Young Writers Society

A/N: I'm quite nervous about posting this. It looks long but it's mostly dialogue. Hopefully you would find it mildly entertaining.

Kavinesh knocked lightly on the side of the door. “Hey.”

The cook didn’t look up. Her hands worked swiftly, the blade only inches from her fingers as she diced onions, producing perfect white cubes in rapid succession. “Yes?” she called back, distractedly.

“Someone’s here to see you,” the younger man replied, leaning against the rim. “Not a customer.”

Mirembe paused, the steady chop of steel against wood suddenly stopping. “If it’s Adam again—“

“No, it’s a woman.”

“Who? Farah?”

“No, no. I don’t know who this woman is.”

“Then I’m busy.” She continued her work, listening to the hiss from the pan as water sizzled the frying onions.

Kavinesh gave up and left, allowing sunlight to pour into the dusty wooden kitchen once more.

Then he returned. “She insists. It’s important.”

Mirembe sighed loudly, storming towards the door. “I’ve got more than a few orders to fill,” she grumbled, poking her head out. “Who—“

The words died at the tip of her tongue. Standing two platforms below was her visitor.

It was rare to see her speechless. Kavinesh arched a brow. “Does she look familiar?”

“Don’t set the kitchen on fire, Hana,” Mirembe said suddenly, the secondary chef humming in response. Removing the apron and releasing her dark hair from its ponytail, she handed them to the waiter. “Thanks, Nesh.”

She hopped down onto the platform below. Then jumped down another, to the platform where her little urban restaurant was. Cloudless and blue, the sky brought with it wind and sunlight.

The courtyard, filled with happy feasting customers, was comfortably shaded behind the shadow of the neighbouring building, the view of the rest of the city up higher planes of the mountain illuminated by golden light. Other workers rushed to and fro taking orders and filling drinks at the bar.

And there sat a lady at the table in the corner. It was a small hope in Mirembe’s heart that it was who she thought it was.

“I ordered some food for myself,” the other woman said as she approached. “But drinks, I got one for you. Hope you still like vodka?”

“My favourite,” Mirembe lied as she slid into the chair across from her.

“Business looks good.”

“Yes, it is. Decent folk come around for lunch. Needless to say, they don’t stop by at night.”

“I wouldn’t stop by this neighbourhood at night.”

“Makes sense. It’s unsafe.”

She took a sip of her plain water. “But do you like living here?”

“I do.”

“It’s cleaner up in the city. High-class, civilized. And better folk.”

“This place is shantytown. My home.”

“You’ve always liked dirty and dangerous.”

“I’m from the desert,” a lopsided smile graced Mirembe’s lips. “You can expect that from me.”

A brief silence fell over them, and she watched. Her visitor now sported thick and messy cropped hair, and the maroon dye on her brown locks had slightly faded. She was darker than her natural tan, but still much lighter compared to Mirembe’s coffee-coloured skin. The scar along the left cheek was hardly visible. Yet her eyes remained the same, dark blue and slanted upwards at the edges.

“Have you been reading the news, Myla?” she asked just as one of her waitresses sent a bowl of soup to their table. It was the one she had been in the process of cooking.

“Yes. I knew the Thatcher couple. The ones killed in the robbery last week.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Their killer is dead.”

“I know,” Myla said quietly as she stirred, steam rising to caress her face. “Are you entering the betting pools for the horse race?”

“No. Are you?”

“I won’t, but I’m surprised you won’t. You were a gambler on a lucky streak.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Yes. I suppose it is.”

Mirembe watched as she ate. The wind blew softly and laughter from her customers filled the air.

“I’m used to hearing the chirping of birds, not the ballad of drunks,” Myla commented humorously.

“That means you live in the city,” Mirembe glanced off to the side, to the scenery of high-end golden houses far away at higher altitudes up the green mountain. A far cry compared to the crime-ridden slums they were in now. “How did you get here?”

“Same way everyone does. The roofs and alleys are the pathways.”

“Yes, but the city has actual pathways where people walk.”

“The easy life hasn’t made me soft.”

“And how did you find me?”

“I saw you in the Amana district.”

Mirembe rarely went into the city. She took a while to recall. “That was over a month ago.”

Myla stirred her soup. “I needed some time to gather my thoughts.”

Silence settled, and she ate for another minute or two, until she noticed Mirembe’s hands. “Do you cut your fingers a lot when you cook?”

Subconsciously, the other fiddled with a dressing on her forefinger. There were many other plasters, on fingers of both hands. “I’m still rather careless, but they don’t hurt.”

“And your knuckles are still as bruised as I can remember.”

“I see action from time to time. There are the occasional customers who wouldn’t leave my waitresses alone.”

“You don’t keep your old weapons anymore, do you?”

“Only my most treasured ones,” Mirembe’s sight wandered to the bar. “You?”

Myla’s azure gaze followed her eyes. “Every single one. They’re locked away somewhere. Sometimes it’s hard to part with the memories.” Then she spotted it. A frame on the wall next to the shelf of wine and alcohol.

Mirembe looked back at her, only to realize Myla had seen the knife she displayed in the frame.

“…is that Stabhappy?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

Myla stared for a few moments longer. Then, they locked gazes. “Why?”

“It’s my lucky charm,” Mirembe shrugged with a small grin.

For the first time in a long time, Myla looked lost, her eyes searching the other’s countenance. Mirembe sighed quietly, then glanced at the mountain and the grand city in its magnificent view. The highest point overlooking the entire region was the palace. It was bathed in gold and yellow light.

“A few weeks ago they elected a new overseer.”

Moments passed before Myla nodded. “Yes. Did you vote?”

“Many of the people here don’t.”

“You should.”

“Legally, we can. We’re just not welcome to. But for once, I think the people came to a good choice.”

“They did.”

Mirembe stared at the castle again. Two pillars had been added days ago to the large entrance. From the distance, they looked like faint golden sticks.

She breathed in deeply. “Have you been talking to Hakeem?”

“…no.”

“Even before he was elected?”

“I haven’t talked to him since he turned eighteen.”

“That was twelve years ago.”

“I know.”

The sun was descending closer to the horizon. People were starting to clear out of the restaurant.

Mirembe stared at her drink. She hadn’t even taken a sip. “Do you think he remembers us?”

“We raised him. He has to give us some credit for that.” A waitress passed and she waited until they were out of earshot. “And he does, which is why he’ll be a great leader. Did you see the statues he put up at the palace?”

“The pillars?”

“Looks like pillars from here. You know what the statues are of?”

A small pause. “Of us?”

“From twelve years ago. He calls them the Angels. It’s symbolic. To bring stability and protection for everyone, including the folks here.”

“You’ve seen the statues?”

“Great detail. He remembers us quite vividly. You should visit them one day.”

Mirembe suddenly found herself blinking back hot tears, reminiscing his fair skin and radiant smile. Oh, that lovely, precious boy. Even after all these years, she still loved him dearly.

Then, Hana poked a head out from the kitchen. “Need you in here, masterchef!”

“Be right there!” was the shouted reply. No, it was more of a croak. She winced, and reluctantly pushed the chair back. “I have to go. I’ll pay for your meal.”

“Right, of course,” Myla stood up gracefully, her cardigan blowing back just enough to reveal something shiny strapped to her hip.

Mirembe saw the embroidery on the barrel of the silver gun. Her thoughts of Hakeem shifted back to the woman in front of her. “Is that Olivia?”

“It is. It’s very beautiful.”

“Yes.” And it brought her way back to before they even met, back when Mirembe first found it in the sand. “I’m surprised you still have it.”

“It’s my way of keeping someone special close to me,” Myla said vaguely. “Like a good luck charm.”

She began to walk away, and Mirembe watched, expression lost and heart a whirlwind of emotions. She couldn’t stop the words.

“I missed you, you know.”

The other turned, and for a second they were twenty-one again, seeing each other for the first time in that dingy bar in a nameless town.

“And I missed you.”

Then she was gone.

Mirembe stared at the spot she had once been, and it took a while before she tore her gaze away.

She passed by Kavinesh, who looked at her inquiringly. “Who was that?”

“An old friend,” she ambiguosly replied, climbing up to the kitchen.

Kavinesh watched her disappear into her headquarters with dissatisfaction before heading to the enclosed knife, a curious little antique Mirembe wouldn’t open up about. She had stared at it during the talk with the stranger.

As Talia poured out drinks for the bar patrons, he blew some dust off the edge of the frame to get a clearer picture of the word stenciled on the blade.

‘Myla.’