Muzi’s become a man. Twice over today, in fact. He keeps scanning the crowd for Elkin, in the off chance that he decides to show up. Holy hell, he’s whipped already, worse than a ditzy girl. It takes everything he’s got not to call Elkin right now. That’s probably a good thing, hopped up on pain meds like he is. He’d probably say something stupid, something desperate, something about how he’d never felt so alive as with the bulk of Elkin’s arms wrapped around him. Ow ow ow. Muzi glances over at his great-grandma McCarthy as she takes out her partials to grub down on some corn on the cob. He imagines her naked, breasts sagging to her navel, skin wrinkled and translucent like that fetal pig they’d dissected in Biology. She masticates like a cow chewing cud . . . yeah, this is working. This is no time for him to be getting jags.
“Muzi! My Xhosa prince!” says his sister, Asemahle, as she slams her car door. She scampers across the front lawn, leaving her husband, Ben, to fend for himself with Mom’s million and one questions, most of which revolve around when they were going to bless her with a grandchild already. Asemahle bends down, pecks Muzi on the lips, then continues to smother him with kisses all over. “Oh, I’m so sorry we missed it! I got held up late at work, then Ben nipped a damned dik-dik on the way over here, speeding of course! Poor thing was okay, just a little stunned. Oh, honey. Enough about me. How are you feeling?”
“Like someone just nipped my damned dick-dick.” He tries smiling, but his pain receptors don’t agree with it. He winces instead.
“Shame, you poor thing.” She laughs and kneels down beside him and puts a hand on his bare chest. The white mud paste used by a quarter of his ancestors barely shows up against his pale skin. “You’re so brave to go through this, Muzi, but you know Papa Fuzz will still love you even if you say no to him sometimes.”
“Ja, I know,” Muzi says. But it pains him horribly every time he sees disappointment in Papa Fuzz’s eyes. And when he makes him proud, the man can hardly keep his heart in his chest, telling anybody who’ll listen about his grandson. He loves his Papa Fuzz, so much to go as far as sacrificing a bit of his own flesh under the knife of a complete stranger who’d needed a shot of gin to steady his hand. Muzi figures he can bank tonight for all the disappointments he’s destined to cause in the future.
“Oh, before I forget, a little present to celebrate your manhood.” Asemahle pulls an envelope from her purse and pushes it toward Muzi.
He winces. “It kind of hurts when I move. When I breathe. When I think.”
“Oh, forgive me, hon.” She opens up the envelope then pulls out a pair of tickets, keeping them pressed against her chest. “I know these have been sold out for weeks, but Ben knows someone who knows someone. Anyway, I thought maybe you and a date would enjoy seeing Riya Natrajan when her tour comes through Port Elizabeth.”
“This is so boss. Did I ever tell you you’re the best sister ever?” Muzi says calmly, though he wishes he could scream and jump up and down. Asemahle really is the best sister ever. He can talk to her about anything, and even though she’s way older than him, she never flaunts her seniority. They might as well be twins who just happen to be separated by eleven years.
“And you’re the best brother a girl could have.” She rakes her fingers through his reddish-brown curls. “Now is there anything I can get you? A cool drink? Another ice pack?”
“Just sit with me awhile,” Muzi says.
She slips the tickets into a compartment on Muzi’s alphie, then pulls up a lawn chair. “So howzit, bru? Word on the street is that Vayassi girl has the hots for you. Reba’s her name?”
“Renée,” Muzi corrects. “So you’ve been talking to Papa, I see.”
“Which one is she?”
Muzi nods over at a picnic table at the girl cutting daintily at a piece of meat. He has to admit, she is beautiful, wavy brown hair down to the middle of her back, skin caramel from a medley of ancestors of all sorts of race and creed. She’s totally overdressed in a silver blouse and a long skirt reminiscent of fish scales. She looks up and catches Muzi staring, then blushes before taking a sip from her pop.
“Wow, Muzi. Papa wasn’t kidding about her. So are you thinking of asking her to the concert?”
“I kind of had somebody else in mind,” Muzi says. The next words he has to say are clogged up in the back of his throat. But if anyone would understand, it’s his sister. “There’s someone. We’re kind of seeing each other. Well, I guess we are. Sort of. It’s complicated.” Muzi feels himself flush. The pit of his stomach rides up into his chest.
“Well . . .” Asemahle says, bubbling up and leaning in closer, eyebrows bobbing wildly. “Do I know her?”
Muzi sort of nods. “Him.” He’s not comfortable enough to say Elkin’s name, not yet, even to her. But as he locks eyes with his sister, and as it starts to sink in, he knows it’ll only be a matter of time before she puts it all together.
“Oh. Oh! Oh, honey.” She wraps her arms around him and squeezes tight.
“Eina!” Muzi groans with pain.
“Sorry! It’s just that . . . I’m happy for you. You’re happy, right?”
“Ja, I guess. It’s just that I worry about Papa Fuzz.”
“What? Papa Fuzz has gay friends. You remember Mr. Ezekiel who used to come over to our family braais all the time? He’d bring those fat veggie skewers you liked.”
“But that’s different. Mr. Ezekiel wasn’t his grandson.”
“Muzi, honey, remember what I just said? Not everything you do is going to please Papa. He’s his own person, living his own life, making his own decisions. You’ve got to do the same, and look out for your own happiness. You’ve got this little spark inside, the spark that makes you Muzikayise McCarthy and not Papa and not Mum or Dad, and not anyone else on this planet. And you’ve got to tend to that spark because it’s the most precious thing you’ve got. Love who you want to love, live how you want to live, but promise me, Muzi, that you will not let anyone extinguish what makes you you.”
Muzi nods. “Got it, sis. But if you ever call me Muzikayise again, I’m going to have to disown you.”
Asemahle laughs, kisses him on the forehead, then steps just out of Muzi’s reach. “I’d better go save Ben from Mom’s inquisition, or you won’t be the only one disowning me. We’ll chat more later, okay? Love you.”
And then Muzi is alone except for his faithful alphie, always at his side. He calls it, and it nuzzles closer.
“Encrypted journal entry, security level three,” he commands. For his eyes only. The red recording indicator blinks a few times, then goes solid when it starts recording. “Saturday, the twelfth of June, 2064. Well, the deed is done. I’m a man, I guess. It’s a lot more complicated than I imagined, but I can’t exactly go back now. Don’t know if I’d want to if I could.”
Muzi takes a quick look around to make sure no one’s within earshot, then continues.
“I think I’m in love. Don’t laugh. It’s stupid, I know, but that’s how I feel. I don’t think it’s the drugs. I’ve never felt more lucid. And I can tell you, I’ll never look at anything with fins again in the same way. Oh, bladdy hell. Great-Grandma McCarthy in a bikini bending over to pick up shells off the beach.” Muzi shudders at the thought, then clears his throat. “Sis says I shouldn’t worry about Papa Fuzz, but I do. I don’t think I’m going to tell him. Not ever. He can figure it out himself in time, because I just don’t want to be there when he does, because I know the disappointment in his eyes will be enough to extinguish that spark inside me Asemahle was talking about. And I can’t let that happen either. You hear me, don’t ever let anyone kill the spark inside you. No matter what.”