Moon Shadow

17

I had a funeral to attend the next day.

After wearing a black suit with matching shoes, I boarded an auto-rickshaw to Kigamboni, where it was being held. I never liked crossing over to the island, knowing the history of the ferries and how poor management led to the death of many innocent people.

It was one of those things where I wished the occult had been involved so I could have something other than human negligence to blame. But no, greed and corruption ran foul here. I couldn't do anything about it.

Arriving at the funeral, there were hundreds of sorcerers and a few non-sorcerers. The former's magic energy filled the area, clashing against each other like gods and monsters, seeing who had the most power. Those with more of it stood above the rest, getting looks of admiration or jealousy.

Sorcerers only gathered together to show off, scout the competition, and see where they were in the magic hierarchy—everyone was below The Supreme Leaders. So seeing many of them at David Paul's funeral made me laugh.

The man wasn't well-liked.

Alright, maybe I didn't like him.

Still, the turnout was surprising. But thinking about it, there hadn't been a death of a high-profile sorcerer in many months. This was like our twisted version of Award Season, Coachella, or... or... or... or whatever. I'd find another example later. Mxiu!

Criers—people hired to cry at a funeral—stood in front of David's coffin, doing their job to perfection by wailing so hard it was almost comical. You'd think they were his relatives or family members. But I had seen a few of them at other funerals. They made a good chunk of change. If I didn't hate crying and I wasn't a sorcerer, I'd have applied to... Who was I kidding? No, I wouldn't. Still, they helped maintain the mood and remind everyone what we did was dangerous and we could lose our lives at any moment.

"Binti," a familiar voice called.

Turning around, I saw Preacher Boy and Zainab heading my way, with the former waving at me. He had asked if we could come to the funeral together, but I declined. I wasn't in a chitty-chatty mood, and I didn't want to be in a confined space with Zainab. Today wasn't the day for us to fight. There was a time and place for that.

"When did you arrive?" I asked Preacher Boy.

"Just now. You?"

"Same." I glanced at Zainab, who had her arms crossed on her chest. She glanced at me from head to toe and scoffed. "You like what you see, little girl?"

"There's not much to like or see," she replied.

"That's what your exes say about you."

She snarled. "Bitch."

"It takes one to know one."

I didn't want to get in a fight with her, but the look in the twerp's eyes, like she was looking down on me, pissed me off. Unlike me or Preacher Boy, Zainab came from a wealthy family—The Hassan Family—and they had spoiled her. They owned gas stations throughout Africa and had plans to expand in Europe and South America within the next five years. Maybe that was why we never saw eye to eye. She hated the fact that for someone not as rich as her, I was ridiculously powerful—Ok, maybe I was exaggerating—while she wasn't even with all her money.

That was the saddest thing about magic: money couldn't buy you more magic power.

Before Zainab replied, Preacher Boy grabbed her arm. "You promised you wouldn't," he said.

Zainab observed me again, sighed, then frowned. "I'm sure Sammy and Christa are around here somewhere. Let's go find them," she said.

"Alright." As they turned to leave, Preacher Boy glanced at me and mouthed, "Sorry about that."