“As-salamu alaykum, brother. Welcome to True Organics. How can I help you today?”
I didn’t respond. Just turned around, locked the front door, and flipped the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.
That fake smile disappeared real quick.
“Excuse me? What are you doing? We’re open?—”
“Nah.” I turned back around and started walking toward him. Slow. Controlled. “You’re not.”
He stumbled backward, bumping into the shelf behind him, knocking over some bottles of elderberry syrup. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“What I want is for you to understand something, Shamir.”
His eyes went wide at the sound of his name. “If—if this is a robbery, just take the register. I won’t call nobody. Just take it and leave.”
I laughed. A real laugh. The kind that made him shrink back even further.
“You think I drove forty-five minutes for whatever sad bread you got in that register?” I stopped at the counter, looking down at him. “Nah, old man. This ain’t about money.”
“Then what—how do you know my name?”
“I know a lot about you.” I tilted my head, sizing him up. “I know you run this little health food store, but you walking around with a belly like you been eating chitlins and drinking Colt 45 every night. What happened to purifying your temple?”
“I don’t understand?—”
“I know you had four wives. Bunch of kids. And I know you had twin daughters.” I paused, let that land. “Identical twins. Zainab and Zahara.”
Every bit of color drained from his face. His mouth opened and closed but nothing came out.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I see you remember them. Good. This about to make a lot more sense.”
“Those girls—I haven’t seen them in years. They ran away?—”
“They didn’t run away.” My voice went flat. Cold. “You beat them bloody. Had your wives check their hymens while you watched like a sick fuck. Then you threw them out on the street. Sixteen years old. Middle of the night. Nothing but the clothes on their backs.”
His eyes darted toward the back of the store. Looking for an exit. Looking for help.
Wasn’t neither one coming.
“That’s—you don’t have the full story?—”
I came around that counter so fast he didn’t have time to react. My fist connected with his jaw and he dropped like a bag of his own organic quinoa.
He groaned, tried to crawl away, but I grabbed a handful of that thawb and dragged him toward the back. His soft assscraped across the floor, knocking over displays and products, but I ain’t slow down. Pulled him through the doorway into the back office and tossed him into the chair behind the desk.
Found some packing tape on a shelf and went to work. Wrists to the chair arms. Ankles to the legs. He struggled, but this nigga was soft. Weak. Years of being the king of his little castle had made him forget that there was always somebody stronger.
When I finished, I stepped back and looked at him. Blood leaking from his nose. Crying like a baby. This was the man who terrorized his daughters? This pathetic, blubbering fool?
“Who sent you?” He was sobbing now, snot mixing with the blood. “Please—I have money—just tell me what you want!”
I grabbed a stool and sat down in front of him. Took my time. Let the silence stretch.
“You know anything about Yoruba tradition?” I asked.
He blinked, confused. “What?”
“The Yoruba people. West Africa. They got beliefs about twins. Call them Ibeji.” I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Twins are sacred to them. A blessing from the orishas. Supernatural beings who can bring fortune or disaster depending on how you treat the gift you’ve been given.”
