Evening. Mothers, wives, and young girls of good name all running home. Green Army patrolling the streets, which make me look for the first alley to hide. So I turn down one with a chariot blocking the way, one with a tired horse and no rider. Day not yet done, but night reach this alley early, with candle and lamplight sneaking out of the back side of taverns, inns, and as the door swing out, a whorehouse. Two stagger out, tight like they are born as joined twins, for joined is what they was before they even stagger out the door, the man with his robe up to his chest, and the woman he was fucking from behind. I press my back to the wall on the other side of the alley and pass them quiet, but the woman see me. I recognize the face. Not the face, the look, one that I used to see in myself years ago. Inside Miss Azora house, hearing women moaning and bawling to remind the man that she is here with him, even though her mind long gone to another place. The look on her face saying either join me or tell me how to get where you are going. But I keep walking.
Three nights later it stop astonishing me that I was about to find a safe spot in some alley, or street, or tree to sleep. I try not to think of beds, cots, or even cold, clean floors. The second night I try to sleep in a big tree and wake long before dawn to a monkey pissing on me. It screech and run, but my wind surround him, then tighten like a snake and I watch him stunned silent as he float in air. Then my wind slam him against the tree. The fourth night, I walk until I reach the western edge of the city, or so it look, for it was a low wall, and beyond it, mountains. Others already on the ground curling under whatever they could curl under, while others just wrap up into themselves. I wrap myself in fur and go off to sleep clutching my stick and my dagger.
The rough touch on my shoulder come first, and I dismiss it as dream. Then the breath unsettle my neck hair and I remember that it is rare that I dream. Somebody was trying to curl up with me, somebody big, and foul, and wet. When a hand touch my thigh I will it in myself to work force to knock him away, but nothing come. I think harder, squeezing my face and gritting my teeth, but the hand start to rub my buttocks. No force, no wind, no nothing. I curse loud, spin around, and point my dagger at the man’s neck. He jump back and stray light mark two breasts. A woman. I yell at her to move but she stay still, even stoop down again like I was going to allow her. I press the two side of the handle and the blade shoot out. She jump at first, then laugh, showing black stumps where teeth used to be. She grab for my fur and I stab right through her hand. The woman jump back, shriek, then cry, then laugh. She charge again and I swing my stick straight for her forehead. She fall back, then run off.
* * *
—
White mean nothing, but it mean something when a man wear it. An afternoon of a day I forget to count. I am running down another alley because street boys take to chasing me even though after just one night sleeping on dirt I no longer look like a girl. Kill the beggar, cut the thief, they shout as they chase me. And I run, which make them think I am fleeing out of fear, when the truth is I just don’t want to have to kill a stupid boy today. They chasing me around the Ibiku district, which I get to the night before, not knowing that this was where I would throw myself down to sleep. At least the ground was cooler and for the whole night no dog, beggar, or rapist bother me. Somebody once say, not to me, that Ibiku was a district swarmed with whores, but walking and running down these street I don’t see none. No anybody else either, no cart to scramble up, no goats to jump over, no horse to run under, and no people but these boys. I squeeze my dagger and think to stop, for if they looking for a fight maybe I will give them one. But then two doors swing open and white rush out like a flood. A temple. Pilgrims and worshippers. Whichever god or goddess demand white robes and quiet I don’t know, but I start walking with these men and women, though my white is now dirty as rust. I trail behind three women with long curly hair looking like honeycombs, and as they break from the procession for a house, I skip ahead of more people, still so quiet, and stop behind four men. They are whispering, but the wind blow their secret words to my ear. Floating district. Place bets before flip of the time glass. Bet on the reds. Donga.
The first three nights come at the end of market days, so food is not hard to come by once you forget shame and fight off beggars, madmen, and dogs. By the fourth night I chasing away rats only to see that they were eating another rat. Food start eating food, and my belly is stabbing me and knocking me down. The cloth I turn into a sack keep showing me how empty it is, even though I keep looking. The bitter bunch of leaves I eat force itself back out my mouth, which only make me more hungry. Too hungry to walk all the way to the floating district to feed myself on the fighting. Besides, to get in I would need more than this fighting stick. The fifth morning I pass by an apple seller and try to beg with my eyes, for my mouth wouldn’t move. He threaten to beat me and call the magistrate, then have his shop boy chase me down the street to the yam seller, who yell and have his two pet apes chase me several streets across town, until I come upon the mango and guava seller, who scream that he don’t run no almshouse and fling throwing daggers at me until I run and run, right inside the floor of the bazaar of a spice seller, who don’t notice me until my belly growl fierce, and who then set a white dog on me, who chase me down the merchant road, over carts and under horses, and don’t stop until he tear away my fur coat, mistaking it for a beast, and ripping it to nothing. I run until I come upon the roast goat seller, not far from the gate leading to the royal enclosure. He don’t see me. A voice in my head who sound like me ask, Why be a nasty beggar when you can be a filthy thief?
A big man, he throw three cuts of meat on a sheet of iron that look like a breastplate. I wonder how it don’t yet come to my head to steal. Fasisi is bursting at the seams with gold and salt and if you was to take three dates, nobody would know. I try to stop the thought from running away with my head, how in the place that take everything from me, I didn’t yet think to take something from it. He sprinkle it with salt and pepper and irú, then turn his back to slice off more. I watch him take his time, not turning around but listening to the meat. Ten people pass by before he turn around and flip the pieces of goat. The raw side wake up the fat, which raise a noise like clapping, and lift up flavor into the sky. At the sound of the sizzle, my belly stab me, and a groan leave my mouth before I could stop it. His back is to me, the goat seller. If I grab it now, the meat would be half raw, maybe, and the oil would burn my fingers off. But if I wait, he will scoop up everything and put in that basket by his right, and my belly will kill me. No time to think about how bad the idea be, I say, and run to the stall, grab one chunk of meat with two fingers, drop it because it was so hot, pick it up again though it burn my fingers, drop it again, and scoop it up again, just as the goat seller turn around to see me trying to hold on to a piece of goat covered in dirt.