by Amarie Avant
“No, I don’t. I’m sorry–”
“No, no, don’t be, Princess Mikayla.” Her head dips as if she’s translating and stumbling over the English words. She placed her hand in to the front pocket of her dress, “I have…”
“Is she awake?” Shaka’s familiar voice booms against the wall.
The woman moves her hand from her pocket, wrings her fingers together and steps to the side, keeping from being run over.
“My father will be here in an hour. Kmota, get her prepared for dinner.” He just barged inside and is already heading out the door.
The woman approximately my age, who I presume is named Kmota, glances at me again. “We are so happy you are here. The king regent talked of your arrival.”
I move over with my legs onto the side of the bed. “Uncle Qaaim?” My eyes shade somewhat, I cannot recall him at all.
“We’ve had your wardrobe prepared for a year now. Every seamstress in town gave gifts for you to wear.” She sounds excited.
It goes clear over my head that they’ve been expecting me for an entire year. My brain is still working on overdrive. “Kmota, you were going to give me something?”
“Oh, yes, MamLulami is so happy—“
“MamNcozo?” I speak up. Where did that come from? Did I even say the word correctly.
“No, MamNcozo passed a few years ago. MamLulami is now our … principle healer.”
My lips slide down into a frown instantly. I believe in The Holy Trinity. Whoever this woman is, I have no desire to meet her. It hits me that I still need to be respectful, however. Knowing I’m wrong for stereotyping their culture I smile at her. “Is there a phone I can use?”
“Yes, I can help you with that. Before or after you shower and dress?”
“Now, please.” I cushion the stress I feel with another warm smile. Although, I’m stuck in the past, and cannot recall Kmota, I will treat her with the politeness that I’ve been wishing for this past week. “I will brush my teeth first and use the restroom,” I glance around.
“Yes, Princess Mikayla.” She walks toward a door parallel to the edit and opens it. “Everything you need is here.”
“Thank you.” I head into the bathroom. The walls are yellow gold and the toilet is as well. It doesn’t have a gaudy feeling to it, but a regale one. The windows are open. I glance out and the drop to the first floor is nothing that I’m courageous enough to attempt.
At the sound of a trumpet my shoulders jerk. Water blows in my face!
It’s the elephant!
That psychotic humongous elephant that attempted to bulldoze me. He presses his front feet against the wall and gives another blow. This time the spray is more of a mist. I wipe my face and argue, “Leave me alone… you… you…”
Abayomi…
What was that? The man Jagger murdered in Long Beach was Abayomi. All I recall of him is his hands in mine. He told me he was a warrior. He told me he’d keep me safe. But that was ages ago.
“You stay away from me,” I say through tensed lips. The elephant gives another blow. It’s just a gust of air now.
I slam the window.
“Princess Mikayla?” Kmota calls.
“I’m sorry,” I speak out.
The door opens. “If you wouldn’t mind, I can help you.”
“I… I’m fine. It was just this crazy elephant,” I reply, still astonished at how I passed out. “He wants to flatten me like a pancake.”
“No, he doesn’t.” She shakes her head. “King Bannan, kept Abayomi for you when you were just a little girl.
Bannan, what a beautiful name. My father’s name was… Bannan. King Bannan …”
“Bannan, iyinto yam yonke (you are my everything),” the words float across my skin in a voice that was once familiar to me. My father would be hugging us, my mother and me, and I can almost hear her lighthearted giggle like never before. I’d be attempting to catch my breath from laughing so, and my mother would stop. She’d stare at my father and tell him you are my everything.
C’mon, Mikayla, I tell myself. Don’t do this. They’re gone. It’s unnecessary to relive the past…because it almost broke you the first time. You’re stronger than this!
Kmota’s mouth is moving as she speaks. In a last effort for self-preservation, my ears perk.
“… Bannan said we don’t keep the animals they need freedom to roam. Bannan was a wise king. Abayomi was the first elephant you weren’t afraid of. I remember. I was helping clean your room and I laughed. Your legs were like your mother’s homemade fruit jelly.”
“What do you mean? Abayomi is…was a boy.”
She grins. “You named the elephant after your best friend,” her grin faulted. “Excuse me, Princess Mikayla. You said was? Is that what you said?”
I gulp.
Now her mouth bunches together. “Please,” she says, yet her voice doesn’t retain the usual cordiality.
In trepidation, I break the news, “He’s dead. At least, if I’m right about who I think he is…was.”
A tiny sob breaks the silence between us. She places her hand over her mouth.
I start to reach for her shoulder and Kmota takes a step back. “Because of you! Is he dead because–” her voice cuts off. Her eyes widen as if realizing who I am. “I’m sorry, Princess Mikayla. I-let me know if you need anything. I’ll wait in your bedroom if you don’t mind.”
“Okay, Kmota, I’m sorry…”
She turns to glance over her shoulder at me. Her entire body is tense as she offers one last look as response.
After staring at my bland face in the mirror for a few moments, I start to get busy. There are toiletries underneath the sink, and the bamboo basket behind me has the plushest towels I’ve ever felt.
Though I complete a quick wash down and brush my teeth in just a few minutes, I feel cleaner. It’s almost like the few times I went to help give vaccines in South America. But I actually have the accommodations here. The bathtub behind me is larger than the pond outside where the baby elephants frolicked, and it’s shaped with rocks and turquoise.
But I have to call my family and let them know that I’m okay. I wish that Jagger and I had been on such terms that I have his phone number. I turn the knob and squeeze my eyes shut hoping he is still alive.
When I see Kmota standing in the center of the room, ready for an order, guilt slams into me. She knew Abayomi, the man. The boy, somewhere in my heart, I knew I loved. I can feel my stomach relaxing with thoughts of wanting to laugh…laugh at him, maybe?
Abayomi was funny, at least I feel like he was. And I’m not even aware of how much he is missed. How many souls will mourn him…
“Where is his body?” Kmota speaks, she seems to be biting her tongue as if she hadn’t meant to but couldn’t help but ask. “I am sorry, Princess Mikayla, I am sure our King Regent will… will… handle everything.”
“Can I have my phone call?” I ask, sensing that we both need a change of subject. There’s anger in her eyes for me. And I cannot answer her question about Abayomi.
“Yes, of course.” She opens the door and begins to lead me down a corridor. “We really must hurry, King Regent will want you dressed appropriately for dinner and he will…”
My eyes catch onto some sort of tapestry paintings. And my pacing stops. I look up at a beautiful woman, of the darkest shade of chocolate. Her chin is held high and damn it if she doesn’t have sophisticated cheekbones. Her dark gaze speaks volumes. The man beside her is a roasted hazelnut color. His hair is silky.
“Your parents were the best leaders,” Kmota speaks up. The glare in her eyes tells me that I can’t even touch their feet. She doesn’t believe I’d make a good royal.
Heck, I agree.
Kmota says, “Just inside this room is the phone—“
“Mikayla, my niece,” a voice booms from the stairs.
Kmota bows her head as I turn to see who’s speaking to us.
The man is just as beautiful as my mother. Thick lips, broad nose,
and a white-and-gold dashiki tunic covers his broad shoulders. Hell, he’s broad all over. His face is perfectly defined, and white, straight teeth contrast perfectly with his dark raspberry lips as he smiles.
He moves up the last few steps, arms stretched wide. Kmota steps back a few paces.
He hugs me, whispering in my ear. “We searched for you for years, Mikayla.”
“Who are you?”
“I am your uncle, Qaaim.” He holds me at arm’s length. “You do not remember me?”
“Uncle Qaaim,” I mumble, trying out the words. No. “I don’t recall much, I’m sorry.”
“That troubles me, Mikayla, please, let us talk in my office.” He holds out a hand to lead the way.
“I was actually going to make a call.”
“Of course, of course. But I haven’t seen you in years. Just a chat before you do. Don’t you have a mobile?”
I sigh. “I did.”
“We will get you one. The young ones these days do not leave home without them.”
We enter a room that isn’t half as furnished as my bedroom or bathroom for that matter. There’s a steel table with worn chairs that have cracks in the leather. Qaaim moves around the table
I sit down. “What happened to me? Why didn’t I grow up here?”
Would you like the truth? A voice whispers.
“Are you ready for the truth?” Qaaim asks the very question swarming through my mind.
“My mother died.”
His lips are pulled in and he rubs a hand over his mouth. Those beautiful dark eyes, that look so much like the queens begin to water.
“Your mother… my sister…” His baritone voice dips. “She and your father died, yes. The entire nation mourned.”
“What happened?” My voice is weak. I don’t remember them. It’s okay, Mikayla, it’s a normal thing to mourn, it’s not as if you’re developing an attachment, I tell myself.
“Car crash.” He leans back in his chair. “I spoke with the South African Government so many times. I told them that our police were looking into it, but we did not have the tools to determine how. It was suspicious!” He slams a hand onto the table. “My big sister’s death was suspicious. They had a driver. He was dealt with…”
Qaaim’s voice trails off. Questions consume my mind. I ask, “Dealt with?”
“Their death was on the night of celebration. Everyone was down in the village. The king and queen are to arrive last, as the celebration was for them. And yet the driver said that your father gave him the night off! I do not believe it.”
“Can I speak with the driver?” Where did that inquiry come from?
He reaches across the table to take my hand. I almost flinch. I come from a huge family. Many of my classmates in college would complain about the holidays. Having to go here or there, or worse, hosting for Christmas and whatnot. But in my home, my parents always had somebody’s uncle or cousin over, even if they weren’t related. I’ve got the good uncle you go to for legal advice or the creepy one, you remind him that his niece with the big booty is … his niece.
I shrug off the instinct to yank my hand away as Qaaim says, “Mikayla, the driver was dealt with. He is dead.”
“Where was I?” Shit, I am definitely showing more interest than I should. My parents abandoned me in front of Child Protective Services—or at least, I knew my father had. He has to have been a crackhead who murdered my mother. Yeah, those were the words that stung when I was in middle school—the worst bullying ever. Those words kept my nose in a book and my ass on track to becoming a doctor.
“You were with me, Princess Mikayla. We were preparing for your parent’s arrival. We’d picked flowers,” he smiled reminiscent. Qaaim then rubs his chin and says, “I cannot believe you don’t recall.”
I nod my head slowly, taking my uncles words in stride. “Sorry, I can’t remember anything…” except for umama ufile… “I’ve had intensive trauma therapy. It was a blessing.” I almost blush. Not that I was being sarcastic, but we are from different cultures.
“Your mother was beautiful, strong. A good leader.”
And my father?
“Nivean hasn’t been the same since then. I’m so glad you were found. We need a leader who knows our blood, our people.”
I bite down on my tongue. Isn’t he aware that I know nothing of these people?
“We will have a tribute for you tonight. You will meet the elders. They will bless you... MamLalumi will bless you.”
“Who?”
He sighs heavily. “I am sorry, Mikayla. I am just so excited that you are home. If you don’t recall Lalumi, the woman who was in charge of you while your parents were busy—beside me of course—then you really must not recall anything. You and Lalumi were very close.”
“No, I don’t.” Blood pricks in my veins. I feel angry. Why? I’ve had a good life. Couldn’t ask for better parents or family. But I haven’t the slightest idea of the Nivean customs.
“Don’t worry, my gorgeous niece. I will make a statement tonight. Everyone has mourned and missed you as much as your parents. They will embrace you with open arms.”
“What about the Prince Fari?” Why did I just inquire about a man I have no feelings for. It’s almost like I’m watching a mystery movie, arguing with the actors for not being privy to something that everyone else is aware of.
“You will meet the prince in due time.” He grins. “We have to prepare you for him. His royal highness, Prince Fari, will prefer you a little more in touch with your background. We will fix that.”
Jagger
I met Trick’s niece yesterday, she was a miniature version of him except for the talking nonstop thing. She truly refused to stop. While her mother drove to the private landing strip, the girl went on and on about soccer and her technique. My hands were balled into fists, it felt like I was sneering as I tried to smile and yet inwardly focus on Mikayla.
Her life.
Her life that I stripped away only to place her in danger. With me, it may have looked dangerous, but she was safe. I’d place my life over hers. Now, I’m not in the position to do so. At least, not until I catch up with her and murder that motherfucker who snatched what was mine.
Mikayla Bryant is property of none other than Jagger Johansson now. She is mine.
It’s almost dusk as I’m dropped off in front of my home. As the taxi travels up the winding passageway, I smile, with thoughts of the future. She will murder her uncle. And then we can start our life. It takes tragedy for one to know his or her true potential.
Take Trick for instance. The girl said he was some sort of scientist.
Take me.
Mikayla will know Qaaim had a hand in her parent’s death and pull the trigger.
I slide out of the backseat, tip the driver and watch as the car makes a U-turn, before zipping back down the hill. There are patches of grass where my beloved truck use to be as I walk toward the door.
Sixty seconds. That’s all I have.
I press open the front door, dodge over the streams of deadly fish and head to a glass enclosure. From the outside it resembles a china cabinet. When opened, more guns are at my disposal. I grab more .357 rounds. There are bombs and also explosive devices, but that might be too much, considering Mikayla was taken by her own people. I keep telling myself that the entire nation cannot be a threat to her.
Just one man.
Or his followers. I grab two hand grenades, since I’m not entirely sure what I’m walking into. I head through my home to the side entrance where my other trucks are kept and choose the Humvee that I purchased off the black market. Well, the engine is new and various portions of the body are. But, there weren’t too many upgrades necessary for such a beauty. The glass garage door is hardly up before I gun the engine and blaze through the exit. I take the hill, my cranium almost hitting the roof before I slap on the seatbelt.
I ease up on the gas while veering onto the main road. For the first time in forever, I’m not tossing a middle finger
to the resort my grandparents once owned.
Once out of the city, the drive to Mikayla’s home is inland and takes another hour. I’m on a dirt road, coasting at a cool 120 since I know where the land dips or curves at or the occasional herd of Afrikaner cattle usually are.
***
Upon passing the colorful homes of the Ndebele group, I drive at a respectable pace.
Mikayla is okay… I have to tell myself this. Regardless of my worry as to why her uncle spared her life as a child, he wouldn’t send for her just to murder her as an adult. It would be too cruel…shit, and I thought I was trained in a despicable world…
I drove through Nivean. The shops are closed, and the lights of the various homes are off. Light trickles through the trees in the mountains above. Mthembu is having a party…
Damn, I cannot sneak in. If I go in guns blazing, it will be disrespectful to Mikayla. The true leader.
Just as I round the corner toward the street that ascends to the Nivean palace, two male police officers in light blue uniform hold up Berettas. Behind them are two old trucks, barricading the road.
Alright, these boys are hardly trained with guns. Nivean has the weakest defense in South Africa. That’s why it was so easy to believe that the Zihula’s would make a good alliance. The government hates me, but Qaaim Mthembu isn’t a friend of them either.
“Oh, we have us here a fucking Johansson.” The man on my side of the street has a root sticking from his mouth, it wiggles with each word. “We are having a celebration tonight, I guess if I were you, it would be the best time to get us all together. Talk about your God. Try to convert us?”
“Nah, he no wanna convert anyone, him devil,” the other man says, leaning against the passenger window. “Him parents was murdered by him God, now he gave him soul to the devil.”
“I want to see your King Regent.” I address the officer on my side. If I look at the other one again, he’s getting a bullet in his mouth for mentioning my family.
“We do not like your kind, Johansson. I have half a family who moved away because of your parents.”
It’s the second time my parents are mentioned for their converting the Navieans into Christians. Gritting my teeth, I glare him straight in the eye. “I murdered a great warrior of your clan.”
