“Is he with you?” Muzi says.
“It’s just me. I know this is a tough time, and I don’t want you to feel pressured into doing something you’re not comfortable with.” The inch and a half of solid oak does nothing to dampen the disappointment in Papa Fuzz’s voice, and it cuts at Muzi worse than Mr. Sohobese’s blade ever could. Muzi would give just about anything to look into his Papa Fuzz’s memories, to see how he’d dug up the courage to go through this rite. It would probably make Muzi feel worse though—seeing his papa all those years ago, out in the brush with his freshly shorn head, body painted with white clay, a tight smile upon his lips like the pain was nothing. Muzi knows he can never live up to that. He bites his lip and feels his face flush with anger and frustration. And embarrassment.
“I just want to be left alone,” Muzi says.
“It’s okay to be a little scared.”
I’m not scared! Muzi almost yells, but that would be a lie that neither one of them would believe.
“I was scared,” comes Papa Fuzz’s voice, softer now. “I cried. Before. And after.” Even softer, so soft, Muzi isn’t sure he’d heard right. Surely not his papa, the man who in his prime had rapelled down Table Mountain with the aid of nothing but a pair of leather work gloves and an old rope, who’d gambled with his life at the edge of Victoria Falls in the dead of winter, who’d taken a bullet to the shoulder during the Bot Labor Riots of ’43 while saving a young mother. Muzi had been mesmerized by that tear-shaped scar on more occasions than he could count.
Muzi unlocks the door, but he doesn’t open it. He’s on the other side of the room when his papa comes in, and Muzi faces the wall so the streaks from his own tears won’t be seen. The springs in his mattress groan as Papa Fuzz takes a seat.
“Manhood isn’t an on-off switch. That’s what nobody tells you. It’s more like a river . . . you jump in too fast and you’ll get swept away. It’s perfectly acceptable to start by wading ankle-deep along the bank as you observe how the others who have come before you have learned to brave its currents. But right now, all you need is the courage to take that first step.”
Muzi casts his eyes up and sees his papa sitting there on the edge of the bed, just as he had so many nights to read stories to Muzi when he was a child. Muzi remembers the last time he’d sat in his Papa Fuzz’s lap, remembers because he’d known it was going to be the last time. He was already too big for it, but he was just as reluctant to put an end to that chapter of his life. Papa Fuzz had been there for him afterward, even more so, helping him with his homework when it became too overwhelming, encouraging him through the terror of rugby tryouts against boys twice his size, advocating to Muzi’s parents that he was responsible enough to have his own alpha bot even after Papa Fuzz had caught Muzi drinking (barely) with a few school friends the first time he was left home alone. Papa Fuzz had kept that little indiscretion a secret, though a party that lame barely warranted punishment as it was.
Muzi takes a hard seat next to his papa and crosses his arms over his chest like a bratty toddler. “I’m not shaving my head,” Muzi says. “And I want to see him sterilize that knife with my own eyes. And none of that herbs and berries stuff. I want real pain medicine.”
Papa Fuzz smiles his perfect smile and lays a hand on Muzi’s back. “Are those all of your demands?”
Muzi nods.
“I’ll speak with Mr. Sohobese. I’m sure he’ll be willing to make a few more concessions, seeing as we’ve already strayed from custom. Just be thankful you don’t have to experience the smell of a mountainside hut that’s been lived in for six months by five newly minted men.” Papa Fuzz puts his hands on his worn knees and, after a good amount of effort, is back to standing. “And I’m not even going to mention the sheepskins.”
Muzi sniffs and smudges the tears from his eyes. “I thought you said it was three months.”
“Did I? Well, it certainly felt like six.” Papa Fuzz laughs and tips Muzi’s chin, looking at him. Really looking at him, like he’s noticed that something’s different about his beloved grandson. He raises a brow. “I’ll go let Mr. Sohobese know you’re ready.”
As Papa Fuzz turns toward the door, Muzi reaches out to him suddenly. “Wait! There’s one more thing. I want you to be there by my side. Through all of it.”
Papa Fuzz nods, slowly and deliberately. “Always, son.”
Muzi relaxes, but only marginally, and as the door shuts behind his papa, he still can’t believe he’s actually agreed to go through with this. He trusts Mr. Sohobese about as far as he could throw him—with those trembling hands, and those bloodshot eyes, and that walking stick made of ivory. Maybe it’s just NuIvory, Muzi tries to convince himself, but deep in his heart he knows that stick looked too old to have been bioengineered in some lab. His chest tightens, and all at once, he’s tenser than a rhino’s brow.
His Papa Fuzz will be there by his side, and that’s something, but Muzi can’t help but feel like he’s going through this journey alone. His papa had his abakwetha, his learning cohort who became men together. What did Muzi have besides himself?
Muzi’s alphie uncorks itself from its dock in the corner, extends its legs to their full height, then scampers over to the bed, its dome head butting against Muzi’s thigh. It makes an odd purring sound that Muzi’s pretty sure he’s never heard before.
“Eish! Could you imagine how ridiculous I’d look bald?” Muzi says to his alphie. The bot makes a sour chirp. Muzi rubs his hand over its sleek, black dome. “Yeah, but it suits you.”
The alphie takes a couple steps back and the latch on its underside releases. Its red Dobi-12 wire unspools itself fully, then dangles suggestively an inch above the floor. Muzi’s absolutely positive it’s never done that before, but he can’t help but laugh at the sight.
“You think that’s funny, ja? How’d you like it if I crimped a few inches off that thing?”
The alpha bot’s mono-eye flashes a pleasant shade of green. Muzi shakes his head, but in all honesty, that wire does tend to get tangled up a good bit of the time, and it really could use a trim.
“All right, then. Maybe I will,” Muzi says, giving his bot’s dome a playful knock. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was trying to cheer him up.
Muzi digs through his drawer and pulls out an old rusted wire cutter that he’d pinched from his father’s toolbox. He gives the rubber handle a couple of squeezes, and the sharp metal tips come together with an intimidating snap.
The bot gives a nervous whistle.
“You’re telling me,” Muzi mumbles, and he gets a warm feeling inside that maybe he has an abakwetha after all.
Chapter 6
Stoker