Natura: Uhuru Genesis

LOU

"Hmmm," Sonia's lips part, "so you're one of those guys?"

"W-we n-need the T-cards tonight," Lou dodges Sonia's jibe, "We m-must meet Eriya."

"You and him are on first name basis," Sonia mocks, "that's sweet." She's standing by the floor lamp now, a gold piercing winking at her nose. Lou finds it curious that, where she is a decorated mannequin, her companion is all plain and dull. "See, I don't believe all this. It's a joke. And you're crazy. No nate ever flies out of Alimo city."

"It's n-not a j-joke," Lou turns his gaze to the fluorescent-eyed woman, well, to her knees. His hand keeps running along the strap to his tote, "Ask your friend."

"She does have a name, you know," Sonia points, flouncing lazily on a sofa, "she's told you she's Anansi."

"Thank you, miss," Anansi says. She's standing stiffly besides a marble hearth. It puzzles Lou, she's quickly switched to a prude now, and no longer the fierce, protective woman, who seemed ready to snap a neck like a twig, back at the gate.

"He doesn't trust you," Basha flicks her eyes at Anansi, also dumping herself on a sofa next to Lou, "He doesn't like your ...kind? ... tribe?" She puts it as an uncertain question. In school, the tutors taught that the Alt folks, too, bleed red. They are just another tribe. Nobody stays in school after thirteen; so perhaps, it isn't long enough to drum that in someone's brain. Add that Basha is a little wimpy, and way too petulant. The cheekiness is not new. It's been, since childhood. But the petulance is a new vice. It cropped up after her snack cart at Flea market was vandalized. It was the police. It dropped her moods. She smashed her wooden box piggybank the next morning and went shopping for used clothes to kill her sour moods. She came back to their small apartment and startled Lou, so much that Lou bit his tongue. She had a handful of gothic Lolita clothes; black dungarees, black torn boots, black crop-tops and cheap kohl. Lou had genuinely pondered whether she had a new gig as an undertaker. That wasn't all. She'd also started caring less about things, except for Lou. Lou but not Dakiti. Dakiti, back from labor camp, heads straight to Kinky Reggae Bar, and spares no time for her. But Lou's always there.

Anansi dips Basha a hot gaze, "please get up. You can't sit there." She unfolds her hands, "you ought to have some respect."

"She's a native too," Basha protests, pointing at Sonia, "how come she gets to sit?"

"No, you hobo," Sonia shakes her head violently; "I'm not a nate."

"Nate?" Anansi furrows her brow.

"A-actually, it's s-supposed t-to be nasci. Our r-real n-name is nasci," stutters Lou. "But, B-basha. P-pleas just d-do it."

"She might not be a native – native, but anyone who's not a mu'nova is kind of a native," Basha insists, her lips pouty, "besides, me, I'm going to die anyway."

Lou's face goes ashen in a blink, even though he's just half-lit. His sloppy shoulders tighten, and his hand jerks hard at his bag strap. "Y-y-you w-w-won't die."

"I heard the transplant doesn't kill," Sonia puts in casually, shaking strips of hair out of her eyes, "you get a cute new heart or something. You get to switch you know. Which is kinda cool if you are a smoker."

"S-synthetic," Lou chortles, "you g-get a synthetic heart; n-not even t-the ones grown f-f-from stem cells. T-these ones a-are w-w-weaker. B-besides, Basha doesn't s-s-smoke." Lou notices Basha watch him with a glitter of surprise in her dark brown eyes. He gets a bit talkative when defending his sister. Yet she knows he hates chattering.

Even by seven, Lou learnt to be flawless in silence. When you stutter, speaking is a traffic light that draws the spotlight on you. Yet, all he wanted was to go by Container Park corridors, bag on his shoulder, without anyone so much as blinking at him. Instead, bullies and catcalls trailed his path. It made it worse that these were native kids, his own. Sometimes, after school, when curfew laws were loose, he would sneak up to the rock, uphill Flea Stone Park. He'd wait for the moon, as the other kids hula hooped, chased wil-o-the-wisps, and kicked threaded balls. He'd thought the moon was the eye of a giant, who, too, was afraid to talk. So they spoke their whispered secrets in silence, as twilight washed away the weight of quiet.