by Nana Nkweti
Third, and most importantly, Astrid and Mbola are silent because they are alone. Mimi, their buffer, has decamped to a cousin’s house in the Bronx, leaving them in one of those awkward moments when their simmering dislike—usually confined to the occasional whitehead flare-up—now took on a life of its own, gained sentience, planned world domination.
Mbola spit out another sunflower seed, breaking the silence, saying, “I read your stuff today. Y’all be killing folks all kind of ways—chopping off heads, shish-kebabbing eyeballs. It’s mad dark.”
“Yeah, that’s Young’s style,” says Astrid. Young was crazy for chiaroscuro—all inky blacks, bone whites, with the occasional splash of red in a flagrant homage to his idol, Frank Miller. Her story lines fit the tone.
“You know just what his style is, don’t chu?” Mbola says. “The way you be all up on him, all the time.”
Astrid knows that Mbola is decidedly not Young’s style. In a convo, months ago, he had dismissed the idea of dating her in less than a minute.
Mbola? I’d rather date a Japanese body pillow—better personality.
She’s not all that bad.
She’s hot but hella loud and—
Whatevs, date the pillow chick. I’m sure you and waifu, Keiko-tan, will have a real nice life together.
Damn straight. Once you go moe you never go back.
Mmmhmm. Better not honeymoon in Paris though.
Astrid had dropped an imaginary mic as she said this, then threw her hands in the air for that burn to end all burns. Shinnichis that they were, that Sunday night’s viewing pleasure had been a documentary screening on the frequent mental breakdowns of Japanese tourists in the land of croissants and vin rouge.
All right, all right. I gotta give it up for a PBS snap, Young said, laughing. And Astrid didn’t know what made her happier, his husky chuckle or hearing that he had no designs on her prettier friend.
• • •
“Astrid! You listening? You don’t got nothing to say? You too good to talk to me now?” Rat-a-tat questions from Mbola, who was working herself into a state, firing up.
“No, I just—”
“Yes, you. You always looking at people and writin’. What you got in that pad about me? You know you ain’t better than nobody. You ain’t no hero.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Talking ’bout you, bitch. You s’posed to be that blind ninja chick, Blue Ivy, Augur Blue—”
“Brown.”
“Blue-black, doodoo brown, I don’t care. You ain’t her, you mad weak,” says Mbola, stabbing a spiky acrylic talon at Astrid’s face. “She can’t see nothing but at least she open her damn mouth to talk. More than your ass can do.”
“Get your finger out my face,” Astrid claps back, refusing to step away, to cower, but then she falls silent. She always falls. The platform is hollow with her silence till the homeless man slumped over three benches away lets loose this klaxon of a fart. Till Astrid hears the muffled rumble of a train approaching on the opposite track.
Astrid is so not in the mood for this. It had been a long day of ups—she and Young selling half their stock—and downs—Baek Hyeon a no-show, sending an Emergency at PG county shop. Rain check at MomoCon? text. Astrid had felt a wave of self-pity (yet another holding pattern before her life could truly start) till Young cheered her up with a variety pack of her favorite Japanese Kit Kat flavors—matcha green tea, red beans, and soy sauce chocolate bars. Poking her in the back with one of his ubiquitous monogrammed pencils as he prodded. “And why are Kit Kats lucky, senpai?”
“Because their name sounds like kitto katsu in Japanese.”
“Hmm. And what does kitto katsu mean, young grasshopper?” he said, stroking his chin’s fill-in-the-dots stubble like a graybeard grandmaster.
His antics coaxed a reluctant smile from Astrid, quickly followed by a mandatory this clown eyeroll, as she mumbled, “You will always win.”
“Come again? The Ancient One’s hearing is not what it once was.” He leaned closer, held his hand to an ear like the horn of an old-timey gramophone.
“It means: ‘You will always win!’” Astrid yelled, garnering “Hell yeahs!” and “Hootie-hoos” from across the bustling hall.
That Kit Kat high and hadouken energy boost from Young’s Mr. Miyagiesque pep talk lasted through the rest of the day but now her mind is full of worry on an empty platform, as Mbola rants ugly sometime-truths at her. No more, no more, no more, she thinks, feeling a pounding in her blood as the train, and Mbola, draw nearer. No more!
Astrid flashes to a vivid scene, another vision. Her katana slashes at air and sinew and bone. Blood blossoms from jagged platform cracks like vengeful roses. All that is left of Mbola, and her scorn, lies ruined at her feet. In her visions, Astrid is an avenger, fifty feet tall, fearless, katana in hand. Her voice a banshee scream, booming with conviction. She could be utterly herself, whatever her mind’s eye imagines.
“Hey! I’m talking to you!” Mbola’s strident voice zaps her back to reality.
“Yeah, get all quiet again, smart-girl,” Mbola continues. “You so smart, why come you got to sneak out your house? Why you stay lying to your momz all the time?”
Mbola pushes her then. And for the first time in her life, Astrid pushes back.
She slaps, she jabs, she dodges Mbola’s left hook. In their tussle, Mbola grabs her knapsack. Pulls away, panting and triumphant, holding it over the tracks.
“I’ll drop it, bee-yatch,” Mbola snarls through a bloodied, already swelling lip.
“Just try it,” Astrid says, slowly unsheathing her katana. It’s a dull replica really, but she knows if she puts enough force behind a blow, it will hurt like hell. Her mind fills with chiaroscuro, a darkness of slashing things: Mbola, Abel, her mother, and finally The Photo—nearly bowling her over, nauseous with a need to hurt something. But then suddenly there is a lightness. She feels freed and filled with an awareness of her life beyond this moment, a future that is hers to choose, so she hopes. And there’s that tingling again, the itching, sticky glow of it under her skin. She knows the truth of it now. Feels the zip of energy, the same zing up her spine after writing the perfect sentence. A power she has censored all her days.
Mojo, Astrid thinks. Mojo.
She lifts her chin high, lowering her sword to her side as she walks toward Mbola.
“Just try me,” she says.
The Devil Is a Liar
Out of the mouth of babes and suckling infants, you have established strength because of your foes, to still the enemy and the avenger.
—PSALM 8:2
There are hymns, there are hosannas, there are hallelujahs. There are some who are struck dumb in His presence and those who are newborn linguists—speaking in tongues. Eyes roll heavenward, limbs grow palsied, tears—of joy, of penitence, of defiance—are shed. Through this sound, this fury, Sister Glory Ngassa, Minister of Music for the New Africa International Church of the Holy Redeemer, Brooklyn Battalion, is praying fervently: Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Alpha and Omega. Thank you, Oh Merciful One. Glory glorifies and magnifies THE ALMIGHTY for the miracle he has wrought in the life of her daughter. Her voice, once whispery, rises, then rises again as she sways to the unsung chorus moving the faithful twenty-person flock present for service that Sunday morn. And faithful they are to the fledgling church—its sanctuary, a dusty Brooklyn apartment, a donated space, still undergoing a slow renovation that has spanned from Easter Sunday the year prior into an unknown future—unto the end of days, perhaps.
The congregation is sanguine in their shared burdens. Tried and tested; they will not be found lacking. So one had to watch one’s step on the unfinished floorboards; a mere reminder that Jesus himself was a carpenter, a man who knew the grain of cedar, of poplar, of acacia, and even the bitterest wormwood. So the single-paned windows were unsealed and unshielded; their translucent tarp coverings fluttered in the draft like a host of angels’ wings. Yes, the congregants of the New Africa
International Church of the Holy Redeemer know they are blessed. Their leader, man of God, Pastor Godlove Akondeng, had journeyed all the way from church headquarters in Cameroon to share his special anointing.
Glory is bursting with a mighty testimony. Her daughter Temperance, whose belly had lain fallow for over a decade, is now with child. Hallelujah!
Three months ago, in this very church, the pastor had laid hands on her visiting daughter, covering her with the holy blood of Jesus. Amen. The two women’s shared car ride to church had been one of quiet reflection, each woman siloed in sacrifice, contemplating the concessions they’d made to reach that moment. The mother remembered a month of cajoling her doubting Thomas daughter, weeks of what harm would it do-es? unanswered save for shrugging silence. The daughter remembered her husband’s bedside homilies, her personal preacher man whispering honor thy mothers in her ear, his firm hands gently kneading her hips, the altar of the ironing board before them as she starched his clerical collars and Sunday bests. She had bowed her head and gritted her teeth in resignation.
Settled in together at the back of the sanctuary, mother and daughter waited as the service clocked in at two hours and twelve minutes: an abundance of songs and salutations, offerings and announcements, and a sermon so long-winded even the resolute wriggled impatiently against the unforgiving metal of their rented folding chairs. Then finally, the altar call, the open invitation to lay one’s sorrows at the hallowed feet of the Lord. The main event to Glory’s mind and many others if the throng of eager worshippers crammed in front of the makeshift pulpit was any indication. A platoon of Godlove’s prayer warriors flanked the pastor as he moved through those gathered, their arms outstretched, ready to catch any and all poleaxed by the awesome power of the Word. That very moment, the good pastor was laying hands on the forehead of Brother William—felling all six feet of the man into the waiting arms of Sister Anna, raining down rapid-fire holy fire to break the ancestral curses that had kept the good brother from receiving his promotion, his increase. “Release him in the name of God the Father,” he chanted. “Release him in the name of the Holy Spirit, release him, Jehovah-jireh; thy will be done.”
Glory bowed her head, praying. Temperance bowed down low, readjusting the crumpled church flyer jammed under the foot of her wobbly chair. Feeling ill at ease as the ground shifted under her once again. Glory, even with eyes pressed shut in devotion, sensed her daughter’s distress and reached out to squeeze her hand, willing faith and patience through her fingertips. This was her doing, was it not? Glory wondered. What else had she expected? All her life she had been a CEO—a “Christmas-Easter only” churchgoer playacting piousness. Her offspring had known nothing better. Now, she was determined to give her daughter the dose of belief she needed. Even if it went down bitter.
Glory stood up, pulling her daughter forward as the last stragglers freed the altar. She sucked her teeth as they passed Sister Matilda and Brother Ezekiel in the aisle. Unequally yoked, those two. The wife, crutching herself against the husband in deference to a newly acquired limp. The husband, clutching her piety to him like a security blanket, eyes darting, then downcast, seemingly abashed by the knowledge that Glory, and all those present, knew that he had hobbled his wife, disordered her steps.
At last Glory placed her daughter before her, offering her up to Pastor Godlove’s waiting hands. Temperance tried not to roll her eyes as a man—William, was it?—jumped up to begin a jig of jubilation, before helpers whisked him away. Glory was appreciative. It was her daughter’s turn and nothing would block her blessings. Not today, Satan. Not today. The man of God began to pray and the bliss of that moment, the brilliant relief of glimpsing a breakthrough yet to come, rocked Glory back on her heels. Even as Temperance stood stoic, Pastor Godlove’s hands hovered over her flat belly, while he chanted By the Spirit of Christ. By the Body of Christ. By the Blood of Christ as he cast out the spirit of barrenness, beseeching the God of Abraham and Sarah, the promise keeper who blessed them with children as plentiful as stars in the night sky, to come into this place.
For years, Temperance had looked upon that same night sky and wept. But now, three months after Pastor Godlove’s intercessions, Glory can testify on today, that joy truly comes with the morning. Her daughter had seen the signs and wonders for herself. Hosanna in the highest!
And now songs of praise and thanksgiving.
Glory steps forward. She pushes up her +1.5 drugstore reading glasses—perhaps it is time for +2?—and peers down at her hand-assembled hymnal. The photocopied fruit of her labors to harvest gospel songs from across the continent: Nigeria’s Joe Praize, Cameroon’s Tribute Sisters, the Soweto Gospel Choir.
“Jesus, we love you, Lord. You don make my life betta. I go de thank you for evamore, thank you, Baba,” sings the congregation, kept in time by the baton of Glory’s pointer finger tap-tapping notes in the air. She is gratified. There is no instrumental accompaniment for this chorus of warbling voices—Sister Anna is always flat!—yet she knows to her marrow that their voices are pleasing to He who matters utmost.
Glory knows the power of church music. In over thirty years of searching for a church home she has been to many houses of worship and has come to know the quality of a church not by the size of the hats on the church ladies’ heads or the crisp white gloves of its ushers. She knows a church by its music, by the way its people raise their voices in gratitude. Praise Jesus! She knows the Pentecostals love a good tambourine—a jangly rejoicing; Catholics crave a holy hush, hums of contemplation; while the Southern Baptists are ones for gamboling and holy rolling—lovers of big-voiced belters, soul claps, and organ riffs that settle on the sermons of their high-stepping reverends like a hype-man’s cape across a shoulder blade.
For Glory, for His glory, the music has to be especially right this day. Her daughter is now over three months pregnant, well past those dangerous witching hours and months when a bumpy car ride could spell catastrophe. Blessed be.
Three months ago, the pastor had pulled Glory aside, spoke to her of serpents, of writhing knots in her daughter’s insides, of the agent of the enemy who had tried to steal her dear child’s womb, and the spiritual warfare he waged to protect it.
Later, she would tell her daughter of those snakes, those twisty fists pummeling her from within. “Oh, Mom,” Temperance said, sighing. “I saw a specialist. Those were just fibroids.”
• • •
Jesus, please Jesus, God, please, please, please. Let this baby be all right. This is the refrain in Temperance’s head as she lies on the exam table, watching the ultrasound technician’s wand stutter and stall—traversing ruts in the stretch-marked terrain of her mountainous belly. On the screen, her baby is airy and infinitesimal; a floating cumulous cloud. Yet there is a storm front across the tech’s forehead, a worrying forecast, quickly gone as she shakes her head no to Temperance’s question: “What’s wrong?” She demurs, says, “We wait and see what doctor say,” in a soft, lilting Russian accent at odds with her high-picked, Brighton Beach bouffant.
Please, tell me something, tell me anything.
“Tell me,” Temperance says, grabbing the yolky, gel-soaked wand. “I just technician. Doctor come soon. You know everything, in time.”
The tech is out the door, leaving Temperance to berate herself. She could have been more persuasive, she just knows it. She could have displayed the oratorical prowess that holds all one hundred of her 1L students in thrall, even in that dogsbody of all law school classes, Professional Responsibility. She should have been serenely commanding, donned her First Lady mask, the one she used when she was spearheading the Marriage Ministry, Ladies Auxiliary, Bible School brunches, and Young Woman’s Mentorship program at her husband’s church. But she was too tired to be eloquent or uplifted. She is terrified, little else.
Something is beeping. She stares into the blank computer screen—the crèche that had cradled images of her baby. Another beep, near the sink, near the laminate countertop where a glove box
bulges to bursting; syringes stab air; and a mad scientist’s assortment of glass jars stand specimen-free. All feel menacing to her jumbled mind. There is another muffled beep before she remembers, exhales. It’s just her cell phone. In her purse, hanging on a coat hook shaped like a stork’s beak. Probably her husband, Andrew. Always so good about checking in even though he has no idea she is here. This visit is, and will be, her secret: too early to worry him, all too soon to weaken the faith of a jubilant congregation, four thousand strong.
Three months they had waited to announce the coming of this hard-won baby (conceived after no less than nine IVF treatments). Two Sundays ago, Andrew stood at the pulpit, she by his side, her hand practically crushed in his own as he spoke about the years of trying, about divine order, and the Lord’s timetable. She was forty-two, having her first child, thinking The Lord needs a new Rolex. But that day, she smiled, and smiled. Strange hands reverently touched her belly each time she passed through the plush carpet corridors of the spiritual Disneyland that is their church campus. She smiled in the church gift shop as Andrew bought her an XXL maternity-wear “Jesus Saves” T-shirt and a copy of The Christian Girl’s Guide to Pregnancy. She smiled when he reported an uptick in church revenue—offerings overflowing the collection plates, increased e-giving at the automatic tithing machines (ATMs). There was talk of renovations, a new annex, of recessed lighting. She smiled. Evidently, pregnancy was good business for the house of the Lord. Now this.
Another beep from her purse. She yanks her feet from the stirrups. Her papier-mâché gown bursts down the center, jagged edges scratching past her linea nigra, like a truculent piñata. She rushes to the phone to find solace in Andrew’s voice, to drown herself in its deep end—so low, so sonorous. To let the soothing lap and cool lick of its sermonic undertones swell over her, as it did, even in bed, inside her again and again, making her scream his name, then His name. Preach.