Defeated.
But just as I move toward her, that head lifts, her chin raised in the proud, stubborn tilt I’m used to. Her shoulders rise, pulling back as if drawn by a bow. When she looks at me, a fierce light seems to glow in those eyes, all golden brown and green.
“Remember who you are, Eshe. Rememberwhoseyou are. Never forget that.”
Before I can loose the questions piling up in the back of my throat, she gives me a firm nod and exits the room, not once looking back.
I remain standing there, frozen, for long moments, possibly minutes. Long enough to hear the muffled purring of her engine start and fade. It isn’t until the deafening silence crowds in on me that I snap into motion.
“Nah, fuck this.”
I whip around to the closet and grab my boots, then drop to the bed. Quickly, I stuff my feet into them and jerk the laces tight. After shooting to my feet, I stride across my bedroom and out the door. Instead of heading for the front door, I cut a left for the kitchen and the rear door.
Since we’re at our cottage—the place we retreat to every summer for a couple of weeks—I don’t have to worry about avoiding a security detail. Ma doesn’t ever bring one with us. And as I open the rear door and step out in the crisp autumn night, I’m reminded why we came here in mid-October instead of July. Like I’m a damaged animal, I was brought here to lick my wounds.
Grinding my jaw, I make my way toward the separate covered garage, the crunch of leaves under my boots sounding like piles of crumpled, old paper. No one can hear it, but I still wince at the noise. Reaching the outer building, I grab the doorknob and yank the door open. As I step inside the dim interior, I settle mygaze on the matte black-and-red Suzuki Hayabusa, my sixteenth birthday gift. Most parents wouldn’t give an extremely powerful and fast sports bike other motorcyclists callRoadkillto their teens. But most parents aren’t Aisha Diallo.
Still, if she’d known I would use it to disobey a direct order, she would’ve snatched the shit away faster than I could fucking blink.
In seconds, I slip on the black leather motorcycle jacket and gloves lying across the handlebars, hit the button on the wall to lift the garage door, and mount my bike. Nudging up the kickstand, I wait until the wide door rises, and as soon as there is enough room, I pin the throttle and surge forward. My ass hits the seat, and the wind slaps at me. If not for the circumstances, I’d laugh at the adrenaline pumping through my veins, at the steady increase of speed. At the heady spread of power. Before I hit the end of the winding drive, I hit the button on the bar, lowering the garage door, and I bend, intent on eating up the New Hampshire road toward Boston.
An hour and a half later, I roll onto dark, rain-splattered streets. I was born and raised on these streets, and they’re more familiar to me than my face. But in this instant, trailing past blackened windows of empty warehouses along the waterfront, I feel like a foreigner.
I glance down at the custom display and glimpse the blinking green dot that shows Ma’s location. We’ve never hidden our locations from each other. Maybe she forgot that… or maybe she trusted I’d remain at the cottage. Doesn’t matter now. I see she’s only feet ahead of me, and it looks like she’s headed for the Thirty-Third, the club just ahead that fronts as a popular after-hours spot but doubles as a business to wash money. In the back is a designated pickup place for all that cash.
Yeah, it’s one of the family’s most profitable rackets, but what’s going on tonight that’s so important, it had to drag Ma all the way here from New Hampshire? Why couldn’t Abena deal with it? She isn’t just Ma’s sister but also the olori. As second-in-command, orwhat other families would call an underboss, it’s in her damn job description to handle issues that come up. So why…?
Ma’s black Bugatti Veyron glides into view, drawing to a stop outside the Thirty-Third, and I lower my feet to the street, letting the bike idle. Staying out here all night isn’t an option. For one, security is too tight around the club—sooner or later, someone’s going to see me and rat me out. And second, it’s cold as hell even with my jacket and gloves. Adrenaline kept me warm all the way here, but as I sit still and watch Ma step out of her car, regret for acting foolishly is already setting in.
Shit. She’s going to kill my ass—
Gunshots ring out.
I don’t scream.
I can’t.
Not even when my mother’s body jerks over and over and then hits the pavement, showered by shattered glass.
My own body spasms, shock and pain radiating through me in suffocating, paralyzing waves.
Shrieks from partygoers waiting to get into the club pierce the air, along with shouted orders from black-dressed employees pouring from inside the club.
But it’s too late.
It’s way too late.
Our oba—my mother—is sprawled on the street, her blood pooled around her torso and outstretched arms like a thick, sickening, ever-growing puddle. The crimson, appearing obsidian under the streetlamp, saturates her beautiful curls, leaks from the corner of her mouth and streams down her chin.
In the chaos of the surging crowd, my aunt pushes out of the club door, her hand flying to her mouth as she stares down at her sister.
An icy, bony hand reaches into my chest, scraping its nails along my ribs before reaching my heart and squeezing tight. Tighter.
Wheezing out a breath, I tear my gaze from Aunt Abena,desperate to find my mother again. Mwuaji soldiers surround her, their legs and feet almost blocking my view. Almost.
I find her.
Oh God, I find her. And I stare because my numb mind knows this will be the last time I’ll see her alive.
