Kwame completed his final rep, sweaty arms trembling, and he gave a last extra push before hopping into a squat. He stared into the fading darkness of the tiny inner room. His body and mind miles apart as he pondered the implications of the events of the past week.
The polyphonic melody, (greensleeves) of a very basic cell phone pierced the silence of the dawn room. The somber melody, if anyone cared to pay attention, was very out of sync with the rapid blinking of the phone's screen and the buzzing of its vibration. The caller ID reads, UNKNOWN CALLER.
He picked it up, unhurried, but his demeanor changed when he heard a familiar, harsh accent on the other side.
"Don't speak. Only listen."
Kwame barely stopped himself from saying 'okay' in response.
"You understand why I must call rather than the other means, yes?"
"He's sent me to carry out a mission. Pick me up at the birdhouse. 1100. Come alone."
The call was dropped, quite rudely, without so much as a goodbye. The tension that was building in our subject's shoulder dissipated very very slowly afterwards. His brows creased and uncreased as if it they had a mind of it's own, and that mind could not be made up.
Amina spoke up from the cot in the corner. Barely awake, the cobwebs of a freshly awoken throat coarsened most of the words she said into unintelligible oblivion. She coughed, shaking the cobwebs out of the way, and tried again.
"Who was that?", she asked in her mother's dialect.
"E no be anybody. You giddup?"
She grunted some sort of response, and then fell back into silence. Kwame cracked a tiny grin and shook his head. He had a pretty good idea of why she was so gone. Five years ago, maybe he'd have been a bit judgemental, but he's come a far way since. Life does that sometimes, changes your perspective. The city is harsh; you did what you had to if you wanted to survive. She gave the city what it wanted, and she survived, regardless of the risks.
The morning, I regret to to tell you dear reader, passed by in the same non-eventful way it did the day before. It was the same old same:
Queuing up at the water vendor's gate till she decided to open up.
Sweet-talking a street-food vendor into getting half-off on the morning meal.
Arguing a religious point with Ras Socrates (that would be promptly forgotten thereafter)
Smacking Kipo out of bed...
Kipo, now he was some sort of kid. He executed his whole life with an exuberance that definitely had a good story behind it. By whole life, that included sleep, food and laughter. The kid would even giggle if you slapped him out of bed. I mean, for Christ's sake!
By some feat of arcane magic, Kipo was bathed, fed and dressed to go within something like the quarter of an hour. An exchange of glances between boss and apprentice were the only communication needed; Kwame and Kipo strode out to start the day.
The pair had barely gotten a hundred meters away before they were pursued by the sound of half dead leather sandals. Kwame rolled his eyes, then set a determined posture as he gave one last attempt at ignoring the impending tragedy.
"TOO SURE!"
Author's note
Background music is Manu Dibango's Douala Serenade. © 1982 CRC Records.
YOU ARE READING
The Rising - Ennead 2
ParanormalThe events of The Rising continue, or restart, depending on how you look at it. In the previous nine scenes of The Rising, the Magi began to gather. Now the Societies get their time to shine, or do they? Follow the stories of Aelf, Psychics, Faerie...
