Natura: Uhuru Genesis

ISSA

ISSA

4. STRANGER

Your prophecy is death

- Obotunde Ijimere "The Imprisonment of Obatala"

The motorcycle pulls up, with a screech, at the parking meter before Vita Pub.

Issa Rakara throws his long leg over the seat, stands on the curb, and rakes a hand through his tangled, damp dreadlocks. He doesn't do it because the locks are filthy, and clingy as seaweed; but it's more out of habit. Actually, he doesn't really care, that his clothes too are matted with earth and blood, or his black zip-up jacket is torn at the elbow.

He takes another half-dazed glance back at upmarket street. The dessert shops are mostly closed. Even the often buzzy clothing stores, and trendy coffee shops, that are usually flung by pink and green-haired hip teens, are bolted tight. Perhaps, they've all heard about the bombing. Few people squeal in the face of danger like the Ba'nova. Soft bastards! Issa swears inwardly, with a scowl. But he can hear soft noises, of clinking glasses, inside the pub.

He enters. The music is woozy; too slow for his liking. It increases the ring in his head. Since the explosion, it's felt as though there is a circus bell chiming deep inside his ears. It's also messing with his sight. Yet he often likes it when he meets the gaze of people, especially these bluebloods. It's magic to the girls. He doesn't know why it works, but he knows it's the thing. It made him cozy up with a plump-lipped stockbroker at Mermaid Motel last weekend. She hid a giggle, and told Issa he has this dangerous, sexy hornet gaze. Issa had just watched her by the bedside, legs crossed, lips curled. It wasn't the first time he had basked in the shower of these compliments; neither would it be the last.

But he keeps his eyes on his mud-caked boots as he walks between chattering couples. It's the glitziness of the jazz bar. It's making his head feel scrunched. However, even with his eyes lowered, he glimpses a woman in furs, her metallic velvet dress shimmering like golden water as she leans over what must be a glass of bubble tea. Her date must notice Issa walking in, because he leans back from his malt-colored drink, and lets his smile fracture into something acidic.

Whatever, punks!, Issa says to himself, goofily. He will barhop, in beggars' rags if he sees fit. If a high-brow mu'nova wants to pick a fight for that, he will happily oblige.

He hooks a bar stool with a booted foot. The bartender frowns, almost dropping an amber bottle, shaped like an ace of spades, in mid-spin. The bartender flicks his hand – which is prosthetic – shooing Issa.

Tonight, try as he might, strips of Issa's locks keep tumbling down his forehead, obscuring the look which makes most people want to retreat back to the corner of a room. So, his guess is; all the bartender sees is a garbage man who's had a bad hair day. That's the same expression the smug man, sipping malt, wore as he got in.

"What's up, bwana," he sits, and lifts his head, pushing back his locks with lofty impatience. He then cocks his head in dramatic embarrassment, "wait, argh, my manners. I meant, what's up, terminator?"

The bartender frowns dryly. His cheek muscle jumps, but doesn't shake much. He's struck in place though; knowing he faces an animal which probably bites, when poked. "What's wrong with you," the bartender says.

"Did I hurt your feelings, terminator?" Issa arches his dark eyebrows, drumming the countertop with tips of his fingers. Of course Issa knows the bartender is hurt. The Alt folks are some of the most sensitive bastards alive. Often, the dumb ones are attached to homes, or factories. The smart ones are hired in stock markets. But this lad seems like an ex-trooper whose arm was blown in line duty. Now, too poor, he can't afford a decent stem cell-grown arm. Usually, if you're witty enough, you can wipe the floor with their esteem, and Issa enjoys that sport. "How about we make a deal. You get me rum; I get you tissue."