Nkese and Ifran's Home, the Outskirts of Dkanat
The table is polished clean; Nkemi and Ifran moved it to the dining room an hour ago, when light still streamed in through the open windows, and air stirred the walls. Nkemi knows better than to think Nkese would allow them or the curtains to become dusty, but she knows too that it is all as clean as it has ever been.
Ifran is setting the table, moving slowly and carefully; there is a pitcher of watered, covered, on the table cloth – turned so the stitches do not show – and he sets out the glasses for it. There are plates, too, and silverware Nkemi did not know they had. His hands shake, slightly, as he sets down the last of the spoons at the fourth place.
Nkemi stands in the doorway, watching him. He has changed; he wears all white, now, his hands taut at the edge of his long sleeves, his face drawn over the white amel’iwe. He looks up at her, and there is a moment before he smiles – but he does, slowly, at the sight of her in the doorway.
Nkemi comes in; she takes his hands in hers. “Have I made a mistake, jara?” She asks, quietly.
Ifran shakes his head. “No, efa’on,” he says, his voice soft and hoarse in his chest. He does not have as far to bend as he once did, to brush her forehead with his lips. “There is much I remember, from a life as which ended long before you were born.”
Nkemi smiles at him; his hands shake in hers, and she holds them a little tighter, as if she can stop the trembling. “He is not such a man,” she says, quietly, looking at the gleaming table past him, the candles not yet lit.
“No,” Ifran says, slowly; he turns as well, frowning, and he looks. He looks, then, back at Nkemi. “But I wish to be.”
Nkemi nods; she understands. She smiles at her father, and after a moment, looking at her, he smiles back. He goes, then, past her, to the iron full of coals at the edge of the board, and the napkin cloths laid out upon it, and picks it up without a word.
Nkemi checks on Nkese in the kitchen; she fetches the rack for the finished flatbreads, and hands her mother the crushed pepper, and lingers until Nkese shoos her away, laughing. Nkemi goes outside, then; she sits on the edge of the goat fence, gleaming red-orange-yellow in the sunset, all the colors of her skirt and shirt catching the light, her sandals resting on the edge of the fence.
It is Iki’dzof who comes over, who butts at her calves with his head. Nkemi laughs; she strokes the thick, rough hair of his head. He takes a fold of her skirt between his teeth; his eyes gleam. Nkemi laughs at him, and he lets it go and saunters off, almost prancing.
Nkemi swings herself back over the fence and hops down. She calls through the window, and makes her way down the narrow dusty trail down into town, from the hillside until she is on the main road. She calls greetings and laughs and crouches, once, to chat with Jeela, who offers her a bright and brilliant grin.
It is not long, all the same, before Nkemi walks to the edge of Emeka’s door; she knocks, and comes inside, smiling bright.
“Nkemi!” Jioma says; she smiles. “Have you come to fetch ada’xa Vahkeelin for dinner?”
“Yes,” Nkemi says, cheerful. “He is resting still?” She glances up towards the stairs.
“I do not know otherwise,” Jioma says. “A moment; I shall send Dhafed.”
“There is no need,” Nkemi says, cheerfully. “I am honored to go myself.”
Jioma laughs; Nkemi grins at her, and she makes her way up the staircase, towards the room where she knows he must be. She knocks, and waits, smiling, just outside.