Pink bubblegum flashed between Tabitha’s lips.
‘Okay,’ said Naila. ‘Listen. They’ve started sending notifications for a National Virus Vaccination Programme – like I thought, they’re using Beads to monitor compliance. That’ll give us access to anyone the Reg Office has beaded.’
‘Alright, what do you want the message to say?’
‘Just the date and location for the rally. Kalingalinga. Twenty-fourth of October. 6 p.m. Oh, and: SOTP.’
‘Have you queens decided what that shit stands for yet?’
‘Jacob and Joseph still disagree.’
‘Do. They.’ Tabitha raised an eyebrow and blew a fleshy, veined bubble.
‘Shhh,’ Naila said guiltily.
Tabitha barked a laugh and her bubble burst. She cursed as she extricated the pink tangle from her nose ring with her fingernail. ‘You catchin feelings for one a dem, darling?’
‘I just – it’s more like catching politics?’
‘Sounds very current affairs. You better be making them both wrap it up.’
‘I’m on the pill. Sort of.’ Naila had been lax about taking it lately.
‘Darling! All that male energy inside of you. That’s why your father’s been visiting you—’
‘Ew. It’s just dreams. And he doesn’t even say anything, he just keeps…circling me.’
‘Mmm,’ Tabitha nodded knowingly. ‘Restless. Daddiji’s roving, Nilotic.’
‘This is absurd,’ Naila shook her head. ‘I’m gonna go.’
She clicked off her Bead. What if Tabs was right? What if Daddiji was still roaming around Tirupati, the stolen box of ashes passing from hand to hand, never at rest? Maybe that was the source of the Where is he? Where is he? that still vibrated in her skin whenever…
Zzzt.
‘Shit!’ she gasped – her Bead had buzzed. It was a text: ‘r u bizi?’
* * *
The rains had come, and this was a blessing. Luminous green bounded over the land, the drought was over, the crops would grow. The rains had stayed, and this was a curse. The roads flooded with twisting brown currents, cars drifting off like unwitting boats. Pedestrians clomped along in gumboots, the middle air a flotilla of umbrellas. Cholera and malaria swept through the markets and compounds. Kalulu sent his officers to boot the sellers off the roads – a cleansing. Those who protested were beaten and detained. Stalls stood bare. Downtown Lusaka looked clean and mournful.
The rain rattled down on the roof of Naila’s flat in Ibex Hill, strumming a gentle vibration over her bed. It was a wet, silvery afternoon, an afternoon made for sex.
‘I was only ten when my mum started the business,’ she said, tangling her legs in the sheets. ‘Boutique hair. But, like, selling the hair off our heads, you know?’
‘This hair?’ He threaded his fingers inside it and tugged gently, pulling her head back.
She just about kept from moaning. ‘Leka,’ she said unconvincingly.
He let go and smiled. He was always amused when she tried to sound more Zambian.
‘The workers thought the business was witchcraft.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Ya, be careful, men,’ she flicked a finger against his chest. ‘You might be dealing with a witch.’
He grabbed her finger and kissed the tip. ‘You would not be the first.’ He opened his lips to suck on it.
‘Iwe!’ She pulled it away. ‘That’s my Bead! You want to get zapped?’
He laughed and turned her hand over, kissed the back of it instead like a courtier.
‘So what kind of muzungu witchcraft did they say your mother was practising?’
‘Well,’ she smiled, ‘my Italian ancestors are famous for their stregonaria…’
‘Is it?’ He rolled on top of her, holding himself up so their naked torsos just barely touched.
‘Mmhm,’ she nipped up at his lips. He still tasted of her – chalky and sour like baobab fruit.
He pulled away, teasing her. ‘I am happy that your mother made a witchy business. And that your angry grandmother brought you to Kalingalinga. Because now look at us here.’
She flipped onto her stomach and arched her bum against him, teasing the stiff urgency there. Then he ruined it.
‘Your grandmother had blueprints of the dam?’
She collapsed into the mattress. ‘Sometimes I wonder if you’re with me just—’ She stopped herself. ‘Ya, she did.’ She spat a hair from her mouth. ‘But J? What are you planning to do with them?’
He said nothing. Instead, he began scribbling on her back with his finger, a new habit of his. It drove her mad. She could never read what he was writing.
2023
A revolution always seems, in retrospect, like an eruption: a massive upheaval that overturns everything, flips the tables, shatters the sky, fractures the earth. No one talks about how long a revolution takes or how boring it can be, how it can slowly chew time with grinding teeth before gulping it