Cranberry Clairvoyant (Azealia Banks Story)

Goodbye and Good Riddance

My mother was a beautiful woman.

Tall, curvaceous and graceful. If I didn’t grow to be just like her, then I might as well not be a woman. She exuded regality, and the catch was that she did it effortlessly. It was quite amazing to watch her in motion, her hips switching intriguingly yet subtly. She was so gorgeous that men weren’t even brave enough to compliment her; they would just stare at her with their tongues trapped in their mouths, silent as a church mouse.

I always thought this was because she had a tendency to be accidentally intimidating, but I realized that it wasn’t her who overawed people, it was the scoundrel she kept at her side at all times like a watchdog. He stood taller than her, in three-piece suits during the weeks and full African garb on the weekends. His eyes were little evil marbles, peering through their lids as if they would jump out at you if you stared too long. He was my father.

And sometimes, I swear I hated him.

Now that I thought about it as he and Nana entered the room to find adjacent seats at the large breakfast table, nothing had ever went smoothly between my father and I. We disagreed on everything, from my hobbies to my hair. I could only imagine the trouble he would give me if he knew of my gift.

I shuddered when I remembered the gift. Darrius.

“Hello, Azealia,” Nana said to me. I smiled at her; my father didn’t even flinch. Deeply I exhaled before returning to skimming the menu. They never let us choose what we wanted for breakfast, unless of course a few of us who had diet specifications, so the menus were unnecessary. I used them to try to predict what they would bring to us, though. Today I figured that they would make us waffles.

“Excuse me,” said one of the assistant chefs as he came into the room with a tray in his hands. A number of chefs like him followed, placing plates down in front of each of us. I was wrong, apparently; they served pancakes instead of waffles. When my plate was delivered to me, I stared at the food for a while, to the point where it seemed to be moving; shuffling, writhing uncomfortably to be set free. This food didn’t want to be eaten.

So I left it on the plate even after we prayed.

Time and again my father would glance up at me to see if I had touched my food. Of course, I used my fork to peck it at. Just peck. But he began to notice.

“Azealia, why aren’t you eating?” Daddy asked. I sighed and forced a forkful into my mouth, wanting to spit it out immediately. It tasted delicious, but something was making me lose my appetite. Stress, maybe?

“See? I am eating.” I told him after I swallowed. A smile would have added more effect; I didn’t bother.

Daddy looked at me for a long time before returning to his breakfast. Today was Friday, so he had his suit on. A watchdog, that’s exactly what he was, protecting not only my mother, but me, from danger that was simply an illusion. He was always trying to shield us. I hated it.

“Why won’t you eat?” Destiny asked. It was only she and I sitting side-by-side today, for Milan had lost her appetite.

“I can’t eat this. I’m stressing too much.” I whispered to her for my father not to hear.

“First Milan, now you? I can’t believe this. You guys are crazy. I mean, Milan has a reason, since she’s feeling seasick, but you’re just stressed! For what?” She asked, loud enough for people near us to hear.

For what? What was I really stressed about?

I don’t know! Something was bothering me, but I didn’t know what it was. If I knew, maybe I could fix it and—