by Amarie Avant
As Queen, Chumi and another elder taught me the geography of our nation. Our topography is diverse. Unlike other kingdoms, we are at the basin of a mountain, the palace overlooking a plateau of valley. The water crisis did not hit Nivean so hard two years ago when an El-Nino drought triggered water shortages. Our most northern allies have one of the most recessed dam levels in all of South Africa.
I sit at the hearing, biting my lip and praying that I appear to be the sponge ready to learn more about the country’s imposed water restrictions for my kingdom. I can’t say that if we were talking HIV/AIDS and TB epidemics that I would be all ears, though health is near and dear to my heart, Anathi is on my mind.
Visiting the Zihula’s diviner proved to be a lost cause. Now, my gander sweeps over the South African National Congress, searching for Zane Solarin. My newfound friend, who sent the nation in an uproar when Qaaim brought me out of hiding only to prove me incompetent to rule, has helped me immensely. The Solarins became my new best friends. I wonder if Zane and his wife can help me now?
Feeling a heated gaze on me, I glance to my left. Past a few royals is Prince Fari. I dodged his attempts at a chat before we arrived to the meeting by giving a word of encouragement to the king and queen of the Northern region. Their expressions are stoic. The only sign that shows that the water drought is affecting them so immensely is the way their shoulders pitch forward.
The meeting is adjourned, and Prince Fari and I play a game of cat in mouse, in which I scurry in the opposite direction of him. I nod to Zane who is picking up his briefcase and chatting with another republican beside him.
He nods to me, cuts the conversation short, and steps over. From my peripheral, I see that Fari has been blocked by an illustrious princess, who yawned sporadically during the meeting, and leaned over several times to speak with her royal parents. The sight of him sure has perked her up. I’ll have to send her some sort of South African version of an edible arrangement, she deserves it.
Finding it unnecessary to beat around the bush, I square my shoulders in a business stance. “Hello, Zane, got any dinner plans tonight?”
“Not that I know of.”
“It’s last minute, but please see if your wife feels like taking the two-hour drive to Nivean.”
He clucks his tongue. “Zora will be ecstatic. Also, just so it doesn’t appear that I’m bombarding you with questions, I was on my way to you now to say we need to have a chat.”
Eyebrows stitching together, I ask, “About what?”
“One of your many suitors, Mikayla. You know the one,” he whispers.
Shit. What has Jagger been up to now.
“Many suitors?” Prince Fari’s crisp, clear voice comes from behind me, making my shoulders jolt. “I should have suspected that of a queen as sophisticated as Mikayla. I’ll have to snatch her off the market.”
Zane offers me a pointed look. His statement about “many suitors” wasn’t meant to slut shame me or anything, but from what I can tell, was to get Fari to back off.
“I see that the two of you are a bit close.” Prince Fari mentions.
Zane’s head cocks sideways, appearing somewhat disrespected by his statement. Fari, who is starting to have the mannerisms of a high school jock dominating the hallway, seems none the wiser when he says, “Mikayla, I’m in town for the night. I was about to invite you to dinner, but is Mrs. Solarin cooking up something good to eat tonight?”
Annoyed with the royal, Zane awaits my response.
“Actually, I am. Would you grace us with your presence?” Anathi speaks through me.
When she’s done, I’m left biting my tongue until the taste of copper compels me to proceed along the same course. Fari isn’t all touchy-feely, though pleased with my response.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it? You had a passionate night a few evenings ago. This is how you return the favor for my silence.”
“Great, can’t wait.” I gesture, a sickly-sweet grin on my face. Zane starts to nod toward me. “Wait, I have a few more questions.”
The prince takes that as his cue to bid me a good day until tonight.
Zane stares at me intently, the slight wrinkles around his eyes crinkling just a tad more prominent. “Did I scare you when I mentioned Jagger?”
“No. I . . .” Now, I’m on the hot seat. First, I’d wondered what was going on with Zane and Fari, since my first encounter with Prince Fari was through the insistence of Zane Solarin.
“Alright, so?” He pauses again, giving me ample time to straighten out the confusion.
My tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. Uttering a single word against Anathi could be extra kindling to the fire she’s lit under my ass. I can’t verbally ask him if he has the means to help me counter the black magic spell that has me cognitively stunted, not unless I want to unleash her fury.
“Mikayla, is there something the matter?” he asks. “Something perhaps that Zora might be better equipped to assist you with? I believe the two of you were close during the time you stayed with us while Qaaim hijacked your palace. It might be an issue that is best kept for the two of you.” I give his arm a squeeze and then turn to walk away.
“Act out of line during dinner, and maybe I’ll show you the full extent of my power, Mikayla.”
Like what? Having me tell Fari how sexy his dashiki is with everyone around?
“Like send the Solarins away and fuck him on the table.”
I won’t allow it.
During the long ride to Nivean, the chef was made aware of our small dinner party. I could hear the chef gushing over the phone in Xhosa while Kmota made the call.
Now, it’s just us, and she’s ruffling through my wardrobe for the night’s outfit.
“Should I stay, my Queen?”
“You’ll be relieved shortly.”
“It’s just that . . .” She lowers her gaze for a fraction of a second before locking eyes like always. “I’m very happy with the course of your relationship with Prince Fari. Please forgive me for speaking out of turn.”
“Oh, but you’ve always been blunt.” My reply is like suede, soothingly soft, yet rough if taken the wrong way.
“I apologize for the way I treated you when your uncle ruled Nivean. Much of our discourse came from the shock that my cousin died while going to America to retrieve you. I now understand that Qaaim played Abayomi for a fool, even when he was younger and expected you to marry.”
I smile fondly, thoughts of my best friend infusing my mind. “When we were kids, I dreamed of it too, Kmota.”
Her lips tremble, voice breaking, she says, “Sorry, I just . . . it’s still so hard to think of Abayomi without sadness or anger. He was a good soul. And I recall the two of you were perfect for each other. Again, I’m sorry for appearing so callous. First, it was Abayomi and then, well, you were happy with Prince Fari. It hurt me to see you happy after my cousin’s death. Now, I’m coming to terms with the fact that you’re doing what’s right for the people.”
I stare at her for a beat. For the people. Is this a manipulation? Does she understand that I have no feelings for Prince Fari and the bind Anathi has snared me in is indeed for Nivean?
“Thank you for your honesty, Kmota. I’d like for us to open up to each other. Just to set the foundation, I’d like to extend an invite to dinner this evening since you’ll be off your shift.”
Keeping my enemies close tonight is king.
I sink down on the chaise next to the dress draped over it. Caressing the colorful pattern, I pull my cellphone out and dial my mom.
With each trill, a lump forms in my throat. I’m supposed to be the epitome of power and grace, but I miss the arms of Jagger. I miss my mother’s laughter. I miss home. Funny, I can picture my man in the center of a family function in Long Beach. Friends around, the aroma of soul food wafting through the air. Good music and even moments when my cousin, Brit, commandeers the speakers for rap music while my father uses his academics to tell her off.
“Hello,
Mikayla?”
“Mom?”
“Girl, I was about to hang up the phone. Are you all right?”
I sigh heavily. Everyone I encounter’s go-to statement for the past few weeks has been some version of questioning my well-being. “Missing home.”
“Where’s that photo album I made for you?”
“It’s not the real deal.” I cry.
“No . . . no . . . no . . . Kayla, I am baking a sock-it-to-me soufflé. I cannot cry. I cannot cry.” Her voice skips a few beats.
In the background, my father groans. “Joyce, I will not tolerate your crying sessions today. The Lakers—”
“Earl, you betta leave me and my child alone.”
Tears glistening in my eyes, I laugh. This is my mom and I, laughing and crying in the same breath.
“Well, does a queen get Thanksgiving off?”
“Not sure.”
“Then mama is bringing the turkey and ham to you. You hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I perk up.
“So, why’d you call me?”
“Wow, do I need a reason to call my mom?”
“The sound of your voice when you finally spoke up implies just as much. Tell mama everything.”
Another deep exhale goes through me. I hesitate and then think that, oddly enough, Jagger’s parents steered many Niveans away from the religion of our ancestors to the same beliefs that I grew up with. Telling my mom about Anathi will have her arriving, leading a gang that includes the pastor and a multitude of prayer warriors.
She grunts. “I’m listening, Kayla.”
“Mom, let’s just say I’m perfecting my coping skills. Nivean culture is different than ours.”
“I can’t begin to fathom the stress of running the nation. When Obama came into the office, he was a fine wine, he finished his term aged to perfection. If God brings you to it—”
I murmur, “He’ll bring you through it.”
“Amen. Let mama pray for you.”
Sighing heavily, I agree. And for the duration of our call a peace settles into my bones.
At the last minute, I invited our north most allies, Eadric, Denso and a few other guards that I’ve become closely acquainted with along with their wives. Kmota was pleased to bring her mother along to join us in the dining hall for dinner. Let’s see if Anathi plans to show her ass—via myself—with a handful of visitors around.
I didn’t expect much ado about it, but I could hear the king and queen of the north region’s lengthy names and titles from my room upon their arrival. All things considered, this was a great idea, and hopefully, a moments reprieve from their dealing with the water crisis. Since only royals are presented, I asked that Denso let me know when Zane and Zora Solarin arrive.
At the last possible minute, Prince Fari arrives, and his name is called much louder. Since I have paced the upstairs hallway, the massive canvas paintings of my ancestors have provided me the strength to wait as his ridiculously long title blares out.
Just as I trail back toward the stairs, the tops of Denso’s and Zane’s heads come into view as they ascend the steps. Both men are dressed in suits, Denso sporting a colorful tie while Zane opted for a coal gray.
“He wanted to speak with you first, My Queen,” Denso says, a small seed of bite in his tone.
I smile reassuringly. It feels like he’s become the sibling that Qaaim snatched away from me. “We are good friends, Denso.”
Zane stares at him, now waiting for him to leave.
“Zane, Denso is Chumi’s son.”
He offers a collected nod in understanding, since he, Chumi and MamLalumi were at Jagger’s house to help me with a plan to rid myself of Qaaim.
“Then I’ll be frank,” Zane says. “I understand that a royal’s salary is about a million rand or so, but I advise you to be discreet while dealing with Jagger Johansson as the government has been known to dabble in his affairs.”
Eyebrows kneading together, I attempt to read between the lines. “I don’t fully understand.”
“The equivalent of $500,000 was wired into your kingdom’s account via Johansson this morning.”
I mentally calculate that as almost 1.5 million rand. No need to feign shock, I’m genuinely astonished. That bastard, I love him and appreciate his ability to be friendly when he wants, but damn. How did Jagger obtain Nivean’s national bank account information?
“Zane,” I chuckle. “Mr. Johansson is proving to be rather altruistic. Surely there’s no harm in that.”
“That is not the case, Queen Mikayla,” he counters. “We have noticed one other token instance, actually right after your arrival, in which Jagger proved he had a generous nature. He assisted the Christian church in a very needing area, outside of Cape Town. My personal convictions aside,” he smiles, “you are his biggest and—”
“I see no problem with the man’s willingness to help our kingdom,” Denso cuts in.
“On the contrary, Mikayla is aware of our government’s feelings about Jagger Johansson. His mechanic business,” Zane says, staring straight at me, and I quickly put two and two together that Jagger’s fleet of supercars and trucks are how he looks legit. Zane holds his palms up. “I have come to you in confidence, Mikayla. In the future, I may have to insist that you use your relationship with Jagger in order to help your country.”
I play it off with another laugh. “I see.”
“Jagger is a thorn in my side, but he’s proven he can be helpful to South Africa every once in a while, except where it counts, and you understand politics. I don’t believe anyone will hold it against you, but you’d be required to ask him about a certain contract he’s continuously declined.”
“The Blue Cove Resort,” I mumble. Damn, Zane is telling me that if my country continues to receive assistance from Jagger then it will most likely become policy that I ask his help with giving into the resort’s demands. Jagger still holds a resentment regarding his father selling the place.
“Now, my wife would kill me if she knew I brought this to your attention because despite me doing my job here, Mikayla, you are a fine young woman.” He speaks in a fatherly tone. “I won’t ask you to sway him either way but understand that my comrades also have their friends as well.”
Zane heads back down the stairs, and Denso frowns. Shaking his head, he says, “Wow, that really is a good friend of yours. I’ve heard that Pierce owns a great deal of Johannesburg. I’ve also heard that your friend is his tightfisted nemesis.”
I chuckle freely for a moment. “I gather that.”
“For Solarin to tell you that the government is going to request that you persuade Jagger . . . wow. Just wow.”
“See, us royals don’t hold all the cards. As Zane put it, they’d make the request; nevertheless, Jagger will tell me no.” I twist a rubied jewel on my index finger. “So, tonight, if my head spins in 360 degrees rapidly—”
“Mikayla, I won’t let that happen to you.”
Cracking a smile, I say, “Just easing the tension that Zane caused. Tonight, will be a good night.”
“Yes, it will,” Anathi agrees.
33
Jagger
The perks of being a hitman via X-Member brings about instant gratification—well most of the time. It’s all about the thrills of pulling the trigger and not a waiting game. The new fucks take the unfavorable assignments, whether it be lower payout or benefactors that are new or deemed difficult to work for.
With a huff, I remind myself that I’m playing private investigator on a profile I have no desire to accept for the woman I love. Set my karma in kilter.
Due to not having access to the full profile, I was left in the dark, working my way up. I guess I could ask Trick for a summary on Denise Everly but when it comes to the job, that bastard only colors out of the lines for selfish ambitions. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I recall that the benefactor had an Italian name. Could she have pissed off a rival ballerina in Rome? If I’m gonna save her, might as well tell the woman who t
o keep her eye out for.
The woman that Trick dubbed the black ballerina traveled the world during her early twenties, touring in Rome, London, hell, Cape Town. She had to be sporting a very busy passport up until a few years ago. She’s literally ghosted social media thus far. So I tracked down the academy she attended. It felt awkward lurking around without working the dynamics of how I’d kill her, since I don’t plan to. I can only assume that the hitman who had the assignment before chose not to open up and ask around. This is my new normal for the moment. It took only a day to get one of Everly’s old friends to run her mouth. I flirted with the ballerina instructor who toured with Everly in the past, and after a cup of coffee, I had the information on Everly’s grandfather in Austin, Texas.
Fog fluffs out before me. Dressed in boots, black jeans and my leather jacket, I’m seated on a cement railing outside of a retirement home in a small town right outside of Austin, Texas. Across the way, a sign for last minute turkey dinners blinks out into the night in the parking lot of an old-school diner. The retirement home is almost empty.
“Well, hello there,” an elderly voice speaks up as a woman in a long muumuu steps out. “What’s your name?”
My eyes brighten. She’s talking to me. And here I thought I was giving off don’t fuck with me vibes. “The name’s, Jagger, sweetheart. What’s yours?”
“Most people call me Grammy, but you can call me yours for the night.”
I sit up, rigid, blinking a few times. Shoving the dirty blond hair from my face, I stare at the old lady. Woman, it’s not safe for you outside after dark, let alone with a killer.
“Now, don’t be so quiet and stoic, you’ll remind me of my grandson.” She begins to do something with her mouth and then her teeth are in her hands. “That’s not all Grammy can do.” Her tone is sing songy, promise ringing true while speaking of herself. If she weren’t half my height, I might be inclined to show shock. And when I show shock, people run.
