Nyeupe

Chapter 1: Maarifa

"... and so a new order was laid. The nyuepe could live in Mkombozi under the condition that they respect and serve the watuwakweliwa voluntarily. For decades, they humbly served and labored for and even worshipped the watuwakweliwa. Then, one day, Mpitgh rebelled against his bwana, and started the Vitasuwa. New laws were laid, and now we work to repair the damage. This is where you come in. Mkreth?!"

I snap back to reality. "Yes?"

"Explain your purpose."

I relax, confident in my knowledge of the subject. "We are the Jitihani Nguvu Miaka , a part of the government plan Matihani to equalize Mkombozi. We will be infiltrated into watuwautaratibu kumi schools. There, we will be examples of a new future, so the waasi kijinga-"

"Mkreth!"

"I mean, watuwautaratibu learn to accept us as their equals."

I recline in my chair, knowing I have done well. As Mwalimu Mkheili continues the lecture, I think about next week. My first day as a mtihani. The day I, along with the rest of my darasani, go to a nyeusi kumi school. I will be going to Nguvu Mauti, the largest waasi school in Nguvu Miaka and the third largest in Mkombozi Mashariki. Many watihani have tried and failed to turn this school, but I, with the aid of the immortal Matumaini, will be the first.

As the last day of kulinda school ends, I walk to the NTC stop in uptown NgM. I take the bus sixteen kilometers outside of the city to the Jitihani Mahema. I walk another kilometer to my house, a little kisbanda. I can smell the fresh chutneys from a mraba away.

"Hello, mama."

"Welcome home, my mtoto."

She turns and walks around the card table. Her brown roots disclose the pretense of her blonde hair, a trait that died out years ago. There were a few strands are gray, troubled by years of stress and labor. The parentheses on her face warm up all those around her, shining through the wrinkles of demand and age. Her brown eyes are young and healthy, with beautiful whites and dark pupils. "How was your last day?"

"Fine, mama."

"Good. We have scheduled your Kutumambali on your fourteenth Muwakubwa."

I place my school bag down on the worn-out couch. "I'm going to go change. I'll be right back."

I walk out of the jambochumba into my room. I take off my school uniform. Relieved from the itchy burlap, I look down. My pale chest shines with sweat. I wipe off the sweat with a coarse towel and pull on a simple white cotton shirt and some brown shorts. I put on my old hole-y shoes. Next week the government will give me new shoes, for which I am thrilled. I walk out. " I am going to play with some of the boys."

Mama, unable to see me, shouts, " Okay, mtoto. Have fun, and be careful."

I run out to the grass field. The ndege flap their wings furiously to gain height, all the while screeching at me as I run through the jidege. Waiting for me by the fence is Ustari, pawing the ground as the rest of the jipundamilia fed.

I pat his back as the sun shines on his black-and-white coat, the stripes perfectly equal in brilliance and luster. It's no wonder npundamilia are the symbol of Matihani and was on the flag of the Usawa in the Vitasuwa. Mama shall never know of Ustari: she would be required by law to release him to the savanna, where he would never survive against the nsimba and nchui.

I ready myself and launch my body onto the punda's back. Ustari is calm; he knows what is next. I grab his neck and mane, use my legs to hold myself above his back, and yell , "Kwenda!"

Ustari gallops forward, accelerating at speeds unknown towards the fence.

As we approach, I yell, "Kuruka!" and he hurtles over the fence effortlessly.

We gallop out onto the open plains of the savanna as one unit, each understanding the other.

We stop by a small watering hole under an acacia. Climbing off, I rub Ustari's neck to show my appreciation. It is very hot, so I take off my shirt, showing my rippling core and bulging muscles for all to see. Ustari, tortured by the heat, lowers his body to the ground. I grab a maembe from a nearby tree, and sit down and lean on Ustari's side. I take a bite out of the fruit. The sweet juice dribbles down my neck and chest. For the rest of the evening, Ustari and I sit, eating and watching as Juanyeupe faded away and allowed her brother, Mwezinyeusi, to sit on the sky throne.