Bones at the Crossroads

Chapter One

Legends never die.

You really only hear that statement when celebrities die. Not regular folks. Death be having folks do funny things. It definitely have folks make their little social me-dia posts offering up their hundred-and-forty-character prayers and then they keep it pushing. What about those who were taken away from us so early or so fast that we haven’t even gotten to know yet?

Does death care?

Naw. Death doesn’t give a fuck that you’re sad, that you cry, that you stop living, because no matter what, the world is gonna keep moving.

Grief got me feeling a myriad of things. Guilty, sad, fired up, and angry. Truth be told, the shit is exhausting. In the late nights after my nightmares, I look up the stages of grief. There are seven of them, and to be perfectly honest, I’m not too sure what stage I’m on. But the way life is life’ing right now, I ain’t got time to think about it.

On top of all that, I have to do what Baron Samedi says. Be a kid. Have fun. It’s like, when I made that promise, it was a magical bond, and every part of me has to uphold it. So, I’ve been doing just that. Going to class, hanging out with the crew, trying to forget about what happened this past summer.

I can’t forget, though.

Honestly, I will say Baron Samedi got me thinking on the “be a kid” thing. Being a kid just reminds me of innocence and pure joy. No worries, no pain, nothing. But come to find out, Black boy joy doesn’t mean it comes without trials and tribula-tions. Nah. That’s just life. And being stuck between joy and pain since I came into this fucked-up world is gonna have me confront some things head-on and not sweep them under the rug. You can’t escape your problems anymore because the tables will always turn.

All in all, when I think of legends never dying, everybody in the magical community talk about Mama Aya too. She may not be a celebrity, but she was well known around here in the magical community, and she will forever be the GOAT in my book. Even though she’s dead and gone.

Well, not dead. Transitioned. Saying death demeans it and erases her existence here, so I say transition to help me feel a bit better.

Appearing in my hands are my new pair of Auditori noise-canceling headphones. These are fire as hell, created by the technology majors, who are handing them out to a few select people to test. They’re like nanobuds with a cool gel tip that can detect your mood and build a playlist off how you’re feeling any given day. And when you place them on your ear, they magically transform into headphones. Yeah, they on their Afrofuturism shit.

I press play, and D Smoke fills my ears while I zoom on my scooter through a throng of sluggish college students making their way to their morning classes. The freshness of the semester is wearing off. Most of us are already over some things, including these professors who be assigning extra work just for the hell of it. With the September sun shining on my face, I navigate through the quad area, dodging dizzying magical practice blows from defense hexes and a few girls recording themselves to post on the CaimanTea app. Eventually, I pull up on the dining hall. Mrs. Ernestine’s bright smile is the first to greet me as I stumble through the door. She’s one of those older ladies that’s just nice. She asks how your day is going and can always tell when something is off. Also, she’ll hand you an extra ticket to get more stuff at the hot food bar. She is the realest, for real. A couple of hellos, hugs, and pinching of the cheeks later, I grab my typical breakfast: Ocean Spray Cran-Apple juice and a bacon and egg sandwich with two packets of grape jelly.

In the mornings, the dining hall be real busy, crammed with all the folks who took the summer off returning for the fall semester and those that are new and official-ly starting their year here at Caiman U. The only reason I started in the summer term was because Mama Aya and Chancellor Taron wanted me to get in extra time to catch up, but now I’m starting my first full semester as a freshman.

My eyes dance around the dining room, clocking a full table in the middle with JB and Natasha. They’re choppin’ it up with this dude name Shaq Reeves, a new stu-dent from their neighborhood who’s in our intro class. Shaq is getting the warm welcome treatment since it’s his first semester at Caiman. It turns out he’s also JB’s younger cousin. As the conversation flows, Shaq occasionally runs his fingers through his neatly styled two-strand twists, subtly showcasing his fresh lineup.

Me and JB dap each other up as I pass by.

“Ready for that assignment in Professor Azende’s class?” Shaq asks me, confident. We have to go up against each other for our defense next week. He thinks he’s gonna beat me.

“Always ready,” I tell him.

All in one motion, Natasha hugs me and asks to borrow my homework for Profes-sor Atwell’s class so she can copy it.

In the corner, the Daughters of Oshun sorority hold court at the cereal station. Their table is a place of significance, and their spot by the cereal is a coveted prize, accessible only with their approval. I’on even blame ’em because that Cin-namon Toast Crunch be good as hell.

A couple of steps away, at the tables lining the bay windows showcasing the out-side campus, you have the Deacons of the Crescent members. They’re all dressed up in suits and ties and eating with a sense of calm. They don’t talk to each other, just eat and sit in silence. One of them is praying. It’s that serious.

Ole boy Oliver Smith-Perrin is capturing footage with his really nice camera. He exudes the enthusiasm of a little kid on too much sugar as he snaps photos of stu-dents eating. He accidentally bumps into me.

“Oops, sorry, Malik,” he says. “Since you’re here, can I snap a picture of you for the school paper?” The camera is already raised; I really can’t say no.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

Oliver always wants to take folks’ pictures. I nod and give him a little pose that most dudes do. Just a simple lean with the peace sign.

He snaps a few pictures. “Thanks, Malik!” he says, and continues on.

Back outside on my scooter, Lil Baby blares through my headphones and I’m like a blur until the BCSU comes into my view in the distance. The atmosphere at Caiman U is noticeably different during the fall semester, more vibrant. Since classes be-gan a few weeks ago, there have already been block parties and a flurry of invita-tions to join various clubs. The Student Government Organization has been actively involved in the ongoing political events and is encouraging all eligible students to register to vote. They’ve arranged debates, voter registration drives, and other ac-tivities to get the student community involved. As I pass by the gazebo, I notice more tables set up for club sign-ups. The Holistic Mystics focuses on the art of healing and is associated with Caiman’s medical school. They’re known for having some of the best healers on campus. One of the members greets me with a nod and a smile; if I remember correctly, he also leads the COBA, aka the Coalition of Black Anime. Their content on the app is really fire. Niggas don’t play about their anime, and even I like some of it myself. Professors and students are mingling off to the side while a group of film students prepare to film this girl named Safir Hamilton, the admissions advisor, as she records informational videos about cam-pus life. The videos will be posted on the Caiman U website. Meanwhile, a group of social media influencers are capturing content for their Dorm Diaries.

It’s a whole mood.

Two girls, Nicolette and Tenille, raise their hands, and the hoodoo heritage month banner lifts into the air. It starts to fall, but I snap my fingers, and it rises back to its original position.

A couple of “Thank you, Maliks” are thrown in the air as they zoom by.

Speaking of Hoodoo Heritage Month, it’s a celebration of Hoodoo, so our powers will be on high. We’re supposed to make a great offering to those who came be-fore us. Our ancestors took something that was meant as harm and turned it into their own spiritual practice.

My magic, hell, all our magic was built off the sweat of their backs. And so, we gotta pay our respects with a ceremony on the next full moon.

Which brings me to thinking about what happened in the front yard right after Mama Aya’s . . . transition. Looking down at my forearm, I can see purple illumina-tions glittering under my skin. Ever since Mama Aya gave me the Scroll of Idan, I’ve noticed my magic sometimes sparks purple, and now and then I see a small speck of orange. I still can’t make out what these purple marks are saying. I’m nervous as hell just thinking about it because I can’t let nobody know that I have the scroll, not even my friends, for their own safety. A lot of bad folks are looking for it, particularly my mama for her own selfish gain, and so I have to protect it. With everything. Maybe even with my life.

With a quick breath, I force the writing to hide under my skin. I can’t let whatever these inscriptions are mess up my fresh start. That’s the energy of this new semes-ter. And since I have a promise to Baron Samedi to keep, I’m gonna be what I am right now: a college kid. It’s good too. Because now I’m not really afraid of my magic anymore. Lifting that pressure made me get better these past few weeks with spellcasting and controlling my powers. Except for the scroll . . . I’m still not ready to try any of that stuff yet.

A gentle breeze carries the scent of cinnamon to my nose. People are spreading cinnamon because it’s believed to bring prosperity, which we learned in class. D Low even made us spread a line of ground cinnamon outside our door and light sage bundles for good luck and to welcome the new month.

And that’s something I could really use.

“Wadup, Malik,” I hear a voice call from the side of the Congo Square strip where a whole bunch of businesses are lined up. Essential oils, butters, clothes--anything you can name.

“Yo,” I say to Marshawn, who called me over. He’s a graduate business major, and he could sell drawls of a nun if he had the chance. Caiman U sweatshirts and hood-ies line his table, as well as these hats that can change colors to detect your mood. Apparently, it’s sending some people out. Revealing what you don’t want if you ain’t careful. His girlfriend, Shellie, sells that mango butter I love. It’s having my skin shining and looking really healthy. Savon has been on my ass because they will call you out if you step out the dorm looking ashy.

Skin routine ain’t just for the ladies, they’d say.

Marshawn snatches my attention with a new graphic tee levitating in the air. It features the entire Martin cast.

“Aye, you want a shirt?” he asks. I already bought like two, but it don’t matter to him, because every time he’s posted up out here in the marketplace, he gon’ make sure I buy another one offa him.

“I just bought one,” I groan, laughing.

Marshawn sucks his teeth and chuckles to himself, making another set of shirts with all the Black iconographies--Boyz N Da Hood, Living Single. Him and Shellie makes them in super speed. We dap it up and I keep it moving down the line, watching quick exchanges of money and product being handed over the tables.

As I hop back onto my scooter, I throw the freshly made Fresh Prince of Bel-Air shirt over my shoulder and maneuver through a group of Keevon and his friends Jemar and Brandon, all sporting their Jakuta letter hoodies. Next to them are a couple of girls from the Oyas. One thing I’ve noticed about the fall semester is there’s a clear hierarchy in place when everything is in full swing. The Jakutas, the Daughters of Oshun, and the Oyas all sit at the top of the food chain. Keevon’s in-tense gaze is fixed on me, a slight smirk gracing his face. Ah hell. I can almost hear D Low’s voice in my head. He’s hoping I’ll join the Jakutas with him this year. Ac-cording to him, it’s a big deal when they even look at you a certain way; it means they see something in you. And when they see something in you, they gon’ tap you to rush and pledge the fraternity. He believes it’s an honor to be in the same fra-ternity blessed by Ṣàngó, the Orisha god of fire and lightning. Apparently, many people denounced their affiliation with it when some of the Deacons of the Cres-cent members seceded from the campus, but that’s a whole other matter.

The outside world and the fucked-up-ness of what my mama is doing is starting to creep in. There’s more rumors of disappearances and deaths, and more parents not even letting their kids return this semester. That’s why Chancellor Taron and Madam Bonclair (because she wants us to address her that way) is on edge right now. Before the semester started, she told me, D Low, Savon, and Elijah that we were “forbidden” from discussing my mama returning or anything about our run-in with Kumale and the Bokors while the Kwasan tribe looked into it. There’s just one thing that she couldn’t keep from slipping out, and that’s word about Mama Aya’s transition--she was way too important to our community to keep that quiet, but apparently, we can’t talk about what really happened to her due to the “pend-ing investigation.” Sounds like some bullshit to me, but according to Madam Bonclair, we could get expelled or worse if we say anything.

Even if no one knows, my mama is still out there. Also, that’s why I gotta take eve-ry one of these classes seriously and learn all I can. She’s the enemy, her and the Bokors, and I gotta be ready when they decide to strike.

But for now, seeing all the club sign-ups and the banners flowing in a wind created by a student hissing a spell, this finally feels . . . normal.