The Aesi.
I say his name under my breath like I am trying to catch it. I look at Yétúnde and think surely I not the first woman who have to learn to let a thing go, but I cannot let it go. Some sores heal and some sores fester. More than one night I see him trapping himself in my wind as I slam him into tree after tree until he is as flat as a leaf. Or I kidnap the goddess of rivers and springs and tie her to the grand gate of the royal enclosure and whip her until she release a flood that drown everybody within those gates, especially the children, so that evil don’t reproduce. I sit in the little room I sleep in and wonder what to do with burning rage before it start to eat away at my heart, my humors, my gut. Some nights I climb on top Keme and I become hammer and he the one who beg me to stop for he going to slip out right as I hammer down and break it. One moon later, one of the boys turn over a jug full of milk that I fetch myself since no space there is to keep a cow. He turn it over because I say I don’t have time to play, and he say you will make time because I want to play and I don’t care what you want, and then he turn over the jug and as I turn to strike him, he jump back, and fall, and scramble away and scream. And Yétúnde run in shouting what you do to my child, and I scream at her that I didn’t do a fucking thing, check the little shit for yourself. Check she do, despite what I say, and no mark she find, but that boy stay with her from then on, and don’t come to my room.
Meanwhile rage turning into a friend that come at night and sit with me. It come on like a fever, while other time it come out of nowhere, like something that I hope would pass. Other times it come like a reminder, like some herald that I didn’t pay for to hark back to me why the gods return me to Fasisi, and it wasn’t to be no second wife raising children that was not mine. Girl, you slipping, the voice say. You think you can forget what your life is for.
Any bird looking down at Ibiku would think that the district is sliding down the mountain. Which is to say that I didn’t have to go far to reach mountainside and woods, and forest dense with tall trees, but still cold and dry. Wind sending tidings from tree to tree perhaps, or maybe breeze is just breeze. I approach a thin tree with next to no leaves left on it and break off a long, thin branch. I peel, and strip, and rub, and shave the branch until it is nothing more than a long, thin staff. A fighting staff. I rob the tree a branch, then I fight the tree. In the dark, through trick of moonlight I conjure a tree fighting me back with her hundred branches and stinging leaves and blinding thorns, which make me jump, slide, skip, duck, roll, and strike. And do all of that again and again, until I gasp all the strength out. The next night I come to the tree not with rage but with craft. Like somebody who wield the staff instead of grapple it. Like the boys in the donga who leap in the air without secret wind and strike like a scorpion.
So of course that night come to pass when I wait until everybody asleep. Keme don’t come to my room that night and neither do the children. I creep past their room to see that even in the marriage bed, he roll off onto the floor, not once waking up. I get to the edge by riding across town and cutting through Taha district and a long, dark causeway until I reach the cliff. No cloud hiding the floating district this time, every window is orange from lamplight, and every wall glowing patterns. Nigh on a league the distance to the first landing, but it feel shorter. On the landing, I steady myself as if coming from sea, and look to a view that still mystify me, houses, shacks, taverns, bridges, shelters, all huddled close like any district of Fasisi, and all floating in air. Doors connect to paths, which connect to doors, which connect to paths, and all along them, movement. This time I know where I was going.
Two silver coins get me confirmation that somewhere in the floating district some night entertainment is coming to pass. Two silver coins more get me knowledge that it is a late-night donga after one silver coin get me someone to stop denying it. Three silver coins get me to a gate, and five silver coins get me a voice at the slot growling at me to go fuck a tokoloshe. Three more silver coins and one gold get the gate open, and a knife to the guard’s throat get directions and a laugh. Here is why he laugh. I didn’t see that past the gate was no ground, only floating tiles and planks, until I slip between two and fall right to my waist. Nobody in the dark to see mean nobody around to hear or help me, so I curse. I watch the tiles while my ears guide me to the shouting, cursing, and cheering.
Two platforms facing each other, like the stands at the King’s amphitheater, with the shouting, cheering, and cursing men, both sides packed so tight that the barriers look to burst in a blink. In the center a wood platform as long as is wide, and tiles, rocks, and doors lying flat and river stones all floating. It don’t take me long to hear that all the shouting was people cheering a fighter’s name on one side and insulting it on the other. Many men sitting on rocks and planks, so I creep behind a rock holding six men. The two men causing all the cheering and cursing finally appear. Torchlights light up the platform but I can’t make out either man in the dark, only the red, yellow, and blue helmets, elbow, knee, and shin guards. It is so dark I don’t even see the ringmaster start the fight.
The next night that is me at the gate, with my stick, my breasts bound tight and flat, and my loincloth I swoop up between my legs and tie at the hips. I think to stuff a fruit in there lest anyone doubt I was a boy, but put more linen instead. White linen wrapped around my arms, wrists, thighs, and ankles and a scarf around my head like a hood, covering everything but eyes. Another late night where I leave the house fast asleep, with Keme and Yétúnde naked on the floor.