equaled the queen’s. Every day I’ve tried to be worthy of the great gift they’ve given me.”
She looks at me with such tenderness. Then she leans in and takes my face in her hands.
“I need to kiss you,” she whispers.
Never deny a woman what she needs.
Chapter 6
Belinda
I’ve started getting used to these butterflies in my stomach. Tonight at dinner they were joined by fire-breathing dragons. And just hearing his deep voice on the phone brings them all to life again.
“I wanted to say good night. Are you in bed yet?”
I wrap one leg outside the covers. “Just now. You?”
“I’m on top of the bed. Laying here in the dark.”
The thought of Zan, the image he describes, renders me silent.
“I need to tell you something.” His voice softens. “Do you know how much I wanted you in my bed tonight?”
Of course I know. The sexual chemistry was palpable from minute one, yet he barely kissed me good night. Instead of saying too much, I temper my response.
“I wondered if I was alone in my feelings.”
A low chuckle escapes his lips. “No, Belinda. I was right there with you.”
“Why didn’t you act on it then?”
“Because I didn’t want our first time together to be about anything but passion. I don’t want any sadness to make its way in.”
I weigh my words. “I would have been one hundred percent present.”
“I wouldn’t have. Tonight was the first time I’ve told someone about my past, other than the therapists.”
His words settle in my heart and with them the sense we’ve just crossed some invisible and unspoken relationship border. This is foreign territory.
“You made the right choice. You’ll be gone in a few days anyway. Maybe we’re destined to be friends, Zan,” I say with no conviction.
“Friends? No, we’re not. I reject that completely. I’ll prove it to you tomorrow night. Pick you up at seven.”
There’s no question, just a statement of fact.
“You’re awfully bossy, Prince Charming.”
His low throaty chuckle is the last thing I hear before he disconnects.
* * *
Standing in my underwear and black heels, I wait while my best friend looks through my closet.
“Try this one.”
Soraya takes the sparkly golden slip dress from its hanger. Before being passed to me, she holds it up to look at herself in the full-length mirror.
“You look amazing, Soraya. You’ve lost the baby weight and more.”
“It took long enough. Lorenzo is fifteen months old.”
“How’s Chloe handling being a big sister?”
“Are you kidding? She’s obsessed with him. It’s adorable.”
As she stands on tiptoes, my eyes go to her tattoo. Tattoos actually. Inked on her foot is a feather and above that her husband’s name.
“Remind me to borrow this dress. Graham would love it.”
“You could wear a Hefty bag and he’d think you stepped out of Vogue. It’s beautiful to watch him watching you.”
Handing over the dress, she smiles and nods in a happy agreement. I can’t think of a person who would deny the strength of their romance.
“Don’t you think the dress is a bit obvious?” I ask. The corner of my mouth lifts, emphasizing the doubt.
“Obviously sexy. If not tonight Belinda, when?” She laughs at her own words. “It’s the prince, and you’re about to get a peek at the royal jewels!”
My best friend with the blue-tipped hair can be counted on for many things. Being candid is one that has come in handy. She’s known for giving good advice and gets paid for it. But in this particular case, I’m leery. The woman thinks Zan walks on water. And this is no Ask Ida problem.
“Try it on. I’m going to look through your earrings. That’s all you’d need. The dress has enough going on.”
I step into the open back and raise the almost weightless dress to my torso. I lift the delicate straps around the back of my neck and button them. It’s so light I feel naked.
“Ohhhh! You whore!” Soraya laughs. “That looks awesome on you!”
Looking at my image I turn to each side. She brings me the thin gold large hoops.
“These. Try these. And take off those heels. I’ll get the ones you bought last week.”
“This is so short! Look at the back! It’s almost showing my crack!”
“The better to pat your ass, my dear,” she calls from the closet.
I can’t hold back my smile. “I have to admit, I like how the light hits the sequins. Zan will like that.”
Soraya’s head peeks out. “Oh yeah, it’s the sequins he’s going to be concentrating on.”
* * *
The limo is our cocoon, its darkened windows protecting us from the eyes of people driving by. Darkened glass separating the front to back seat is raised. We’re virtually alone, and no one can hear us. Zan reaches for my hand and wraps warm fingers in mine.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” he says gently.
How can he tell? My mouth feels like the Sahara Desert, but I thought I was selling the idea I had it all together.
�
�Want a drink of sparkling water?” he says, taking the bottle from the holder and pouring half a crystal tumbler full.
“Here, Belinda. Take a sip.”
Gladly. My lips are dry and sticking to my teeth. Christ. I take the glass and down every drop.
“You’re right. I’m unnaturally nervous.”
“So am I. You could have any man. I know that.” He taps his chest. “I have to live up to your expectations.”
Looking in his eyes, I know he’s lying. He isn’t nervous in the least. But I give it to the man for trying to make me feel better. It’s kind.
“Maybe you should kiss my nerves away. It might make things better.”
He chuckles at my suggestion, leaning in close. My hand raises to his face and as lips touch a warmth rises and reaches to the tips of my fingers and toes. We fall headlong into the kiss, instantly lost in its depth of feeling. As we part, a look passes between us that acknowledges the power of the moment.
The driver has turned into the hotel’s garage. We pull up to the underground elevators and Zan lowers the glass divide.
“Thank you, Paul. I won’t need you again tonight. Pop the trunk. I’ll get it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
We exit the car and Zan gets my overnight case, rolling it behind him. When I press the up button the elevator door immediately pulls back. The clacking of wheels rolling over the entry and the beating of my thirsty heart is all I hear. Zan inserts the card for the Penthouse floor, returning it to his pocket and slipping his arms around my waist. He leans his forehead against mine and the tips of our noses touch. It’s a tenderness that belies the sexual heat permeating the small space we occupy.
“You’re beautiful, Belinda. Not only physically, but in here,” he says, laying a hand on my heart.
“We’ve hardly had the time to begin knowing each other, but I see the good man in you.”
He kisses me chastely then pivots the conversation.
“Would you like to meet the bad boy?”
The elevator door slides open, but Zan waits for my answer before we walk out.
“Hell yes,” I say.
I walk out of the tiny elevator into a spectacular suite. It’s all sleek surfaces and grey and black tones. Lights are set low.
