Birthright: A Phoenix is Born

Capitalism at Work

Hello peps, feel free to critique. Like and praise comments appreciated.

Catch you in my stories,
GaisceKid.

"Okay Damian, recite Koju's declaration for Yoruba learning." His fist pump in the air and pipped voice made me cringe the first week. However, after that bombshell, nothing but Kumar's goal charged scream snapped me out of my trance.

"Yoruba is a language of respect. As a result, words have power. They are not to be misused no matter the circumstance. Foul words from a layman can prove dangerous but a king's curse will kill."

FLICK

"Ow." I steamed. The dent of his sausage sized brick dense finger thumbed heavy against my forehead. Throbbing rigorously.

"Why did you do that?"

"I wanted to keep you on your toes. You're getting cocky." Koju smoothly stated.

The ice pack continued to prick but I pressed hard and on with Koju's lesson. The chatter of sports commentary buzzing in the background.

"Today we will learn parts of the body." Koju yawned, a drop of spittle at the creak of his lip. Sniffling, he rose his barrel-like left arm into the air.

"This is apa. Now you pronounce."

"Apa."

FLICK

The flicks were consistent. Stressing the wrong vowel, a high pitch instead of a low pitch sound or forgetting the word entirely, all deserved a flick to the forehead. I tripped over every hurdle and then some. By the time we reached the final body part, a horn shaped lump extended off my forehead.

"We'll end with Ori which means head. It's also a Yoruba metaphysical concept, referring to one's spiritual intuition and destiny."

"Ori."

"And now for this week's associated proverb. Ade ori okin ko le se deede ori eyekeye. The crown on the peacock's head cannot fit the head of any other bird. Think about that." Koju's words pulled and swayed. Partly because of their melody. Hearing Yoruba hit differently, high tones and low tones married together, producing a song in every sentence.

"Kumar, what's the score?" Called out Koju.

"Don't ask." Replied a dejected voice, arms flaring. "Liverpool is mopping the floor with Arsenal. Mo Salah is just walking through their defence now. Thank someone, they are cutting to commercials."

Koju's low groan vibrated my stool. "And I bet money on this as well."

He slumped off his stool, face slouched. Which only meant one thing. A trip to the pantry for his plastic bottle filled with roasted groundnuts. I never understood the packaging. Yet when he offered to pour me some, I open my hand wide, then jiggled the nuts in a clenched fist like I've seen him do before eating.

Sporadic coughs cut through the snack time. We both stared in Kumar's direction, as his bouts for air turned into loud shouts of laughter.

"Look Damian, your girlfriend's on T.V."

Koju's squint communicated my same confusion. We advanced towards the television. While the screen greeted me, a downpour commenced outside.

The camera panned to a set of four shops all in a row in Dublin City Centre. A grey mist clung to that world, robbing it of colour. The dreary atmosphere was amplified by wind, rain and masses of cloaked figures trudging past on the concrete pavement. Then the camera zoomed in on a girl. She stood in front of the centre brick built shop. Hands at her waist, a green sequined dress ended above the knee and yellow Celtic symbols traipsed down the body. Her chestnut brown hair was done up in shiny curls and frills. And even from this distance, the faintest note of heart was visible on her chin.

She danced, each step in sync with music from fiddles, tin whistles, flutes and accordions which blasted through suddenly visible speakers. At her movements, the clouds seemed to retreat. But only when pierced by a stitched white leather ball. The owner, a ginger haired guy hair combed to the side wearing the light blue jersey for Dublin.

The battle for colour and life raged on as the two continued, dispelling the clouds while the music rose in tempo. The passing crowds noticed and trampled over others to witness the source of the magic. Elaine and Oisín stood side by side, arms outstretched and a dazzling smile on both. They pointed towards the building behind. A glass panel slid open and out strode John Mercer.

"To celebrate the beauty of being Irish, Mercer Tex is offering fifty per cent off our entire range for seven days in Ireland. Include phones, laptops, cameras and so much more. So hurry along before this once in a lifetime opportunity dies."

The camera panned again. This time on the dozens of bloodied bodies littering the streets. I spotted a pecan skinned girl in a striped black and white dress. And golden oak toned woman in a white tee and African style head warp and skirt. Their carcasses pecked by crows.

"That was Elizabeth and my mom." I stuttered.

"And that was an ultimatum." Sighed Koju.