Mikayla
When we were young, we had our own language. Before we could talk, Abayomi and I were friends. We were three, maybe four, running through the yard with Lulami attempting to keep up, and his father, warning him that too much fun was bad for a warrior. But then he’d tickle his son, and Abayomi would laugh this infectious laugh. And my father, the most handsome man in the world, would scoop me up. I felt like I was high in the sky in his arms as he’d kiss my neck and blow.
My dad still mixed up Xhosa with his native tongue, kind of like the West Coast culture of Spanglish.
“Put her down, she is no baby,” Abayomi’s father said as we headed toward the watering hole. They were telling me that elephants were good. Hippopotamus not so much. Even in my young age, I remembered when we were down in the outskirts of the village and encountered an angry hippo. My father and the warriors had to ‘put him down.’ Abayomi held me closely, so I couldn’t see and never understood what they meant.
Now, my father stopped at the water trough, and he started to let me go. I clamped my legs around him.
“If your mother were here, she’d say a princess shouldn’t act in such a manner,” He admonished, his words flipping back and forth from the clicks of the Xhosa language to speaking Malagasy, the language of his people.
He put me down and my legs shook like a spindle. Abayomi took my hand.
“Is this our future king,” my father asked his.
The warrior grunted a response but there was pride in his broad shoulders as my best friend led me to where baby elephants were frolicking in the water.
“Hayi!” I shook my head no.
Abayomi’s response was a bright smile and then he clucked at me before telling me that he was a warrior. My lips tensed. I didn’t care. He was the skinniest of all his father’s sons! He was no warrior. He pulled a peach out of his pocket and handed it to me, before I could bite into it he laughed.
“Indlovu,” he nudged his chin to the elephant.
There were two, one so huge my breathing came at quick pants, and another, much smaller one. Not small like me, but small enough. I stood at the edge of the water and reached out my hand, my entire arm shook.
“Eze…” I thought of the words, oftentimes mixing my parents languages together. “Eze aphe nceda—come here, please.”
“You are a princess, do not fear anything,” The warrior told me.
My dad placed a hand on my shoulder as the baby elephant arose onto its sturdy legs. I shook even more, until a funny feeling took over. His wet trunk touched my palm and sucked in the peach making my palm tickle.
“Name him,” my father smiled at me.
“Abayomi…”
“No, name him,” my friend giggled.
“His name is Abayomi, too.”
At this point in my dream I realize that Abayomi is dead and I can feel myself crying in my sleep.
“Mikayla,” my name is being called. My mother’s is calling out to me. I start to turn around, ready to run into her arms, to see her beautiful, forgotten face, but I’m dashed from the dream and into darkness.
“Take me back!” I shout.
“Do you want to remember?” The words echo into my ears.
There’s a churning in my stomach. The darkness is so thick that I have to rely on sound to know I’m weeping. I’m no longer a toddler, but a grown woman, swallowed in fear.
“LET ME SEE MY MOTHER!” I scream. I know when I wake up, I won’t recall this dream of the past. But I swear, that I’ve had it before and that all the other dreams I’ve had, I’ve only seen my mother’s face in one instance. I’ll forget the face of both my parents, but there’s a small seed of contentment from my father in my dreams. But not when it comes to my mother. I’ve seen her during one circumstance while sleeping and I’m afraid just thinking about it.
“LET ME SEE MY MOTHER!” My shouting is drowned into darkness until a thumping sound begins and I’m planted into my childhood home with Joyce and Earl.
I was nine years old, and I had woken up, my bed was wet from urination, and my skin felt like fire.
“Baby, sweetheart, talk to me,” Joyce said as she kneeled on the floor beside my bed.
Earl stood at the door, his eyes were a mask of worry.
“What happened?” She asked.
“Nothing mom,” I choked out the words, although in truth I recalled my birth mother being murdered before my eyes.
“Tell me, beautiful. Please, I just want to help you.”
“I’ll stop, I’ll stop, I’ll stop…” I continued to murmur, meditating on the words. I had to stop these dreams, had to stop remembering them, so this family who took me in wouldn’t grow tired of me…
Then I’m plunged into the same darkness again. Once more, I’m asked if I would like to remember. And I shout, ‘no!’
I feel myself falling, falling, falling… I’ve had this dream before. Although I’ll forget, I have learned that the falling is okay. Because at least, I will forget my mother’s death.
I feel like sleeping beauty without a prince, because for one, the princess wasn’t given a tranquilizer and stolen. Two, I’ve woken up again and Jagger, my … dark knight, hasn’t saved me.
Before I can assess my surroundings, tears blur my vision. I miss my entire family, even my little nieces and nephews that always beg me into adding brandy to their eggnog. I miss crying with my mom while watching an old movie.
I miss Jagger’s very strong arms, arms that have put me in danger, and yet kept me safe throughout our time together.
Jesus, you said you wouldn’t tempt me beyond what I’m able to handle! Let’s agree that I’ve already stepped outside the realm of my capabilities.
At the sound of a door creaking, I bolt up into a seated position. I’m on a pillow-soft four poster bed. The room is fit for a princess.
It’s fit for me…
I glance around. The only thing different is the bed. There are banana leaves strung together and around the room. Of course, my gut is telling me they aren’t the same ones, but they belong. There are elephant figurines all over, wooden ones, gold ones, and ones with tanzanite eyes.
I burst into another round of tears. Jagger has the same color eyes.
A feminine voice speaks up, saying words I cannot understand, and the door opens more.
“Oh, you don’t recall Xhosa?” The woman has short cropped hair which brings my gaze to her warm, beautiful smile.
“No, I don’t. I’m sorry–”
“No, no, don’t be, Princess Mikayla.” Her head dips as if she’s translating and stumbling over the English words. She placed her hand in to the front pocket of her dress, “I have…”
“Is she awake?” Shaka’s familiar voice booms against the wall.
The woman moves her hand from her pocket, wrings her fingers together and steps to the side, keeping from being run over.
“My father will be here in an hour. Kmota, get her prepared for dinner.” He just barged inside and is already heading out the door.
The woman approximately my age, who I presume is named Kmota, glances at me again. “We are so happy you are here. The king regent talked of your arrival.”
I move over with my legs onto the side of the bed. “Uncle Qaaim?” My eyes shade somewhat, I cannot recall him at all.
“We’ve had your wardrobe prepared for a year now. Every seamstress in town gave gifts for you to wear.” She sounds excited.
It goes clear over my head that they’ve been expecting me for an entire year. My brain is still working on overdrive. “Kmota, you were going to give me something?”
“Oh, yes, MamLulami is so happy—“
“MamNcozo?” I speak up. Where did that come from? Did I even say the word correctly.
“No, MamNcozo passed a few years ago. MamLulami is now our … principle healer.”
My lips slide down into a frown instantly. I believe in The Holy Trinity. Whoever this woman is, I have no desire to meet her. It hits me that I still need to be respectful, however. Knowing I’m wrong for stereotyping their culture I smile at her. “Is there a phone I can use?”
“Yes, I can help you with that. Before or after you shower and dress?”
“Now, please.” I cushion the stress I feel with another warm smile. Although, I’m stuck in the past, and cannot recall Kmota, I will treat her with the politeness that I’ve been wishing for this past week. “I will brush my teeth first and use the restroom,” I glance around.
“Yes, Princess Mikayla.” She walks toward a door parallel to the edit and opens it. “Everything you need is here.”
“Thank you.” I head into the bathroom. The walls are yellow gold and the toilet is as well. It doesn’t have a gaudy feeling to it, but a regale one. The windows are open. I glance out and the drop to the first floor is nothing that I’m courageous enough to attempt.
At the sound of a trumpet my shoulders jerk. Water blows in my face!
It’s the elephant!
That psychotic humongous elephant that attempted to bulldoze me. He presses his front feet against the wall and gives another blow. This time the spray is more of a mist. I wipe my face and argue, “Leave me alone… you… you…”
Abayomi…
What was that? The man Jagger murdered in Long Beach was Abayomi. All I recall of him is his hands in mine. He told me he was a warrior. He told me he’d keep me safe. But that was ages ago.
“You stay away from me,” I say through tensed lips. The elephant gives another blow. It’s just a gust of air now.
I slam the window.
“Princess Mikayla?” Kmota calls.
“I’m sorry,” I speak out.
The door opens. “If you wouldn’t mind, I can help you.”
“I… I’m fine. It was just this crazy elephant,” I reply, still astonished at how I passed out. “He wants to flatten me like a pancake.”
“No, he doesn’t.” She shakes her head. “King Bannan, kept Abayomi for you when you were just a little girl.
Bannan, what a beautiful name. My father’s name was… Bannan. King Bannan …”
“Bannan, iyinto yam yonke (you are my everything),” the words float across my skin in a voice that was once familiar to me. My father would be hugging us, my mother and me, and I can almost hear her lighthearted giggle like never before. I’d be attempting to catch my breath from laughing so, and my mother would stop. She’d stare at my father and tell him you are my everything.
C’mon, Mikayla, I tell myself. Don’t do this. They’re gone. It’s unnecessary to relive the past…because it almost broke you the first time. You’re stronger than this!
Kmota’s mouth is moving as she speaks. In a last effort for self-preservation, my ears perk.
“… Bannan said we don’t keep the animals they need freedom to roam. Bannan was a wise king. Abayomi was the first elephant you weren’t afraid of. I remember. I was helping clean your room and I laughed. Your legs were like your mother’s homemade fruit jelly.”
“What do you mean? Abayomi is…was a boy.”
She grins. “You named the elephant after your best friend,” her grin faulted. “Excuse me, Princess Mikayla. You said was? Is that what you said?”
I gulp.
Now her mouth bunches together. “Please,” she says, yet her voice doesn’t retain the usual cordiality.
In trepidation, I break the news, “He’s dead. At least, if I’m right about who I think he is…was.”
A tiny sob breaks the silence between us. She places her hand over her mouth.
I start to reach for her shoulder and Kmota takes a step back. “Because of you! Is he dead because–” her voice cuts off. Her eyes widen as if realizing who I am. “I’m sorry, Princess Mikayla. I-let me know if you need anything. I’ll wait in your bedroom if you don’t mind.”
“Okay, Kmota, I’m sorry…”
She turns to glance over her shoulder at me. Her entire body is tense as she offers one last look as response.
After staring at my bland face in the mirror for a few moments, I start to get busy. There are toiletries underneath the sink, and the bamboo basket behind me has the plushest towels I’ve ever felt.
Though I complete a quick wash down and brush my teeth in just a few minutes, I feel cleaner. It’s almost like the few times I went to help give vaccines in South America. But I actually have the accommodations here. The bathtub behind me is larger than the pond outside where the baby elephants frolicked, and it’s shaped with rocks and turquoise.
But I have to call my family and let them know that I’m okay. I wish that Jagger and I had been on such terms that I have his phone number. I turn the knob and squeeze my eyes shut hoping he is still alive.
When I see Kmota standing in the center of the room, ready for an order, guilt slams into me. She knew Abayomi, the man. The boy, somewhere in my heart, I knew I loved. I can feel my stomach relaxing with thoughts of wanting to laugh…laugh at him, maybe?
Abayomi was funny, at least I feel like he was. And I’m not even aware of how much he is missed. How many souls will mourn him…
“Where is his body?” Kmota speaks, she seems to be biting her tongue as if she hadn’t meant to but couldn’t help but ask. “I am sorry, Princess Mikayla, I am sure our King Regent will… will… handle everything.”
“Can I have my phone call?” I ask, sensing that we both need a change of subject. There’s anger in her eyes for me. And I cannot answer her question about Abayomi.
“Yes, of course.” She opens the door and begins to lead me down a corridor. “We really must hurry, King Regent will want you dressed appropriately for dinner and he will…”
My eyes catch onto some sort of tapestry paintings. And my pacing stops. I look up at a beautiful woman, of the darkest shade of chocolate. Her chin is held high and damn it if she doesn’t have sophisticated cheekbones. Her dark gaze speaks volumes. The man beside her is a roasted hazelnut color. His hair is silky.
“Your parents were the best leaders,” Kmota speaks up. The glare in her eyes tells me that I can’t even touch their feet. She doesn’t believe I’d make a good royal.
Heck, I agree.
Kmota says, “Just inside this room is the phone—“
“Mikayla, my niece,” a voice booms from the stairs.
Kmota bows her head as I turn to see who’s speaking to us.
The man is just as beautiful as my mother. Thick lips, broad nose, and a white-and-gold dashiki tunic covers his broad shoulders. Hell, he’s broad all over. His face is perfectly defined, and white, straight teeth contrast perfectly with his dark raspberry lips as he smiles.
He moves up the last few steps, arms stretched wide. Kmota steps back a few paces.
He hugs me, whispering in my ear. “We searched for you for years, Mikayla.”
“Who are you?”
“I am your uncle, Qaaim.” He holds me at arm’s length. “You do not remember me?”
“Uncle Qaaim,” I mumble, trying out the words. No. “I don’t recall much, I’m sorry.”
“That troubles me, Mikayla, please, let us talk in my office.” He holds out a hand to lead the way.
“I was actually going to make a call.”
“Of course, of course. But I haven’t seen you in years. Just a chat before you do. Don’t you have a mobile?”
I sigh. “I did.”
“We will get you one. The young ones these days do not leave home without them.”
We enter a room that isn’t half as furnished as my bedroom or bathroom for that matter. There’s a steel table with worn chairs that have cracks in the leather. Qaaim moves around the table
I sit down. “What happened to me? Why didn’t I grow up here?”
Would you like the truth? A voice whispers.
“Are you ready for the truth?” Qaaim asks the very question swarming through my mind.
“My mother died.”
His lips are pulled in and he rubs a hand over his mouth. Those beautiful dark eyes, that look so much like the queens begin to water.
“Your mother… my sister…” His baritone voice dips. “She and your father died, yes. The entire nation mourned.”
“What happened?” My voice is weak. I don’t remember them. It’s okay, Mikayla, it’s a normal thing to mourn, it’s not as if you’re developing an attachment, I tell myself.
“Car crash.” He leans back in his chair. “I spoke with the South African Government so many times. I told them that our police were looking into it, but we did not have the tools to determine how. It was suspicious!” He slams a hand onto the table. “My big sister’s death was suspicious. They had a driver. He was dealt with…”
Qaaim’s voice trails off. Questions consume my mind. I ask, “Dealt with?”
“Their death was on the night of celebration. Everyone was down in the village. The king and queen are to arrive last, as the celebration was for them. And yet the driver said that your father gave him the night off! I do not believe it.”
“Can I speak with the driver?” Where did that inquiry come from?
He reaches across the table to take my hand. I almost flinch. I come from a huge family. Many of my classmates in college would complain about the holidays. Having to go here or there, or worse, hosting for Christmas and whatnot. But in my home, my parents always had somebody’s uncle or cousin over, even if they weren’t related. I’ve got the good uncle you go to for legal advice or the creepy one, you remind him that his niece with the big booty is … his niece.
I shrug off the instinct to yank my hand away as Qaaim says, “Mikayla, the driver was dealt with. He is dead.”
“Where was I?” Shit, I am definitely showing more interest than I should. My parents abandoned me in front of Child Protective Services—or at least, I knew my father had. He has to have been a crackhead who murdered my mother. Yeah, those were the words that stung when I was in middle school—the worst bullying ever. Those words kept my nose in a book and my ass on track to becoming a doctor.
“You were with me, Princess Mikayla. We were preparing for your parent’s arrival. We’d picked flowers,” he smiled reminiscent. Qaaim then rubs his chin and says, “I cannot believe you don’t recall.”
I nod my head slowly, taking my uncles words in stride. “Sorry, I can’t remember anything…” except for umama ufile… “I’ve had intensive trauma therapy. It was a blessing.” I almost blush. Not that I was being sarcastic, but we are from different cultures.
“Your mother was beautiful, strong. A good leader.”
And my father?
“Nivean hasn’t been the same since then. I’m so glad you were found. We need a leader who knows our blood, our people.”
I bite down on my tongue. Isn’t he aware that I know nothing of these people?
“We will have a tribute for you tonight. You will meet the elders. They will bless you... MamLalumi will bless you.”
“Who?”
He sighs heavily. “I am sorry, Mikayla. I am just so excited that you are home. If you don’t recall Lalumi, the woman who was in charge of you while your parents were busy—beside me of course—then you really must not recall anything. You and Lalumi were very close.”
“No, I don’t.” Blood pricks in my veins. I feel angry. Why? I’ve had a good life. Couldn’t ask for better parents or family. But I haven’t the slightest idea of the Nivean customs.
“Don’t worry, my gorgeous niece. I will make a statement tonight. Everyone has mourned and missed you as much as your parents. They will embrace you with open arms.”
“What about the Prince Fari?” Why did I just inquire about a man I have no feelings for. It’s almost like I’m watching a mystery movie, arguing with the actors for not being privy to something that everyone else is aware of.
“You will meet the prince in due time.” He grins. “We have to prepare you for him. His royal highness, Prince Fari, will prefer you a little more in touch with your background. We will fix that.”