The reluctant smile of my latest sparring partner flashes through my head.
“Yeah, I’m sure there’s someone out there…” I trail off in deep thought. I hope there’s someone on the app who gives me the level of stimulation and care I’ve come to enjoy. Someone other than Niyi.
Why can’t I be with him again?I think.
He’s my coach, and he’s not part of the plan, I answer myself.
But he makes me feel more alive than any part of the plan has, and he doesn’t have to be my coach. I can always screw the plan or ask for a new coach.My mind fights back, trashing my excuses.
The last time I completely disregarded a plan, I was young, idealistic, and hopeful. Now I’m not as young and slightly less idealistic, but am I hopeful? Taking another risk in the name of love scares me, but Niyi’s unwavering presence makes me want to be brave.
His unsolicited acts of kindness, basically bullying me to accept help, make him different from any man I’ve known. Cole certainly never volunteered to help with anything, and at the time I was okay with that, because I’m the one who takes care of people, not the other way around. Well, my parents and my girls look out for me, but maybe I should expand that list to one more person. The Saturday he spent here ticking two items off my list—reorganizing my movie collection and ironing—gave me more time to prep for my successful meeting with management. The meeting was all me, and I’m one step closer to my funding now, but Niyi’s help reduced my sleepless nights that week. That partnership is something I could get used to.
Heis something I could get used to.
New plan: Fire Niyi as my coach and take another leap. Hopefully, this time it goes my way.
22Niyi
I’M SEATED IN THE RESTAURANT’S PRIVATE ROOM AS I AWAITmy cousins, the Saturn book Dad gave me burning a hole in my pocket.
After Moyo’s thought-provoking words on our walk, my quest for autonomy began. However, since my family is secretive and my legacy-crazed father would have a conniption if he learned I was searching for an out, I resorted to the only place with Saturn-specific information: the notebook.
Before Merc and Vee arrive—and I possibly change the trajectory of all of our lives—I look it over one final time.
The old book has maintained its shape and quality due to our powers, the same power that preserves a Saturn’s body and mind for the duration of their tenure. An everlasting companion of sorts. Mercuries gain technology that transforms with the times, while we get paper. Figures.
After speaking with Moyo, I once again read the notebook from cover to cover, combing through the entries for each of the previous Saturns. Previous Holder Name, Tenure Length, Date of Relinquishment, Current Holder Name, Date of Transfer Ceremony.
A majority of the entries were similar, listing twenty-nine years—one Saturn orbit—as the tenure length. A few overachievers, like my great-great grandfather, completed two orbits, bringing their tenures to a lengthy fifty-eight years.
It was only when I returned to the beginning that I noticed a discrepancy I had somehow always glossed over, the first entry, which was peculiar since it was a member of the Jakande family instead of a Bankole. The Tenure line snagged my eye: five years.
Five? It shouldn’t be possible. Yet there it was. Written in word, bound in time and history.
A Saturn who didn’t complete their orbit. A Saturn who abandoned their post.
I scoured the book once more, hoping for some sort of explanation, or, better yet, an instruction manual for how it came to be. I looked in the “How the Bankole-Saturn Lineage Came to Be” written on the final page; sadly, it was only the written version of the story Dad always told me when I was growing up. No hidden messages about the means of gaining the power, just a simple line: “The Jakande family, no longer able to serve as the Saturn-incarnate, bequeathed the mantle to us, the Bankole family.”
My only hope of learning more would be to find a member of the Jakande family who could provide more information about the process. Maybe one of them would even be willing to take up the mantle. However, unlike other celestial families, the Jakandes haven’t kept in touch. Therefore, to find them and find my way out of this, I need the help of the Master of Networks and Information themself, Merc. Hence booking the coveted private room of Merc’s favorite Nigerian restaurant.
The person of the hour and Vee both stroll in, shopping bags in tow.
Vee sits down, handing me one of the bags. “This is for you.”
“For?”
“We’re attending a charity gala within the next month, I forget exactly when. I’ll check my calendar and let you know,” Merc fills in, taking their seat beside Vee and opposite me.
“Okay…I guess.”
The waiter, a young teen, comes in to see if we want appetizers or anything else to drink besides water. Ordering for the table, Merc asks for a small chops platter, Scotch eggs, yagi wings, and a pitcher of Chapman.
“If I had known I wouldn’t be recognized here, I would’ve done more sit-down meals versus ordering in,” Merc comments once the boy leaves.
Vee shakes her head. “You love eating at home, except when it’s a business meeting.”
“You hardly ever eat at my place,” I chime in.
