Storm, page 20
Besides, I’d have to be a real idiot to turn down a prince.
“Okay,” I finally say. “I’ll come with you.”
T’Challa whips around, beaming. “Do you really mean it?”
“Yes. I do.”
His grin is infectious as he wraps his arm around my waist, squeezing. I find myself smiling in return. The happiness that fills my chest…I’ve never felt anything like it.
He touches his forehead to mine. “Okay. But first…” He nods over my shoulder at Zawadi walking in our direction. But she doesn’t look like the glowing girl we met last night. Her eyes are puffy and red, skin ashy, her clothes crumpled and dusty, as if she slept on the sidewalk.
I jump up. “Are you okay?” The words fly out before I can stop them.
Startled, she glances up at us and winces a smile.
“Oh. Hi. Yes. Of course I am. Just a long night.”
T’Challa and I share an uneasy look. Even her voice sounds different. Distant and raw. I try not to read too much into it. I should be grateful. She is about to bring us to someone who knows about my family, so I paint on a smile, despite the gnawing in my gut telling me something is up.
I gesture beyond the market gate. “Shall we go?”
We quickly find a cab to Caribou, Zawadi riding up front. I roll down the windows to take in the city sights as we drive out farther and farther, my heart thrumming in my chest. I catch quick glimpses of Zawadi in the passenger mirror; her eyes seem far and distant—cold, even, before she catches me staring and smiles.
Finally, the cab pulls up beside a tall, rusted fence that seems to stretch for miles.
“Here, we go by foot,” Zawadi says, climbing out of the cab. “It is a long walk.”
“Why not drive?” T’Challa asks, pointing to the entrance.
“Cabs do not enter this part of the city.” Her laugh is full of spite. “Welcome to Caribou!”
I nod as I take it in. Caribou is a sprawling labyrinth of tiny houses made of tin siding and scrap wood. No bathrooms. No running water. Just narrow roads layered with trash, and gutters overflowing with sewage. Wind kicks up the rotting stench of water.
Face pinched in a frown, T’Challa’s eyes roam, taking in the makeshift city. I can almost see the wheels turning in his head. He slows to a near crawl before standing in the middle of the road.
“It’s…a slum.”
“T’Challa,” I snap.
“You are not wrong,” Zawadi says. “This is the largest slum in Nairobi.”
“The place is contaminated,” he mutters.
“It is safer here than out there,” she says, nodding toward the way from which we came. That is something Moche would say, I think.
I fall back, letting Zawadi walk ahead of us, and grab T’Challa’s arm.
“Can you quit gawking? You’re embarrassing me.”
“People really live like this?” he says, astonished.
“When you have no options, you take what you can get.”
He shakes his head. “This is no way to live.”
I shrug. “Home is a roof over your head.”
“Home should be much more than that.” He turns to me. “Is this how you lived in Cairo?”
I cringe, thinking of what he would say if he ever came to Garbage City. What he would think of me. Would he finally see that I’m not good enough for him?
“Not exactly. We have apartment buildings. But the circumstances are similar.”
He closes his eyes and shudders.
“There are so many sustainable ways to build homes, with better infrastructure….”
“With what money do you expect them to do all that?”
“Their governments should pay.”
“I say again, with what money? You expect corrupt politicians to magically pull money out of their pockets? For Black and Brown people? They’d rather see us starve, or not see us at all. I mean, look how far we are from the city.”
T’Challa’s frown deepens, as if my words made no sense at all.
“We have so many advancements in Wakanda,” he mutters. “There must be a better way. Everyone in the world deserves clean water.”
“There is no clean water here,” Zawadi says, clearly overhearing the last bit of our conversation. “We are in the middle of a terrible drought. The reservoir is nearly dry. If only you could…Well, never mind. It is not important.”
“No, please, continue,” T’Challa insists.
“Well.” Zawadi looks at me. “It was said that your tribe can control the weather. The wells are dry, and the nearest is miles from here.” She stares, her eyes full of—something, as she continues, unblinking. “So, maybe you can help…by bringing water to us.”
It takes me a moment to catch her meaning, and I blink. “You mean…make it rain?”
“Yes!” Zawadi beams. “You could refill the dry wells. Help wash some of the soot and pollution away. It would be wonderful!”
T’Challa turns to me excitedly. “Yes! You can do it. You did it before. Think of how it helped Ameen’s village.”
I hesitate. “But that was an accident. I don’t even know how I did it.”
“You just need to focus.”
I snort. “Oh. Is that all?”
“It is worth a shot. You could really help these people.”
“We would be so grateful if you would call the rain for us,” Zawadi adds, her tone level and cool. Nothing like the bouncy girl we met yesterday.
“But in front of all these people?” I blanch. “I’m trying to keep a low profile.”
“No one will say anything around here,” Zawadi says. “We are good at keeping secrets.”
How can I trust that?
I look around us, at people poking their heads out of their homes, giving us curious stares. But it’s the kids in stained clothes, kicking around an empty Pepsi bottle, that give me pause. Makes me think of the kiddies. A pang of sadness hits my chest. If I have the power to really help these people….
T’Challa slides his hand into mine.
“Just try,” he says. “I will be here to tell a bad joke when necessary.”
I stare up into his soft eyes and fold. “Um,” I say softly. “Okay.”
Zawadi smirks, as if satisfied with herself.
“Please,” she says, ushering us toward the alley. “Take all the time you need.”
I step away from them, standing between two tin homes, my back to the road, trying not to think of everyone watching me like a circus act. I clench my fists a few times, shifting in place, feeling awkward in my own skin.
Call the rain for us.
Is it that simple? Just dial it up on the phone?
Maybe. I think of all the times that I’ve made the weather change in the past. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and imagine reaching inside myself, pulling at that rubber band. I grip hold of it with my mind and pull it forward.
Rain.
For a moment, nothing happens. I linger on the thought, unsure, until I’m about ready to give up.
But then the wind shifts.
“Ororo,” T’Challa says. “I think you are doing it!”
I look up. The sky is a slate gray, thick with heavy clouds.
I’m doing it. I’m doing it!
A thunderous roar cracks, and water crashes down in buckets, dinging off the tin roofs. Behind me, people cry out in joy.
I gasp. “I did it! I can’t believe I did it!”
“Yes! You did,” T’Challa says, laughing.
The cool rain feels so good on my skin, and a wide smile stretches across my face. Maybe T’Challa is right. Maybe I can control…my powers. Maybe my people can teach me how.
I shake my hair out of my eyes, laughing. “Where is your grandmother?” I ask Zawadi.
“She is this way. Come!”
We follow her down the road, watching everyone in Caribou joyously play in the rain, filling jars, bowls, and bottles. I swell with pride.
As we walk farther, rain comes down harder, slowing our steps. Soon it is heavy, almost blinding. Zawadi takes a left, then right, then another left. The city is a deep maze, and it feels as if we’ve been walking for miles.
“Are you sure this is the way?” T’Challa shouts over the loud chorus of water drumming on the tin roofs. “I think we’ve passed this house before.”
“No, it is this way. Come on.”
The rain continues pouring down. As we walk, the dirt roads turn into muddy lanes. Trash begins sliding down mini creeks. The laughter around us starts to die down and turn into anxious muttering.
Where the hell is she taking us?
“This is a lot of rain,” T’Challa says to me.
“You think?”
“It’s okay. We need it, remember,” Zawadi says, smiling.
I glance back the way we came, my sense of direction askew. “Maybe we should—”
“Hold on,” T’Challa says, stopping short. “What is that sound?”
We stop and listen until a wave of water veers around the corner, smacking into our legs, almost knocking me over. T’Challa stands me upright.
“What is this?”
“The dam! It must be filling up.”
People are shouting now. It suddenly hits me—no one was prepared for rain, and this place isn’t equipped to handle weather like this.
T’Challa turns to me, as if having the same thought. “Can you stop it?”
“I…I don’t know how.” I try to call to the pressure, but my mind is racing. There are so many voices and noises…. It’s all too distracting.
“The houses are flooding,” Zawadi shouts, turning to us. “I need to get to my grandmother!”
“We’ll come with you,” I say. Maybe if I’m inside somewhere, I can focus better.
We wade through the water as people stumble out of their small homes, using cups, bowls, and pieces of wood, trying to push the water out. My stomach lurches at the sight of men, women, and children fighting to save their homes.
This is all my fault.
Up ahead, I can see the concrete wall of the dam, no taller than T’Challa, water cascading over its edges, pooling at the bottom.
“She is over here!” Zawadi waves us toward a house not far from the dam. “She is in there. Be quick!”
She rushes inside and we follow, water flooding the small tin home, and as we step through the door, I immediately feel as if we’re inside a dark shoebox, with only enough room for one twin bed, a bucket, and a pot. My anxiety explodes, and I’m ready to run back out the door.
Until I realize who is on the bed. My heart stops.
“Moche?”
There, gagged and handcuffed to the small wooden headboard, is my best friend.
“Moche!” I spring for him, yanking the muzzle off his mouth. “What are you doing here? How did you get here?”
His mouth opens, but no words come out.
“He came here with me, of course.”
I stiffen at the husky voice behind me. I turn around slowly.
Zawadi’s eyes are now fully black, red veins stretching like roots of a giant tree across her face.
My blood chills. T’Challa backs into me, slack-jawed.
Zawadi cracks her neck and grins. “You didn’t think I’d let you go that easy, did you?” She sighs, spreading her arms. “Ah. What a lovely family reunion.”
The rain rages outside, muffling the screams of the city. T’Challa stands, arms arced, knees slightly bent, as if waiting for an attack.
“How did you find me?” I whisper. It is all I can think of to say.
Zawadi smirks at Moche.
“Your friend told me where you were headed. It didn’t take long to convince him to trust me. Once I told him what you really were.”
Moche…betrayed me?
Moche shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, Ro,” Moche coughs in a weak voice. “He made me tell him where you went, or he was going to hurt the kiddies. He got inside my head. That’s how I got here.”
Realization nearly brings me to my knees. The Shadow King jumps from body to body. Somehow, he possessed Moche. But why didn’t he stay in Moche’s body? And why is he using Zawadi now?
“Come now, Moche,” Zawadi says. “Be honest. You wanted this. You see, Ororo, it doesn’t take much to convince street urchins to turn on one another. You just have to name a price.” She jerks her head toward Moche. “He wanted to be the new leader. But he couldn’t lead with a freak among his rank.”
Moche’s eyes toggle between Zawadi and me. He doesn’t deny it, and I feel the knife twisting in my back.
T’Challa readies himself, muscles flexing. “I do not know what you are trying to do, but you will not succeed. You will never take possession of her!”
Zawadi ticks her head to the side with a grin. I whip around to T’Challa. “Wait, you know him?”
He gives a curt nod, not taking his eyes off Zawadi. “I have heard stories. He is a demon.”
Zawadi throws her head back and barks a laugh. “I’m not here for you, Little Prince. I’m here for Ororo.”
T’Challa nearly lunges at her before I grip his shoulder.
“Don’t hurt her,” I whisper.
Outside, more screams. The rain is coming down harder now. Water rushes by the open door like an angry ocean.
“The dam is flooding,” I say, trying to find the right words to buy myself time. “I need to stop the rain!”
“Maybe we don’t want it to stop,” Zawadi teases. “Maybe we want it to flood.”
“But these people will die!”
“And whose fault would that be?”
The air is ripped out of my lungs. They’ll die because of me. Because I can’t stop him. There’s nothing I can do.
Then Zawadi slaps her own face. Again. And again. Nails scraping her own cheeks, her skin turning red.
“Stop it!” I scream. “Leave her alone!”
The Shadow King’s laugh echoes in the tight tin home, and I’m tempted to cover my ears just to escape it.
“What do you want?” I cry.
“You know what I want,” Zawadi hisses. “Let me in, Ororo. Let me into your soul. Let me in and I’ll spare your little friends.”
Spare them? From what? How can I trust anything he says?
Moche bucks, tugging at his cuff. Zawadi measures my hesitation and shrugs. “Or don’t. The choice is yours. But the clock is ticking, dear one.”
I glance at T’Challa, unsure of what to do. He shakes his head.
“Do not give him what he wants. Your power would be too dangerous in this monster’s hands.”
She smirks, slowly backing out of the house.
Oh no, oh no no no! He is kidnapping her. I jump off the bed, lunging for the door.
“Where are you going? Come back!”
T’Challa grips my arm. “No! Do not follow. It is a trap. He is trying to distract us.”
“But Zawadi—”
“Look at the water,” he shouts, pointing to the floor. The water laps against the bed, soaking the mattress. “If you cannot stop it from raining, we need to save as many people as possible. Starting with your friend.”
We both turn back to Moche. His eyes jump between us, face unreadable. He gives a hard yank at the handcuffs.
“I need to help get everyone to safety,” T’Challa says, heading for the door.
“What should I do?” I yell desperately.
“You have to make it stop raining.”
I almost argue, then remember: I’m the one who started it all. I’m doing this to us.
“Focus on stopping it, Ororo,” T’Challa insists.
I can’t. I can’t focus. I can barely think.
He cups my face, and as if reading my thoughts, says, “You can do this.”
And then he’s gone, racing up the road.
I turn back to Moche, who only stares, eyes ablaze. I reach into my hair and come up empty. No head wrap. No needle.
“Damn,” I grumble, spinning around the room, looking for anything I can use to work on the handcuffs. But almost everything is underwater.
“Here,” Moche huffs, holding up a piece of thin metal.
I snatch it out of his hand.
“Why didn’t you get out of this yourself?” I ask as I start working on the cuff. He glares at me, leaning up.
“You don’t think I tried?” he sneers.
I say nothing. Because we both have always known I am better at locks than he is. I slip the metal into the keyhole, digging for the latch.
“The rest of us are fine, thanks for asking,” Moche hisses. My stomach sinks. In all the chaos, I didn’t think to ask about them.
“And Achmed?”
“He was released. But…not the same. Glad to see you’re doing so well without us.”
My cheeks burn with shame. I glance up at the door, eager to get outside and help T’Challa, then find Zawadi. I don’t understand. Why is the Shadow King using Zawadi? Where does she fit into all of this? She’s just some girl from a village. What is his angle?
Click. The cuffs pop open.
Moche rips them off, rubbing his wrist.
“Come on,” I say, trying to help him off the bed, but he snatches his arm back.
“I got it,” he snaps as he stands, storming out of the house. Without me.
“Moche?” What’s wrong with him?
I run out after him, wading through the water, and the streets are like a mudslide.
“Moche!” I call, but he ignores me as he heads down the road.
The Shadow King’s laugh echoes over the water, and I spin around.
Zawadi stands a few houses down, the skin around her eyes crinkling, wet hair matted to her face.
“Don’t hurt her,” I shout. “Please! This is between you and me. Leave her out of this.”
