“You’re quoting Gueye Okahim now?”
“I have questions. He has answers. His teachings help my mind to focus. He helps me to feel like I’m not coming completely unraveled through all of this.” His voice catches in his throat, which catches me by surprise.
Kasim does seem different. Less manic, more confident, and I no longer get that feeling that he’s putting on a good face while falling apart at the seams. I guess it makes sense. While I’ve been entertaining my vices to get through these lengthy separations, Kasim has been strengthening his virtues. Sometimes that’s just the way it happens, bonds stretch, and stretch, and stretch until twins are leading completely separated lives, punctuated by an obligatory dinner once or twice a week to reconnect. But that’s not the only way to do it. If Gueye Okahim is helping Kasim to focus, then perhaps he can help me, too. If I try a little harder. If I follow a little more closely in Kasim’s footsteps. If I stop acting like an asshole jerk brother, pushing Kasim away out of fear of rejection, then we could work together to overcome these forces that have wedged their way between us. The past of the Original Twins may already be written, but no one has control over our future. It can be anything we want it to be.
“I want to come with you next time you go see Gueye Okahim,” I say. This feeling I feel right now, I don’t ever want to feel it again. And though the thought of leaving this room terrifies me, I know I could do it with Kasim by my side. “I want to learn everything I can. Whatever we’re going through, it’s happening to the both of us.” I reach out, grab his arm. “Remember that time I got real sick with the pox, and you crawled into bed and refused to leave me, even for a second?”
Kasim’s lips spread into a grin as he reminisces. “I’d never seen so much snot come out of one nose. Ugh, and those blisters.”
“Then you caught it a few days later, and I tended to you the best I could.”
“We were both a mess then. Covered head to toe in salve. Oh, that stuff smelled so foul.”
“We’re still a mess,” I say. “I miss you, Kasim. I miss how we used to be. I think we can get there again if we work together, stick side by side. I’ll go to the Sanctuary with you, every Tiodoti. Every day, if that’s what it takes.”
Kasim’s grin shifts, like he’s forcing it now. “I appreciate the sentiment, Auben. I really do. But I think it’s best if we continue to keep our distance when we’re out in public. You’ve been getting these demerits . . .” He lets the word hang, so I know that my demerits are the least of his concerns. “And I need to keep my nose clean if I want to stay in contention for Gueye Okahim’s apprenticeship.”
My heartbeat goes hollow. “Yeah,” I say. “You’re too busy playing Grace to bother with the lowly likes of me.”
Kasim shivers against the sudden cold. “I haven’t upset you, have I? Because we can still hang out, just not—”
“Publicly. Got it.” My temper swells, and envy and doubt are close behind. Kasim acts like he hadn’t intended offense, like I’m to blame for overreacting. Here he is treating me like shit on the worst day of my life, and somehow I feel like it’s all my fault. Classic lesser twin syndrome, Chimwe would say if the lights weren’t still half-dimmed inside em. Kasim can play Grace all he wants, but he’s not immune to vice, and no one knows his weaknesses better than me.
Ruda struts across the Gabadamosi quad in thigh-high leather boots, a tight white blouse, and a fitted skirt that leaves little to the imagination. And with her loose, fire red afro-puff perched atop her head, she sets all of campus ablaze. She draws stares from guys, gals, kigens, teachers—her ample figure putting those of the two-hundred-year-old glass masterpieces surrounding her to shame. She sets her sights on one of the few students daring enough to meet her gaze.
“You,” she says, finger pressed against his chest, her jaw smacking hard upon a rubbery wad of neon green gum. She peers at him over the rims of her thick black frames. “Where can I find Kasim Mtuze?”
He points to Kalukenzua House, visibly shaking.
She finds Kasim sitting in the foyer, surrounded by his following, foreheads tattooed, their numbers in the thirties. Their devout eyes do not lift from Kasim as she enters the room, but Kasim’s snap to her like she’s reawakened something within him that he’d forgotten all about. “Ruda!” he says, tripping over his own feet as he rushes to greet her. “What are you doing here?”
“There’s a rumor going around school that you slew some kind of a beast. I came here to see if that was true.” She sets her hands on her hips, and the collection of metal bangles on her wrists clang together. She chews her gum, blows a giant bubble. She rounds her lips around it, filling the void of absolute silence with a brash pop and the soothing scent of lime.
“Well, I didn’t exactly slay him . . .” Which isn’t exactly a lie.
“So it’s true? You’ve been playing around with some extrastrength wu? That’s how you nearly talked me out of my panties on your couch, isn’t it?”
“It’s not wu!” Kasim shouts. “And what happened that day . . .” Kasim looks around at the dozens of quiet eyes trained upon him. “Mind if we go somewhere private to discuss this?”
Ruda crosses her arms over her chest. “Fine,” she says. She follows Kasim, slipping a small folded piece of paper into the hand of one of Kasim’s disciples as she passes em. They make their way through the hallway, up a flight of stairs, and enter a quiet room—the last one on the right. Inside, the walls, ceiling, and door are lined with a patchwork of cork wedges, and a thick carpet absorbs each footstep. It’s so quiet, it’s almost maddening. Kasim takes a seat at his desk chair. She forgoes the overstuffed chair tucked in the corner and knocks a half-empty carton of dried sap and beans out of the way so she can sit directly upon the desk.
“No bullshitting me, Kasim,” Ruda says, legs crossed. Arms crossed. “I want the truth.”
“It was one hundred percent us, I swear. I got caught in the moment. I didn’t even know I had powers back then. Even if I had, I would never have used them on you.” Kasim’s voice escapes out of him in a pathetic wheeze. “You believe me, don’t you?”
Ruda examines him with a tight brow, then uncrosses her arms. “I guess I believe you.” She leans in. “So what kind of powers are we talking about exactly? Can you turn rocks into gold? Bring the dead back to life?”
“No, nothing like that. Just some small tricks. I can levitate for a minute or so. Heal a minor wound. Bend someone’s will.”
Ruda’s brow rises as she pops open the top button on her blouse. “Really? Could you show me?”
Kasim nods at her open blouse, a hint of flesh spilling from overtop her bra. Ruda recoils, covers herself. “How did you do that?”
“I can only bend will, not break it. If it’s something you were thinking about doing already, it’s pretty easy.”
“Are you accusing me of lecherous thoughts, Kasim Mtuze?”
He grins and looks away. “It’s good to see you again. It’s nice to have a reminder of home. Things here are moving so fast and in so many directions, it’s easy to lose your bearings. Too easy to forget what’s really important.”
“Yeah, well, school hasn’t been the same without you. It’s good to see you again, too.” She looks down at her blouse, unfastens a second button. “That was all me that time,” she says, voice huffy and certain. “Wasn’t it?”
“It was. And I’m flattered. But I’m chaste now. I mean, I always was, but I am especially now.” Kasim stumbles over his words, then nods decisively as if to shake the doubt from his head. “I have to set an example. I have to hold myself to a higher standard.”
“I get it. You can’t give in to the temptations of the flesh.” A third button pops free. And a fourth. The last. Ruda’s blouse falls open, revealing the entirety of a black lace bra. “But what good is flesh if you can’t appease it on occasion?”
“Believe me, I’m wondering that same thing right now.” After a long deliberate breath, he goes to the door, opens i
t, and peers out into the hallway. He closes it and turns the lock on the knob. Then he’s next to her, a finger running across the sharp edge of her collarbone.
“You’re shivering,” Ruda says with a sly grin. “You don’t have to be nervous about this.”
“I’m a little cold, that’s all. Aren’t you cold?” His eyes drift down to her nipples puckering hard against lace. Kasim bites his lip.
“Perhaps we can think of a way to warm each other up.” She shrugs off her blouse, and slings it into the corner.
“I’m chaste now.”
“So you said. And I suppose that’s why your hand is between my thighs?”
Kasim tries to retract, but Ruda’s knees knock together as she locks him in tight. He mutters under his breath, some sort of prayer.
“You don’t have to be afraid, Kasim. You might like it.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” He leans in, mouth open, but pulls back a fraction of a second before their lips touch. “Weren’t you chewing gum?”
“I got rid of it,” Ruda says, bobs her brows.
“Good. Gabadamosi’s got a policy against chewing gum on campus. Devil’s habit and all that.” Kasim presses his nose to her neck and breathes her in. “Good Grace it’s been so long,” he mutters, then runs his hand up Ruda’s arm. Looks her in the eyes. Smiles. A large wad of neon green gum sits between his front teeth. He chews it with devious intention. “Still has some flavor. I found it crammed into the door’s lock plate. That’s a funny place to lose your gum, isn’t it?”
Ruda’s eyes go wide. She looks over at the doorknob. It turns once, twice. There’s a muffled knock from the other side. Another. Kasim’s disciples had read the note, and they’re right on time, but everything is going so wrong. The doorknob twists again futilely, and then there’s silence.
“You weren’t expecting anyone, were you? It’d be unfortunate if someone walked on in here and caught me in an unsavory act, wouldn’t it? Like chewing gum, for instance?” He smacks hard, blows a bubble slightly larger than his mouth, then rounds his lips over it and swallows it whole.
“Kasim, I can explain . . .”
Kasim leans upon her, her back pressed to the wall. He shushes her, finger to her lips. “Look who the nervous one is now, Ruda.”
“But I’m not really—”
His lips are upon hers. He kisses her like he means it, and the entire world melts away. Their bodies cease to exist. Instead there is a oneness that is whole and good and filling and wrong and perverse and lecherous. It is all that—it is every possible thing beneath these star-filled heavens. Suns are born. Galaxies die. Then Kasim pulls back. The stars in his eyes fade first, then his lips ashen over. “You’re not Ruda,” he says with a pained exhale, then falls heavily upon her, his skin drying up and cracking over like the desert floor. Kasim cries out, and even the soundproof room is not enough to contain him. The window overlooking the quad shatters, and beyond that, the sound of broken glass echoes on and on.
For a long moment, he is dead. But then, from deep within his desiccated body, a soft yellow light emanates through the cracks. His skin smooths over, and becomes supple once again. Distant galaxies spin lazily upon the glassiness of his eyes. Finally, Kasim sucks in a ragged, desperate breath, and then with lips full and flush, he whistles the last stanza of “Kissed by Icy Blue.”
Charity
An old man with a failing liver. A young kigen suffering needlessly from a severe case of the pox. A comatose business exec cut down by a runaway oryx. They were all dying slow, lonely deaths in their hospital beds. I did them a favor. I killed them out of charity. The tang of their blood still lines my palate, ranging from tart and crisp to smooth and sweet, like the flesh of a deep red plum. I use those unique signatures to hunt down their twins. The stressed teacher running errands after school, the bitter grocer who’d stayed behind to lock up the store, then the old baker two streets down—dragging himself into work hours before dawn. I saved them all the agony I now feel—my broken proximity raking my gut like it’s full of glass shards, the pain only relenting when I appease my lone virtue.
My rough cat tongue licks flecks of marrow and raw sourdough from my tawny coat. Nothing but the skull has gone to waste, and yet my stomach still rings empty, as hollow as my heart. There is a knock at the baker’s door. I look up from my preening, and see a lanky young boy, hands cupped against the glass storefront, peeking in. The sun is already a sliver on the horizon. My body whips to human form, my skull taking on the shape of the one tucked neatly under the display of day-old breads. I arrange the features on my face the best I can remember, then open the door.
“Mr. Ntombela?” the boy asks with a tremble.
“Yes?” I say briskly. All I remember of the baker’s voice is from his screams.
“Nothing is ready,” he says, looking around. “The ovens are still cold. Are you feeling okay? You look—” his eyes stick to the odd contours of my face “—sick.” It is not the word he wishes to use, I can tell that.
“I feel sick. Come closer. Check if I have a fever.”
The boy thinks twice of it, but steps nearer anyway. His hand presses against my forehead. “No fever, but you feel cold. Ice cold.” He buries his hand in his jacket pocket. This narrow season has been cooler, crueler than most. “You should get back home. I can run the store for you.”
“Perhaps I can trouble you for something warm before I go?” Fangs crowd my mouth.
The boy shrugs off his jacket and hands it to me. The gooseflesh is quick to rise upon his exposed arms.
“Warm and wet, I mean.”
“I can make soup.” He looks at me for a long while. “It isn’t soup you’re talking about, is it?”
I shake my head, bare my teeth. The boy doesn’t cower like the teacher. Doesn’t run like the grocer. Doesn’t shriek bloody murder like the baker. He stands his ground. “You’re not scared?” I ask him.
“No, sir,” he says, then mutters something under his breath. A prayer?
“Grace won’t save you,” I tell him.
“I don’t believe in Grace. My mother raised us secular.” He laughs as I circle around him, calculating where I’ll take my first bite. Nervous laughter, but still.
“What’s so funny?” I ask him.
“It’s a bit like the religioners not believing in science. Believe what you want, but it won’t stop gravity from busting your skull when you dive off the top of your tenement building, right?” He laughs again, then scratches at his navel. I smell the salt from his tear ducts, but the tears themselves never make it to his cheeks.
I recognize the distance behind his eyes, the same distance that’s filled my soul these last forty-eight hours. He’s broken proximity, too. Permanently, though. His twin is dead, and so is something inside him. “How long since you snapped off?” I ask. I have a million questions for him. Does it get better? Does it get worse? The glass in my stomach churns, leaving hot white streaks up and down my soul. I wince. It couldn’t possibly get any worse.
“I didn’t snap off. Nyambeni died, and that’s it. He’s gone. I’m still here. Life goes on.” He frowns at me. “Until it doesn’t.”
How can he be so callous? So cruel? How can he deny the longing that bites at me with each breath? I should kill him, put him out of his misery, do my bit of charity and revel in the few seconds I can push Kasim from my mind. I should devour this whole city, but I know that it’ll never be enough.
I look at this poor kid, offering up his jacket to the monster about to take his life. Charity has an evil grip on him, too. I realize I’m staring at him with the fear he ought to be showing me. The boy steps closer. I step back.
“I’m not crazy,” he says, shaking his head. “People die all the time. Maybe some snap off, but not all of them do. I didn’t.” His lies are smooth and effortless, just like mine.
“You offered me your jacket. Me of all people.” People. I use the term loosely.
He shrugs. “Not li
ke I’m going to need it. Right? I might not be religious, but we’ve all heard the stories. We’ve sung the songs. You’re hungry. An undeniable hunger that won’t go away. I know what that’s like. I should have been the one who ate concrete, not Nyambeni. Sometimes I crave it, too.” He smiles, his teeth as jagged and sharp as mine. Gums raw and red and pitted. I’ve seen so much gore, and yet the sight of them turns my stomach until it’s tight with greasy knots. “What’s wrong?” the boy asks. “Don’t you want me?” He tugs down the collar of his shirt and exposes his throat. I could release his blood, and temporarily ease the pain in my gut. Or I could welcome his company, and we could commiserate and face our demons head-on, so to speak.
“Do you drink?” I ask the boy.
“Mr. Ntombela keeps a couple cases in the back for the beer breads. I’m not supposed to know about them.” He glances at the bone-white skull beneath the display shelf. “I suppose that’s moot now.”
We drink together. Reminisce about our twins, chatting about the good memories mostly—the games we played, the trouble we got into, but as we crack open the second case of beer, Tshidino, Tshidi, that’s what his friends call him, bares his soul.
“We were up on the roof of our tenement, walking the ledge like we always do.” Tshidino’s sloppy smile falls from his face. “Always did. This day was different, though. A crowd gathered down below, and we both got the wiles to show off, doing wild leaps and play sparring. Lulama was down there, too, the girl from next door. So sweet, so soft-spoken and kind. Smells really good, like little blue flowers. I didn’t like her or anything, but Nyambeni did. And she liked him, only his stupid chastity kept him from building up the nerve to talk to her. I thought I could help him get over his shyness. So I tugged his pants down to his ankles for our whole audience to see. He shouldn’t have tripped. Nyambeni had all the grace in the world. But he fell. I kind of suspect he jumped out of embarrassment. Doesn’t matter either way, I guess. He still landed face-first. Busted out all his teeth. Busted a lot more than that, but that’s what I remember most.” Tshidino pulls a handful of gravel bits out of his pocket. Pops them into his mouth like they’re nuts. Chews. The grating sound echoes in my skull. My nausea deepens as he smiles at me, his mouth full of blood. “What about you? How’d you and Grace part ways?”
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