One of their backs punts the ball, and Muzi scrambles behind after Elkin, a slow jog toward the action. “You want to know what I saw?” says Muzi as he braces himself, watching the ball and getting low for a tackle. “I know how you got that black eye, and it wasn’t Ray Collin’s clumsy elbow like you told me.”
Elkin stops, his eyes easing into slits. He nods up the pitch. “That number six, he’s getting the ball this time. Guy is fast, but he’s got butterfingers. I’ll take him from the inside, and you be ready for the ball.” And with that, Elkin rushes the push, then cuts out. Sure enough, number six gets the pass. Elkin plows into him, knocks the kid clean out of one of his boots, and plants him into the ground. Muzi scoops the ball up and dives over the try line, five points closer to victory.
Muzi’s teammates slap him on the back. He smiles past the twinge of pain, wondering how Elkin could have predicted that pass. As athletic as Elkin is, he’s not exactly the go-to guy for strategies. Now number six is having a hard time getting up, and the match stalls for a moment while trainers rush onto the field. Muzi hunches forward, hands on his knees to enjoy a quick breather.
“You little chop,” he says, sneering at Elkin.
“You’re mad? You’re the one who was fishing around in my head.”
“You could have told me. I’m your best friend, remember?”
“It was just that once. He apologized. It’s over.”
Muzi’s heart rate slows a tad. “Well, if you ever need a safe place to stay . . .”
“I’m hundreds, Muzi. Really. Get your head back in the game.”
“I’m serious, Elkin. If your dad ever even looks like he’s going to lay a hand on you again, come over to my place. Promise.”
“Yeah, and when your Papa Fuzz turns me away at the door, then what?”
“He wouldn’t do that. Not if you really needed it.”
“Sorry, but I’m not about to give that dof the satisfaction of knowing my home life sucks salty monkey balls.”
Elkin turns back to the bleachers holding their few-but-dedicated fans. Parents and reluctant siblings mostly. Papa Fuzz sits among them in the first row. Muzi’s heart flinches, then he turns away, unable to deal with that icy gaze burrowing into his soul. It’s hard living up to Papa Fuzz’s expectations, never straying from the path he’s laid out for Muzi. There’s no room for mistakes. And Muzi tries. He really does. But, damn it, he’s sixteen years old and he’s entitled to screw up every once in a while.
Muzi’s got an idea, and he’s still got a bit of godsend left in his system, maybe enough for this to work. He edges toward the sideline and gives Papa Fuzz a submissive wave. Papa Fuzz looks happier already now that Muzi’s put a little distance between himself and Elkin.
“Papa Fuzakele,” Muzi says sternly, keeping one eye on the field. “I want you to like Elkin. He’s a nice kid once you get to know him. He’s important to me, and you’re important to me, and I really want you two to get along.”
A wave of cloudiness washes over Papa Fuzz’s face, then he nods. “Hey, Muzi. Maybe we should have Elkin over for dinner after the game. It’s been forever since we’ve chatted.”
“Ja,” Muzi says with a smile. “I’d like that.”
“Now what did I tell you about keeping your head in the game? Get back out there before your coach benches you.”
“Yes, Papa.” Muzi jogs back out on the pitch and slaps Elkin on the back. “Well, that’s that. You’re in. Papa Fuzz wants you to come over for dinner.”
“You mind munched him, didn’t you?” Elkin’s lip rises with approval. “Bladdy sick. Just promise you’ll never do it to me again.”
“Promise.” Muzi spits in his palm and they shake on it. “And what about you, Einstein, out there on the field coming up with strategies. And ones that work, nonetheless.”
“Ja, I can’t explain it. It just came to me. I mean, I saw the patterns they’ve been running this whole game. I extrapolated from there, improvised a bit.”
Extrapolated? That’s a lot of syllables for a guy whose vocabulary consists mostly of four-letter words. Not that Muzi ever considered Elkin a dumb jock, but he did seem to flirt around that boundary on more than one occasion.
Muzi slaps Elkin’s ass as he locks his arms together with their teammates in the scrum. “So what do you say? Dinner?”
“Yeah, sure. As long as it’s not a bunch of that tofu crap,” Elkin calls back out, then they’re rushing forward and the ball’s there on the pitch, ripe for the picking.
Muzi’s got the ball when Papa Fuzz’s vision comes. Papa Fuzz, who’s never made a mistake in his life. This should be good. Muzi tosses the ball to his left, then tries to keep it together long enough to get this vision over with.
He’s outside, in the bush. The butterfly-shaped leaves of towering mopane trees rustle under the blazing afternoon sun and crisp golden-brown grass crackles under his feet. A warm breeze blows past Papa Fuzz’s ears, sweat prickles his brow. Branches creak and bend, then a family of elephants emerges from the trees, two adults and a calf, ambling lazily along a well-trodden path. Muzi gawks at them, wants to keep staring at them forever and ever—rough gray skin, pendulous trunks, and soulful eyes. They’ve got all the room in the world to roam, and yet they walk together in an intimate huddle, almost like a rugby scrum, some part of one always touching the others.
Amazing. Like seeing history step off the page, right into your lap—at least forty years ago when elephants still walked this earth. Real elephants, not the ZenGen Zed hybrids revived from extinction. They’re so close, Muzi can smell them, like earth and musk and spirit.
Muzi wants to smile at them, but Papa Fuzz’s face is pulled tight. He raises a rifle, clenches it tight under his armpit, steadies the barrel.
A man whispers to Papa Fuzz, voice coarse in a language Muzi can’t understand. Papa Fuzz’s head whips toward the man, older, gray in his beard, fierceness etched into his brow. There’s a striking resemblance to his papa. He says something back, then refocuses, the rifle aimed at the closest of the elephants. The trigger stands hard against his finger.
No! Muzi wants to scream. But his mouth is not his own. A high-pitched twang cuts through the sweltering air, and the elephant lurches, lets out a muffled trumpet of surprise. It stumbles backward, fans its ears. Its family watches with wide-eyed concern, not a thought of leaving their loved one behind. Muzi wishes for Papa Fuzz’s eyes to close, but they don’t. There’s cheering from behind him, and the older man slaps Papa Fuzz’s back. He laughs, a wicked laugh that seeds itself into Muzi’s soul. A laugh he will never, ever forget. The older man pulls Papa Fuzz into a tight embrace, yelling congratulatory words. Amari mwanakomana wangu, nhasi muri munhu, he says. Amari mwanakomana wangu, nhasi muri munhu.