Moon Shadow

5

I stood outside my office's building waiting for the auto-rickshaw I called to arrive. Using the building's ledge for shade, I leaned on the wall and observed the surrounding area. The sound of passing cars, the smell of food from the shops and restaurants, and the sight of people working or walking past me made me smile. The city was alive and thriving. Changes used to scare me more than normal people, but I learned to embrace them.

A road stood between two sidewalks. Each side had buildings with two or more floors. Mobile communication corporations inhabited most of the upper floors, while the lower ones had electronic stores like Samantha's. Few of them were single-floor buildings like mine.

Whistling from the other side of the road caught my attention. A curvy woman in a plain blue dress and blue sunglasses passed a cobbler as he was cleaning shoes on the sidewalk while staring at her. She gripped her handbag close to her chest, her head facing the ground, not wanting to look at him or else he'd think she wanted him to approach her.

I had seen this situation many times on that same sidewalk, forcing me to deal with it. The cobbler was new around here, so he needed to be taught a lesson.

Crossing my index finger over my middle one, I activated my puppet magic and flicked them downward. A white magical string—only visible to me—shot out from the tip of my index finger and coiled around the cobbler's hand. And with the flick of my wrist, I broke his.

He yelped in pain before falling from his stool and on to his knees. Tears streamed down his face while he held his broken wrist. His friends rushed to his side, consoling him while glaring at me.

I hardly used puppet magic. It was intoxicating, making it dangerous to me and others. Over-reliance on it would lead me down a dark path I wouldn't come out of. So I used it sparingly—when the moment called for it. Otherwise, it stayed at the bottom of my bag of tricks.

The auto-rickshaw arrived, stopping in front of me.

"Boss, I'm here," Hussein said with a smile, revealing the gaps between his teeth. As my go-to driver when I was in Posta, he charged a fair fee, knew when to talk and when not to, and had a fun personality.

I entered the auto-rickshaw.

"Boss, where to?"

"Mbezi Chini—home of Joshua and Nuru Bendera."

"The Lutheran preachers?"

"You know them?"

"I go to their church every Sunday."

"Good for you."

"Thank you." He looked at me through the rear-view mirror. "Boss, you should come with me to their church one day."

"The clergy don't like occult detectives. If I show up, they'll say I brought the devil with me and burn down the church."

He chuckled. "You're right."

Mbezi Chini wasn't far. Thankfully, it was midday and there wasn't heavy traffic. Soon I'd see what kind of nightmare the preachers had welcomed into their home.

Hussein turned on the radio, and the voices of two female hosts filled the auto-rickshaw. Apparently, they had found a skin-whitening product that'd help lighten their dark skin and make them approachable.

My chest tightened, and the fresh lump in my throat made it hard for me to swallow my saliva.

Colorism was one of the biggest issues in Africa. There was no way to deal with it. You couldn't run away from it. And if you tried fighting it, you'd lose. Its gaslighting nature mentally crippled Africans, and its marriage to prejudice left us vulnerable to outside influence.