Kiini Salaam - Ancient, Ancient

Faru, Faru pausing for the truth.

A moth brushed against Faru’s ear. He turned away from Sené and Na. Behind him a pack of flying night creatures swarmed. Faru laughed and went bounding up the cliff towards the bush. The flying things brushed against his skin, bursting with desire. He leaped and twisted with his throng of admirers. Sené and Na were vague forms, coupling mysteriously on the periphery of his memory.

Faru sprang to the top of the cliff, and ecstasy exploded in his chest. He heard the hoarse groans of bush animals bellowing in heat. It seemed as if the entire night was singing a love song to him. Faru parted his godly lips and let out a triumphant yell.

Faru, Faru running through the bush. >

On deep purple-black nights, when the whole house has pushed itself into slumber, WaLiLa’s energy flits around her room like a moth. It leaps up to do jumping jacks & turn cartwheels, then clings to the ceiling. It bounces off the walls & jiggles its knees impatiently. WaLiLa is a jitterbugging ball of need about to pop.

Her energy screams at the top of its lungs. “I want to wake the whole house!” How can they sleep when they know that somewhere the Brugal is being poured, the disco lights are pulsating, the speakers are thumping, & the dance floor is full. How can they sleep?

WaLiLa’s charged energy frowns & pouts in its boredom. Her fuse is dampened. Her flame reduces to a dim glow; the dynamite doesn’t blow. On deep purple-black nights, WaLiLa’s energy kicks the walls of her insides, sulks to the corner of her chest, & slides down into a deep, defeated slump.

call malkai me fuse re-flames. me fire burn long way to club. we go in club. i excited. i holding on wrist malkai. i feel air white & thick on me skin. me eyes see sticks skinny people use to spread air thick. glow of light on end of stick make me think home. i feel burn in me nose. malkai tell me is scent: smell of rum. me heart pumps to music beat.

sudden we on floor dance. circle malkai spin me in. feet we slide to beat. i mirror malkai mirror i. we dip, we glide, we bump, we grind. we pause…& EXPLODE! malkai wink. i turn & we go spin & spin & spin.

“I am going to buy a drink Lila, do you want one?” MalKai asked.

“Yeah, me want rum.”

“ I want rum,” MalKai corrected.

“I want rum,” WaLiLa repeated & turned back to face the dance floor. WaLiLa saw MalKai’s outstretched fingers cross over her shoulder & impatiently demand her attention. She turned back around with an innocent grin. “Oh, coins you want?” she asked & gave MalKai five pesos.

As WaLiLa scanned the club with her sharp vision, she fumbled with the waist of her stockings. She still wasn’t accustomed to them. At home, they never used such trappings. As her eyes skimmed the faces of the club-goers, their identifications popped into her mind.

◊ Raul Gomez, 21, 5′6″, 150, Dominican ◊

◊ Daniel “Chino” Rodriguez, 21, 5′9″, 210, Dominican ◊

◊ Edwin “Choco” Cruz, 32, 5′4″, 116, Dominican ◊

◊ George B—◊

WaLiLa was interrupted by a sharp nudge at her elbow. She turned around, & as her eyes collided with the face of the person standing behind her, information popped into her eyescreen.

◊ Patrice Johnson, 20, 5’3″, 135, American ◊

Patrice was staring at her hands. She was about to reach out & touch WaLiLa again when she realized WaLiLa was looking at her. WaLiLa was used to such amazement. Her skin was thick & velvety soft. Almost plush, like fur. She was brown from head to toe. People would look at her & stare. The question was always on their lips. “Where are you from?” WaLiLa would always answer with the point farthest from where she happened to be. When she was in South Africa, she said Seattle, Washington. When she was in Seattle, she claimed Mongolia. When in Mongolia, she said Martinique. No one knew the difference.

Her strange beauty was compounded by a unique habit she had of flicking her arms. In the middle of walking, eating, talking, she would involuntarily move her shoulder up, followed by her upper arm, her elbow, then her wrist. Then with a small flick of her fingertips, she would change the direction, & her wrist would lead the heel of her hand, her elbow, & the rest of her arm back down again. After a couple of days in her company, people became accustomed to it & were no longer openly mesmerized by the rippling muscles & graceful arcs of those velvet arms. The motion was fascinating, but people thought it impolite to speak of it. Like a speech disorder or a wheelchair, it was “ignored,” but when people saw her shoulder rise, they discretely stepped out of the way. They knew the force, as well as the grace, of that arm.

When she looked at herself in the mirror her eyescreen inadvertently read:

◊ MiLelKo FruStaTahl WaLiLaHeRaMiNa ◊

But Patrice, having no eyescreen, simply registered her as WaLiLa Eyibe, 22, Ethiopian & friend.

“Hey Lila, what’s up? Who you here with?” Patrice was holding on to some tall, dark Dominican’s hand.

◊ Pito Reino, 23, 5′10″, 187, Dominican ◊

“MalKai I with,” she replied. “You have fun, huh?” WaLiLa smiled at Patrice, jerking her chin toward Pito.

“Si, señora.” Patrice answered.

“You no come with him,” WaLiLa said, more of a statement than a question.

“No, I’m here with C.J. & George.”

“The Haitian?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You like George, no?”

“Yeah, I did, but he’s all up in C.J.’s butt. You know how much they love her light ass here.”

“Lila, here’s your drink.” MalKai interrupted, handing WaLiLa a cuba libre . I just saw Rob, I’ll be back.”

“Now I no have dance mate,” complained WaLiLa.

“Good thing I got one right here,” smiled Patrice holding up Pito’s hand as though a trophy. “I’m not sweating all these men flocking over C.J. Tonight none of that shit matters. Where are you sitting?”

“I no sit still.”

“Look, we’re sitting over there in the corner. You can sit with us. Me & Pito are just going to get a little fresh air. Be right back.”

i back lean in chair metal. seat is soft—color of night flame & fuzzy. i look people in club. i see c.j. on dance floor with…

◊ Eduardo Roberto Capitan, 26, 5′8″, 150, Dominican ◊

sudden man short, skinny sit in next chair. he pick up rum off table & drink it.

“he-llo? this not your rum!”

“that’s not your seat,” the guy say.

i look chair down, look at man. he laugh, give me his hand.

“i’m george.”

“george, the haitian?”

man eyebrows jump. “i’m famous!” he say & laugh more. I shake him hand & lean front. i look george better.

◊ George Beuveaux, 24, 5′9″, 169, Haitian ◊

in corner of me eye i see bad letters i no want see. letters say—“Assignment.”

“you must be a friend of patrice’s.”

“i am. why you here?”

“what, in this club?”

“no, in this country,” i say.

george give me look funny.

“i’m studying medicine at the university.”

“you know dances?”

“compa, rara, boogaloo? i know many dances.”