“Now,” Papa commands, his voice without any trepidation, “remove your hands from that man.”
The heat from the fires makes the night unbearable, sucking out all the air. The intruders cast demon-like shadows in the fires’ light. But Papa’s features do not betray anything but a decree of calm for the rest of us to follow. The soldier still holds the club, but his fingers begin to unfurl from the old man’s shirt collar, his will bending to Papa’s as if entranced.
“Why have you people come here?” Papa demands as the old man sinks to the ground, a bag of weighted rocks dissolving into tears.
A large man, so heavy that when he drops down from one of the open-bed trucks, it springs back happily, unleashed from its burden, walks toward us. He schleps along as if he is about to reason with Papa. Perhaps this is all a mistake.
Instead, the man raises the butt of his rifle and smashes it against Papa’s head so viciously that a collective gasp is emitted from the villagers like a stadium wave. Again, I want to rush to Papa’s aid, but both Wisdom and Josiah net their arms around me to contain my struggle. That is my papa he has hit. That is my papa staggering from the blow, shaking his head to clear it from the dizzying effects. A hand is over my mouth. Three others hold me tight, and Josiah murmurs as if chanting:
“Be still. Be still.”
I heed him, stilling myself, because it is all I can do.
7
AFTER
The Cuban and the party nearly two weeks behind her, Nena left her little cottage home, locking the door. She’d been a recluse, keeping a low profile, watching her movies, and enjoying the backyard oasis that had taken her years to perfect. She was glad only one job remained before she’d have some real time off. She had last-minute preparations to make for her Baxter dispatch, but for now all she could think about was hitting her favorite burger hangout.
When she arrived at Jake’s Burger Spot, located in a sketchier part of town, all the stores were closed and the streets relatively empty, but Jake’s remained open a little longer for those working late shifts. Nena noticed an emerald-green Cadillac parked along the street not too far from the bus stop. Etched on the top of its trunk were five playing cards: an ace, a king, a queen, a jack, and a ten.
The Royal Flushes, a local gang.
She saw Holding all the cards scrawled in a flourish below the winning hand. Nena frowned. She wasn’t into Keigel’s business, but even she knew the Flushes were on his “turf.” And she was pretty sure whatever the reason, it was for no good, and Keigel wouldn’t be pleased if he found out.
But Keigel’s gang business had nothing to do with her, though she hoped one day he might think of the African Tribal Council as family, like he did his gang. Maybe eventually, he’d work for the African Tribal Council and make the pledge to unite all African countries—and by association all Black people of the diaspora—and work to make them a strong, legitimate force, equal to all the other supreme forces of the world.
That conversation, however, was for another time, because Nena was hungry and Jake’s was calling her.
Only two other patrons were in the diner, a Hispanic man and a White one, both finishing up their dinners as she took her usual booth in the back corner of the restaurant. She liked that spot because she could see who came and went. The two men paid the waitress, Cheryl, bestowing some jokes on her that elicited her laughter. It was the kind of laugh a person made when the joke wasn’t funny. The men, both wearing County of Miami-Dade sanitation-department jumpsuits, busily discussed their time sheets as they exited through the front doors, the bell chiming their departure while the buxom Cheryl began wiping down the table where they’d eaten.
When she was done, Cheryl approached Nena with a smile that said she recognized her. Nena put down the menu, giving Cheryl her full attention.
“What’s up?” Cheryl asked, waiting for Nena’s usual.
“Hi,” Nena replied. “Could I have a bacon cheeseburger, Coke, and onion rings?”
“And a chocolate milkshake to go?” Cheryl cracked a smile.
Nena nodded. “Please,” she added, not meaning to be rude. “And thank you.”
“Gotcha.” Cheryl smiled down at her, and the tiny diamond stud in her nose seemed to sparkle. She returned to the counter with a sway to her ample rear. Little at the top, big at the bottom. Keigel’s words popped into Nena’s mind as she watched her.
Nena’s order was prepared quickly, since she was the only customer, and she devoured it just as quickly. As she was working on the last onion ring, Cheryl brought the milkshake and a refill of Coke. At the same moment, the door chimed. Both women looked up to see a young girl with a head of wonderfully natural hair, giving off #Blackgirlsrock vibes as she walked in, trying to pretend she belonged there.