Setaphire

1-2

TODAY IS A DAY, A NORMAL adolescent girl will love or anyone with an insatiable appetite for attention. Not me! A day where you are the nucleus of the celebration. Where you are bum-rushed with redundant doting and overcome with blushing. That causes your face to lose its brown pigmentation.

Under the gawking of eyeballs. I felt the uneasiness surface. My heart pounded, beads of sweat formed above my upper lip. A billow of butterflies tumbled inside my belly. Limbs and fingers exploded in sporadic movements. Because of the stupid words, Happy Birthday to you. All I wanted was a card, a cake, and a present or two. Not this party. It was too huge for me. Thrown by Chaka.

Bestowed that name while within Puma’s womb. Only ignorant people would think my mother’s named after the legendary singer, Chaka Khan. She’s named after the great Zulu warrior, Shaka Zulu. The last great warrior of the Zulu People. Born in 1787. Shaka was a fierce warrior and a brilliant military strategist.

There were birthday banners hung throughout the house and tethered balloons. Noisemakers and those dumb cone birthday hats with the stupid elastic string that goes under your chin. Uhuru wore his hat c****d to the side. A wannabe B-Boy, which was far from the truth. My father was a well educated man. Who knowledge comprises a breadth of traditional and unorthodox education. As he said so many times, he is a continuous student of boulevards, avenues, streets, and corners. Whatever did that mean?

Uhuru owned a mean sound system and made a Cd of the hottest hip hop and rap songs with dope beats. I enjoyed busting a move, but the music played on the radio was monotonous, interwoven with superficial things, cars, bling, money, and clothes. I needed more. Once upon, one afternoon. I heard it! A collective of people coming from Chaka’s den, library or whatever space existed behind those closed doors. Under vague reasons, they forbid me to step foot into the room.

I heard the strike of palms. Maybe it was an auditorium or a small concert hall or an amphitheater. A raspy voice arose. Explaining how the song written about the tragedy of Amadou Diallo had regressed into a song about the spirit of freedom. I put my ear to the door during the play of track 9, I Find it Hard to Say. Sung with such raw emotion, it gave my soul goosebumps.

While others were singing and rapping the latest songs. Hip hop classics and old school rap spun on my tongue. Neo-soul played in my head. Baduizm, dropped in 97. The same year I was born. By the artist of the name Erykah Badu. The bewitched falsetto helped ignite the neo-soul movement.

An ephemeral hybrid of soul, funk, jazz, conscientious hip hop music that started in the mid-90s and lasted until the late 90s. I listened to the Fugees, Kriss Kross, and LL Cool J. Slick Rick, Queen Latifah, Run D.M.C, and Jam Master Jay, who came out with their self-titled debut album in 1984. 13 years, before I was born.

There was a smorgasbord of serious food. Chicken, greens, sweet potatoes, cornbread, mac & cheese. Foods they serve at receptions, banquets, galas, and funerals. Chaka invited her friends, neighborhood kids, and former classmates from my 5th-grade class. That served as nice party props, because there was only one. Who I considered an okay friend when she put on her other face.

Ebonique was a beauteous wild hybrid of bourgeois and ghetto, bourghetto and dealt in concretes, which made her mature beyond her 11 years. That left me in the dust and awkwardly reminded me of my childish ways. Here I stood vulnerable, as the last verse sounded as if sung in slow motion.

“Okay, close your eyes and make a wish,” Chaka said.

I closed my eyes and tried to rummage through my soul, in search of a wish. Realizing, I took longer than normal to blow out my candles. I opened my eyes, inhaled a gulp of air, and in one blow extinguished 11 candles. After cutting the cake. The unwrapping of presents was next. We gathered into the living room. Puma and I took a seat on the sofa. Chaka, Fehed, and Uhuru made a beeline towards the table of gifts.

Uhuru selected the presents and one by one he passed them to Fehed, who passed it to Chaka. Chaka then placed it into the hands of Puma. Puma then gave me the present, in which I tore it open. This continued until there were three gift boxes left on the table.

That’s when the line disintegrated, Fehed and Uhuru fell into formation with the rest of the guest. Chaka grabbed the last three remaining presents on the table and brought them over to the sofa. She took a seat, sandwiching me in the middle.

Puma spoke. “It overjoyed me when Chaka announced that she was pregnant with you.”

Puma and Fehed reared Chaka within a communal environment among surrogate mothers.

“I missed important moments in your mother’s life. The first step and first word. You have been my redemption. I remember your tottering steps as a toddler. Your adorable baby gibberish. It seems as if it was yesterday I held you in my arms and knew that everything will be okay. Happy 11th Birthday. This is from your grandfather and me.”

Out of the three boxes, Fehed handed me the middle box. “The design is a replica of ancient codices.”

I untied the bow, lifted the lid, and peeled back the tissue. The aroma of leather escaped and levitated in the air. It was a mahogany leather journal made of handmade pages. That had two attached leather laces, used to keep the journal closed. It was perfect, too elegant to destroy with mundane writing.

Uhuru spoke. “These are not my words. I speak on behalf of Bibi Miriam and Babu Gibraltar. They could not be here with us today, but have instructed your mother and me to give you this gift.” Uhuru twisted his right arm behind his back and pulled an envelope out of his pocket.

He gave me the envelope. It was a letter from Bibi Miriam and Babu Gibraltar, Uhuru parents. My skinny fingers tried their best to hurry and peel the envelope open along the adhesive strip. I removed the letter from the envelope and undid the folds. Pieces of paper fell onto the floor. One by one, I picked the notes off the floor.

Uhuru rubbed his thumb against his index finger. “Kenya shilling or KES.”

“Money!”

“Kenya currency, KES is an acronym for Kenya shilling.”

The Kes was far more attractive than our Federal Reserve note. On the front of the Kenya shilling, are the faces of Mzee Jomo Kenyatta and Daniel Arap Moi. Our currency has deceased white men on it. On, the back of the Kes is the Kenya Coat of Arms. A shield, two lions gripping Maasai spears standing on top of a silhouette of Mount Kenya.

We have an American bald eagle, gripping a bundle of 13 arrows in its left talon, and an olive branch in its right talon. Inside the roundel is a sunburst and a pyramid with the top severed. Suspended above the pyramid is the eye of providence enclosed in a triangle. An intriguing riddle and the best design of the bills.

Only monuments and structures on the others. Lincoln Memorial, The White House, The United States Treasury on the back. I put the KES into the envelope. Fluent in Kiswahili I passed the letter to Uhuru. The only words I knew in Kiswahili were Bibi which means grandmother, and Babu, grandfather.

“Furaha ya kumi na moja siku kuzaliwa, thamani moto mdogo!”

Thamani mdogo moto! It means precious little fire. That’s Bibi Miriam and Babu Gibraltar special nickname they call me.

“We wish we could be there with you today, but even though we are a continent away. Our brains and our moyo are in proximity. We carry you in both. Let no distance put our love asunder. Upendo, Bibi Miriam, and Babu Gibraltar.”

The speeches resumed and continued counter-clockwise around the room with Rebelle. Who gathered from my unfinished life, bits, pieces, and composed a mean spoken word piece. Rebelle is my auntie, though not by blood. Chaka and Rebelle have been best friends forever. Rebelle has always been a part of my life.

Olu and Rashamel spoke of things that left an impressionable mark in their domes. The speeches took a turn for the eerie. I got spooked out. There was an unspoken rule of two gushy speeches allowed. My eyes shot around the room, in search of kids faces, to skim their minds. I reminded myself that children seldom taunt anymore. They gossip among their cliques. Passing rumors around as if notes in a class that contains misunderstood truths.

Lumumba, Ekundayo, Talib Sekou, and Ikuseghan spoke a few words too, most of my mother and father friends have names of African descent that have preordained potential attached to them.

Where’s though they were born with the name or they chose a name that befitted the person they had evolved into. Uhuru completed the circle. A griot, he told of moments I considered embarrassing. That he swore was adorable. That the crowd thought sweet for every year that led to my 11th year. He handed me the larger of the two boxes that remained and wished me Happy Birthday.

I untied the bow, removed the lid, and pushed the tissue out of the way. It was a book.

Uhuru took the book out the box and held it in the air. “The Collected Poetry of Nikki Giovanni. It’s a compendium of all 32 seasons!”

I wasn’t familiar with her poetry. I discovered GOD at seven years of age. Amidst a 4 line couplet, in a Langston Hughes poem entitled

The Motto

I play it cool and dig all jive

That’s the reason I stay alive

My Motto: As I live and learn,

Is dig and be dug in return

It isn’t as stellar as The n***o Speaks of Rivers or n***o Mother. It was a simple piece, but so much more than just a simple piece. A call to come forth and poet. Puma began, it was now Chaka who was delivering the epilogue.

“From the moment I discovered you in my womb. I knew that you were special. You are a rare beauty.”

Chaka handed me the last box. I untied the bow and lifted the lid. I peered into a sea of colors.

“Sapphires of blue, green, yellow, pink, black, violet, and white.”

I picked up the blue sapphire, gazed upon it in kaleidoscope awe.

“A sapphire is a sacred stone. That comes in an assortment of colors, with an array of celestial powers. The sapphire is a stone for the seeker of spiritual truths. It helps stay on your spiritual path, facilitates self-expression, and speaking one’s own truth.”

“The royal blue sapphire teaches self-responsibility for one’s thoughts and feelings, it stimulates the third eye and accesses information for growth.”

I placed the blue stone back into the box and removed the pink sapphire.

“The pink sapphire act as a magnet to draw into your life all you need to evolve. It encourages you to be yielding and pliable. A willow that possesses the strength of resilience. It allows you to weather the storms of life.”

“The pale ruby is an excellent stone for bringing heart, mind into balance. Enabling you to act in the world, retreat into yourself, and connect with your inner guidance. It is a stone of compassion. Strength of the heart. It can help overcome shyness and express your emotions more.”

I placed the pink stone back into the box and picked up the green one.

“Green sapphires enhances compassion, understanding the vulnerabilities and unique qualities of others, it helps you trust and honor other people’s belief systems.”

I put the green stone back into the box and traded it for the orange stone.

“A padparadscha sapphire, padparadscha means lotus flower in Singhalese, a rare cardinal sapphire, its spiritual properties evoke a unique blend of creativity and spirituality. It blazes with the fire of life force and creative energies, helping writers, artists, singers, and others who wish to express their deepest truth in creative expressions.”

I put the orange sapphire back into the box. I noticed a blue sapphire with a star on it.

“That’s a star sapphire, the three crossed lines represent hope, faith, and destiny.”

I put the lid back on top.

“You have been my every sapphire, Sapphire. I love you so much!” Chaka cried.

This made me cry.

“I love you too.”

A smile fluttered across her face. “I can’t withhold the truth from you any longer.”

“What truth?”

“Your name is not Sapphire, it’s Setaphire.”

I’m not Sapphire Xnonymous! I felt my heart in my throat, stomach queasy. My head spun. Everyone disappeared; there were only us five. I wove in and out of my thoughts. And into the oncoming words of Chaka, Uhuru, Puma, and Fehed. What, Setaphire?

Was I adopted? I searched Chaka and Uhuru faces. I couldn’t find, not one of those features that said, I am your child. I didn’t see me in them. Maybe they lured me away. I can picture myself being lured away. Out of my biological parents’ sight with the promise of pink fluffy cotton candy. I have a weakness for pink fluffy cotton candy.

“Shock and confusion are normal reactions,” said Puma.

This snapped me out of my thoughts and back into this nightmare.

“Why? Why the truth now?”

Chaka answered, “We talked it over and we thought the telling of the truth on your 11th birthday would be the proper gift.”

“This is the start of your adolescence. Soon you will enter middle school, attend an academy.”

I cut into Uhuru sentence after hearing the word academy exit his mouth. “What academy? I won’t be attending Pimlico middle?”

“No, the commute is impossible.”

How will the commute be impossible? We only live a few blocks from the school.

“Are we moving?”

“Your father and I will always be here for you, at 5123 Florence Ave.”

5123 Florence Ave was a nice house in a not so nice neighborhood. It was a two-bedroom house minus the mysterious room. Decorated in African decor, Uhuru collected Spears he owned an Assegai spear which was a South African throwing spear, a Samburu from Kenya, Umkhonto, and a Maasai.

Chaka was a serious collector of African masks. Masks hung throughout the house on walls; others displayed on easels. She had a singer mask known as a Gle So, worn by the Takangle. Masqueraders who entertain villagers with song and dance. Carved by the Dan, an ethnic group that inhabits North Africa, Ivory Coast, and Liberia. It wore a headband decorated with cowrie shells. Pronounce facial features, full lips, a beard made of plaited brown cotton fibers, and adorned with colorful glass beads.

She had a Mfon mask. A female mask from southeastern Nigeria. That had graceful arch eyebrows, lower eyelids, and a narrow nose with rounded nostrils. Two ponytails with plaited ends and full lips with the mouth ajar showing teeth. Worn for entertainment.

Chaka had a Chokwe mask. An ethnic group of Central Africa that inhabits the Democratic Republic of Congo, Angola, and Zambia. A Makonde mask. The Makonde tribe lives in the Makonde Plateau in the southwest of Tanzania next to Mozambique. A Baule mask. The Baule inhabits West Africa, Ghana, and Cote D’ivore or The Ivory Coast.

Beauty is in the beholder’s eyes. Chaka owned a few unattractive masks. Pointy teeth, circular eye sockets, raffia, white spooky paint, bast fiber weave. Wood with remnants of yellow ocher and black paint over a white ground that resembled melted skin. That sometimes popped up in my subconscious.

Chaka answered, “Only you, will live with Puma and Fehed.”

“For how long?”

I have lived in this house ever since I can remember. This is the only home I have ever known. I turned to face Puma. Trying with all my might to not let the other tear break free and run down my cheek.

“The Academy is a six-year Institute. Sixth grade through twelfth,” Puma explained.

I love Puma and Fehed to death, but I didn’t want to live with them.

“This gives you an opportunity to get to know your Brothers and Sisters, Brother August, Sister Elaine, Brother Mosiah, Brother Nat Turner, Sister Sojourner, Brother Huey, Brother Stokley,” Fehed said.

I have brothers and sisters? Are they younger or older? Why were we estranged? Maybe they’re waiting to tell me about my siblings too. My home’s not broken, at least not to my knowledge. I was semi-happy with Chaka and Uhuru.

“Why are you sending me away?”

I am a strange child, but I’m not difficult to love. I swear once you get to know me, you will love me.

“Am I a difficult child to love?”

The other tear broke loose and down my cheek, it ran.

Chaka thumbs swiped away my tears. “No, you’re easy to love.”

Uhuru voice cracked under emotion. “This is not easy for your mother and me. To let our only child. Your mother’s only daughter and my only baby girl go.”

“Then don’t let me go. You’re always fighting in the name of a cause. Fight for me! Why won’t you fight for me?”

“What must, be must be,” replied Puma.

Fehed nodded his head. “We can’t obstruct the inevitable.”

Chaka cried. “This is your destiny.”

“We won’t win!” Puma sobbed.

Tears soaked Uhuru face. “We’re not properly trained in sequestering a raging Phire.”