The Tides That Bind Us [AfroFuturism]

Lost Time

April 19th 2161

Zaharah leaned on the mast of the Godsworn Hurakan as the luxury cruiser swept them away from the 700 towards the National Regatta site. Beyond the boats rail, the remnants of old Nassau rose from the north horizon. Jagged pieces of stone stuck up from the water like a memorial to days gone, their tips tinged orange by the setting sun. The hum of the boat mingled with the breeze and the salty rank of the black waters.

Her legs burned as she shifted, but it was the good kind of burn. The kind that reminded her she'd left it all on the Pocking Pitch. A perfect game. The opposing team had scored no points off of her. She'd pocked a perfect game. The white-whale she'd been chasing since she joined the junior pocking league in middle school. A feat thought impossible until Darron Gardiner accomplished it in the Men's league ten years ago. And now she got her name etched on the halls of pocking history.

Zaharah scrolled through her messages, hundreds of them from fans of the team. Some congratulating her while others shared highlights of the game. One contained a screenshot of the main page of the 700 Guardian.

A black and white rendition of her likeness sat juxtaposed to a column of text, helmet hung from one hand while the other dragged her braids from her face. She was side-eyeing something out of frame. Zaharah Cyan: The Future of the Regular League? the headline read.

An article by Sports editor Lori Walkine, sure to be a shit show since she wasn't one to mince words. Even when Zaharah was in fine form Ms Walkine had some salt-filled tirade to get off her chest. Zaharah didn't read it. Nothing short of a nuclear apocalypse could kill her high right now.

An email alert sprung up on her dashboard. From the President of the National Pocking League. Notice of contract termination, the subject line read. Her body went cold, a feeling amplified by the constant wind. Contract termination? She hit the alert, and the email popped up.

Dear Miss Cyan,

We regret to inform you that you contract has been slated for termination upon its completion on August 3rd. The League thanks you for your invaluable contributions and unwavering support and looks forward to your continued success. All questions or concerns should be forwarded to the Office of Team Affairs.

Sincerely,

Dr. H. Eneas, President, 700 Pocking League.

Zaharah vision tunnelled, the boat and black waters fading away and leaving only the glowing screen of her phone. Terminated from the league. She'd feared this might happen a few months ago when there'd been complaints and accusations about her arm giving her an unfair advantage. Her metal arm. That was twice as heavy as a normal one and slower to react. She pocked with her left, nondominant, hand for that very reason.

All those congratulatory messages, well wishes, all the hype and excitement were meaningless now. She wasn't riding her high anymore. Eneas' email had shot her from the sky and she was spiralling into the abyss.

A cold hand landed on Zaharah's shoulder and she jumped, expecting a slimy sea monster. Instead her eldest sister, Malaika stood over her. Her dreadlocks dripped, and a towel hung over her shoulders.

"Good lord, don't scare me like that," Zaharah said.

Malaika grinned their father's grin, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Sorry about that. Mom asked for you."

"Okay." Zaharah tucked her phone away. "You headed in too?"

"Nah. Gonna get a couple more reps in. Mom's might kill me for breaking her sacred family vacation laws but whatever." She shrugged a shoulder and traipsed off towards the pool.