Daughter of War, Dancer at Heart

Prologue

The tap of metal on the wood tile is what makes my heartbeat from 3 PM to 9 PM. As my skin is dark as charcoal, not many people want to join my forty-five-minute dancing lessons. They don’t take me seriously and that honestly breaks my heart.

     What people don’t know about me is how dance became a part of me. This kind of gift doesn’t just happen to be a blessing from God, but also my culture has an effect on this so-called “gift”. The rush of energy every cell in my body feels when I have the chance to dance is just the beginning. The memories of my childhood tingle in my toes as I feel the music going through me. It’s in my blood; through every strand of DNA that runs within my cells. It all happens within me.
    My mother and I were both born in Africa. Since there’s no electricity in our hometown-Niger, Nigeria- there’s not much to do once the sunsets. Yet again people’s imagination is like magic. The sky’s the limit, and so is creativity. 
    One of our tribe’s oldest traditions is the dance of fire. The little girls sing, the boys and men make a rhythm out of their drums and the women dance around the fire, all contemplating our God.

***
       
     The bomb hit the ground. There was a giant explosion that woke me up. There was blood spilling everywhere. I look around to see if my brother was still asleep next to me. I look and search, but fail to find anyone. I open the tent; and there was my brother, laying down motionless thirty yards away. There was a machine gun lying next to him, bulletless. War was here. 
I ran as fast as I possibly could, hoping I could find my mother. Adrenaline rushing through me, I hadn’t realized how much I had run; at least not until I started panting. What actually stopped me from keeping on going was them. My little sister and my mother were just lying there, curled up together. It almost seemed as if they were hugging each other goodbye. Yet , next to them, I found something unexpected, it was a person, actually. I felt my body go numb, it was a man in uniform.

     This man, who looked absolutely nothing like us, was sobbing on my mother’s shoulder. He was biting his index finger knuckle. I heard him whisper, “I love you. Forgive me. Forgive their actions. Forgive my country. Just,” he paused, “don’t leave me.” The man didn’t even notice that I was standing there. Not even when I stepped behind him to grab his pistol. I couldn’t handle this pressure on my chest anymore. I had to say it. “Who are you?” I finally managed to say in Arabic. He slowly turned around, making my heart beat faster. 
     “Who are you?!” I asked again, this time in English (or at least what seemed to be English to me). I guess he understood me because he backfired my question.
     “Who are YOU?” He asked back.
     I felt the gun starting to heat up with the desert sun. Before I knew it, I was aiming the gun to his heart. “Answer my question,” I demanded, "it is a command!” I honestly didn’t know what the hell I was doing. Who was I to think that I could give a uniformed man commands? 
I had never shot a gun in my life, but right now was not the moment to make that kind of confessions. No later had I thought about pulling the trigger when something unexpected came. 
   “Paesyn?”
    How the?...
    “Paesyn is that you?”
    “How do you know my name?” I heard myself ask with my thick English-Arabic accent. He opened his mouth just to shut it again within an instant. He shook his head, “She never told you, huh?” 
    I lower the gun. “What? Told me what? Who?” I was more confused than I was before. How did this man, who I clearly have never seen in my life before, know my name?
    “Your mother-” he stopped as if to gather his thoughts together. “was shot by one of my colleagues-” At this, I take a step closer and point the gun at him again. “Okay okay. My apologies Paesyn. Let’s take it one step at a time.” He looked at my face, no, more as if he was scanning it. He smiled, “Do you ever wonder where you got those light, sapphire eyes of yours come from? Or those blonde freckles that run from your left cheekbone all the way to your right cheekbone?” I didn’t answer. He then pointed at his eyes. They were the same shade of blue-ish grey as mine. He also had the same little Polaris shaped freckle right underneath his left eye; it was very noticeable on my tobacco-colored skin, unlike his absent-colored skin.
Fear was still rushing through me. I couldn’t feel my heartbeat anymore. Oh my God! I slowly put the gun down. My jaw nearly dropped to the blood stroked dirt under my feet. He started walking towards me. I couldn’t help but stare at him. Everything around me began moving in slow motion. 
I don’t know how much time passed until I blinked again; it could have been seconds or even minutes, but one thing I knew was this: this man is either a complete psychopath who is very persuasive (and successful at it) OR my mother hid something from me. Even if I knew better, I was certain that this light-skinned man was somehow related to me. He was still looking at me by the time I pulled myself back together. I knew what my options were. I could either a) confront him and ask again how he knew my name, or b) turn around and run.  
I chose b). I took a step back to begin running, but end up stumbling over my own feet, fell down and landed on my ass. I groan.
“Your mother-” he looked over at the corpse that was lying less than five feet away from us. He swallowed hard and continued, “your mother and I have known each other for years. I came to Africa once as an assignment and we met while I was here for fourteen months. We-” I give him a puzzled look. He sighed, “Right… I’m sorry. Long story short, I loved your mother beyond anything. When I heard a scream, I turned around and saw my colleague pointing his gun at your mother. It took me a couple of seconds to react. Two seconds that I wish I could go back and use them to run instead. I sprinted as fast as I could to protect your mother from the bullet reaching her body, but the bullet reached it anyway.” A tear rolled down his cheek. My vision began to get blurry as a tear exited my eye and made its way down my face.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said. 
I just stood there. Taking it all in. I should have probably done something, but my feet seemed to have sunk into the dirt.
I noticed the flag placed on one of his shoulders. I pointed and asked, “Are you from there?” 
“Yes I am,” he said and smiled.
“I’m sorry about the… umm… gun,” I said, then stretched out my hand to greet him, “Paesyn D’jaime.”
He stretched his hand to meet mine and gave it a strong, firm shake, “Benjamin Lancaster.” We both grinned.