“Bwana and Bi Bolaji, thank you for coming so quickly.”
Standing beside Father Masego, I watch my parents slowly ascend the Temple of Lkossa’s last steps and try to temper my nerves. Perhaps it’s the iron gray of the afternoon sky overhead, casting gloom as it always does this time of year, but today the two of them look especially worn down and tired.
Maybe it’s because I know they always are.
My parents have come from all the way across the city at the behest of the messenger boy Father Masego sent for them. A tight line replaces my baba’s usual smile, and I know at once that he’s in pain. Stairs like the temple’s are hard on his back, which has been bent badly out of shape from all the years of harvesting work. I look to his hands, calloused and big enough to entirely envelop my own. He has dark brown skin and a rounded face; people say I take after him. At his side, my mother, wearing her gray-streaked braids in a high bun, supports him by the elbow as they finally reach the landing. Her rich copper eyes are locked on me.
Not good.
“Kuhani.” Mama greets Father Masego with a small, reverent bow. My father does the same, though it’s a clumsier gesture. “We were very surprised to receive your message this morning. My husband and I were at work, you see, and we’re paid by the hour—”
“I do apologize for calling you away from your occupations,” says Father Masego. Today, he’s wearing simple blue robes, but with his white dreadlocks tied back and his trimmed beard, he still looks annoyingly regal. “However, I’m afraid that the matter was urgent.”
For the first time, Mama looks from me to Father Masego. Worry pinches the skin between her brows. “Is everything all right? Has something happened?”
“Well . . .” Father Masego pauses as though considering his words. “You could say so. Your daughter was involved in an incident this morning.”
I feel the old man’s gaze on me but refuse to meet it.
“After conferring with several witnesses,” he continues, “I thought it best for us to speak in person—immediately.”
“Adiah Bolaji.”
Full name. Really not good. This time, I can’t help but wince as Mama’s gaze cuts into me, sharp as a blade. Even Baba looks unhappy.
“What have you done this time?”
“Nothing!” I hate how high-pitched my voice sounds, practically an admission of guilt. I’m almost a teenager, but I still sound like a little kid. I look between my parents before continuing quickly. “I mean, it was an accident. Brother Isoke—”
“Is currently in the temple’s infirmary recovering,” says Father Masego. He turns to my parents. “As I’ve come to understand it, he was working with Adiah and some of the other young darajas this morning when she showed a bit too much . . . enthusiasm.”
“Enthusiasm?” Baba’s brows furrow in confusion.
Father Masego nods. “The exercise the students were practicing called for them to summon a small amount of splendor from the earth and let it move through them, then immediately out again. Adiah summoned far more than Brother Isoke expected, and when he went to correct her stance, it seems she—”
“Oh, come on, his hair will grow back!” I interrupt in a huff. “Er . . . eventually.”
At this, both my parents start. Mama has to grab Baba’s arm to keep him from toppling down the steps as he reels, then stares at me in horror. It’s a look I’ve seen before, and I resent it. I also resent Father Masego for tattling on me. It isn’t my fault the splendor in the earth comes to me so willingly; it’s done so all my life. I scowl at him, wriggling my toes as I feel the pleasant tingle of the splendor in my feet. I could probably zap his stupid beard off if I put my mind to it. As though he can read my thoughts, he gives me a wary look and moves imperceptibly to the left, putting slightly more space between us.
“Perhaps,” he says gently, “we should continue this conversation in the privacy of my study?”
Mama lets go of Baba and takes my arm none too gently as we follow Father Masego into the Temple of Lkossa. This time of the day, most of the brothers and Sons of the Six are busy studying, praying, or patrolling. We head up a set of stairs—slowly, so Baba can keep up—and Father Masego ushers us through a well-polished wooden door. I don’t really like being inside the temple, and I especially don’t like being in the Kuhani’s private study. The room is long and rectangular, but with the overflowing bookshelves on both sides, I feel caged in by it. I think of my best friend, Tao, and how much he would love it here. When he’s not doing chores down in the temple’s kitchens, I know that sometimes he sneaks into the library. He could spend an entire day with his nose in a book. Unlike me, he doesn’t mind being still.
Father Masego settles into a leather chair behind his desk and gestures for my parents to take the two matching seats opposite him. I don’t want to notice it, but the two of them look so painfully out of place here in their harvester uniforms. There are patches all over Baba’s tunic, and Mama’s work dress is stretched and slightly too big for her bony frame. For a moment, I’m ashamed of them, and then I hate myself for it. Mama and Baba have sacrificed so much for me to be here; I have no right to be ashamed. Notably, there isn’t a chair in the study left for me, so I’m forced to stand between my parents as Father Masego addresses them again.
“I want to be frank with you, Bwana and Bi Bolaji.” He steeples his long fingers. “Two years ago, when you first brought Adiah to me at the age of ten for evaluation, I told you that I believed she could possibly be a gifted daraja if given proper training.” He looks between them, tentative. “I’m afraid I was mistaken.”
The temperature in the room seems to drop instantly. I watch as Mama sits upright in her chair, and Baba tenses. In my own head, I hear a roar growing louder and louder as the seconds pass, and I try to quell the churning in my stomach. This is it, I know it. Father Masego is about to expel me from the temple; he’s going to tell my parents that I’m not allowed to train here anymore. I can practically hear their hearts breaking as the reality sinks in. Two years of endless sacrifice, wasted. They would no longer have a daughter who could rise to something more than a harvester, a daughter to be proud of. Guilt lodges in my throat as I stare at the floor, and hot tears well behind my eyes.
“What I mean to say is . . .”
My gaze lifts. Father Masego is no longer looking at my parents, but watching me carefully. It takes everything I have not to squirm. His round, piercing brown eyes remind me of an owl.
“I now think that I have severely underestimated Adiah’s potential,” he continues. “I once said that I thought she could be a powerful daraja, but now it is clear to me that she already is. In fact, Adiah is one of the most powerful prodigies I’ve ever encountered in my seventy-two years. Even at the age of twelve, her abilities are extraordinary.”
If the study was cold before, warmth returns to it twice as quickly. I feel relief pulsing through the air, like a heartbeat bringing life back into the room. Both of my parents relax in their seats, and where I was nervous, I now feel a distinct sense of pride.
Extraordinary.
Father Masego, the head of the entire temple and city, thinks what I can do with the splendor is extraordinary. I’m not being expelled, and I’m not a failure. There’s still time for me to prove myself, to find a way to make my parents’ lives better. Once I’m a fully trained daraja, I’ll be able to earn good money and share it with them. There’s a chance at a better life. There’s hope.
“So, you believe our little girl will be . . . all right?” Baba leans forward, his expression imploring. At the sound of his quiet joy, something squeezes in my chest. In return, Father Masego offers him a kind smile.
“Indeed,” he says. “I believe Adiah will be quite accomplished in a few years, once she completes her training.”
Training. Like that, I’m itching to get back to the front lawns to drill. I want to practice the exercise Brother Isoke was trying to teach me earlier, and I want to get it right this time. Maybe I can—
“But.” Father Masego’s eyes are still on me. “Adiah, along with paying you a well-earned compliment, I do also feel obligated to give you a word of advice: ‘To whom much is given, much is required.’ ” He taps the thick leather book on the corner of his desk. “That saying comes from scripture. Do you know what it means?”
I shake my head because, honestly, I don’t. The corners of Father Masego’s lips tug into a deeper smile.
“What it means,” he says, “is that because you have such a distinctly strong affinity for the splendor, you’re going to have to work very, very hard to learn how to channel it properly and safely. You’re going to have to study harder, practice longer—”
“I will.”
“—and follow your teachers’ instructions during lessons.” His expression turns wry. “It also means there can be no more incidents like the one this morning. Do you understand, young lady?”
“Yes, Father. There won’t be.” I say the words immediately, and I mean them. Father Masego annoys me sometimes, but the truth is . . . I do want him to be proud of me, just like I want my parents to be proud of me. I don’t want to be sent away from here.
I don’t want to fail.
“Good.” Father Masego rises, and so do my parents. “I have the utmost faith in you, Adiah,” he says. “And I believe that, one day, you are going to do remarkable things.”