The Prophets

by Robert Jones Jr.

This Brother Gabriel, who called himself Portuguese—with his imprecise, bland, gibberish language—was a fool, a charlatan, and no number of his clan would move any Kosongo from their position. Besides, the wine had put her in an inquisitive, playful mood. She called to Ketwa and Nbinga and asked them to sit with her as she made room for them on either side. She held both of them by a hand and stared at Brother Gabriel. “Who shall keep guard of the gates?” the king asked him, smiling. “You say Elewa and Kosii are some kind of problem. Who guards your gods’ gates, then?” “The gates of Heaven? They don’t open upon blasphemy.” “Heaven? What an unusual name. And what an unusual place that does not open its gates for its own guard.” “Be that as it may—” “Is that what happened to your skin,” King Akusa interrupted. “Did your gods snatch it away for treating the gates as a trivial matter?” “Your Highness, I don’t think—” “Enough.” The king laughed and lay back into Ketwa’s full embrace and pulled Nbinga’s hand to her mouth and kissed it. King Akusa’s chuckle filled the room.

Matching hard for hard did nothing but create wreckage. But being soft, while beautiful, was subject to being torn asunder by the harder thing. What other answer was there then but to be some kind of flexible? Stretch further so that there was too much difficulty in trying to pull you apart?

The skinless men had even put the craven devices on Semjula, whose neck was designed only for turquoise, shells, and a child’s embrace.