The Start of a Legacy

“***TW: Mention of trafficking activities***”

Themba always managed to be three steps ahead of me. He walked tall with his broad shoulders back; his chest high as pride propelled every step. I could still remember him chasing me around our kindergarten classroom, claiming to be Candyman. His small voice echoed in my memories as he walked the stairs to the Presidential podium.

Cameras flashed in a blindingly fast clatter of clicks as he walked the short distance, gently waving as he stood preparing mentally to deliver his speech. He cleared his throat and glanced back towards me over his shoulder. He smiled softly, his bright off-white teeth peeking through his thick and beautifully dark lips.

“Watch this,” he mouthed villainously, knowing his next words in one breath would disrupt the country to its very core.

“Do that shit, twin,” I affirmed.

“I stand before you, as a descendent of the enslaved, in a country that has yet paid for its inhumane and unjust crimes against not only my people, but the indigenous people of this continent.”

All at once, the flashing stopped. The members on the audience seemed to be holding their breath as he stood giving his inauguration speech. An almost evil, sickening grin grew across his face (shit, mine too) as the sun beautifully reflected off his deeply melanated skin.

“… For this country to be the ‘greatest nation’ as it likes to call itself, there’s going to need to be radical changes. Not everyone is going to be happy. In fact, I believe the changes will make most of you uncomfortable for an amount of time. Especially those of you that have lived in an undisturbed bubble of comfort that has calloused you the the rest of the world’s suffering…” He looked deep into the camera lenses in front of him, directly addressing those who were not allowed, by his order, to attend.

“My family, and by extension my people, have been stripped of our cultural practices and forced to use those of our oppressors. We’ve watched as those same oppressors have put caps on our freedoms, killed as many of us as they could without losing revenue, divided our families, sold us off, and done unspeakable acts from eating our bodies, turning us into furniture, and making us their sexual toys.”

Through the monitor backstage, I could see a wave of anger burning behind his big round eyes. The same eyes that softly smiled at me as he would bandage my wounds as a kid. While my pride in my best friend raged within me, some part of me wanted to take him away from there. I wanted to lift this burden off his shoulders and allow him a peaceful life back home. I wanted to see him grow old with his happy family. I started to question if what he wanted was even possible, yet I knew I couldn’t stop him.

“… The Indigenous people of this land have almost entirely been knocked off their own map by these savage invaders, and with so few tribes left, I hope I’m able to help in time to revive their sacred lands and return them to them…”

His speech continued as his large crowd of black students and their parents watched in awe. His father sat alone on the front row with the biggest grin on his face. He pressed his hands together in prayer as more and more ancestral pain spilled from Themba’s lips. As the secret service members by his side exchanged glances, members of the Asantewaa stepped beside them.

“No longer will this country be forced to continue in the shadows of white supremacy left behind by the most disturbing act committed by mankind. We must move forward. We have to embrace the fallacitic phrase we were coined under, and become the land of the free, and cease being the home of the cowards that hide behind guns and bombs.”

He truly left no stone unturned. I could almost hear the riots forming from states away. After hearing his speech, I fully understood why he had the military on standby. He continued to thank his supporters and accepted his presidency to the roar of the crowd before him. He smiled and waved as he stepped away, allowing the ceremony to continue before he would begin the parade march conducted for every president in recent history. He walked the same path as previous presidents carrying his family’s broom. The straw scrapped on the pavement, blessing the ground as he passed booing onlookers. He expected to be met with white fragility and he faced it willingly. Their boos meant nothing to a true ruler.

Through it all, I still couldn’t believe we were here. Standing together on Turtle Island’s main stage, my best friend, the President of the United States, a country that had stripped so much from our people and took everything that individualized us. My chest filled with pride as I saw his face on every TV screen within a visible distance. I watched with tears welling in my eyes as he walked the White House steps for the first time. He really did it.

He took his time learning the job carefully. He read as many books as he could before the country would officially be in his hands. I remembered watching him as he studied for his law exam, books stacked as high as he was tall as he sat with his legs crossed on the floor beside them. This was the culmination of everything he’d worked for since we were in 3rd grade learning about slavery for the first time from our white teacher.

***”A pretty girl like you would be locked in a room and prepared to be a breeder,” she said with malice in her eyes as she squeezed my shoulder. “In those times, you wouldn’t even get to care for your baby you had. They’d be taken from you and sold to another plantation or eaten as a delicacy, or used as bait-…”***

Tears welled in my eyes as I looked to Themba. His large eyes glared as he stood, violently hitting his hands against the desk.

“That’s enough,” he commanded. He rushed across the small classroom and pulled me into the hallway, where I wailed into his shoulder.

After I’d calmed down, he led me to the principal’s office where he relayed the story to Mr. Douglass (who obviously don’t play that) with his long loss swayed in disbelief. Fatherly anger filled his usually stoic being as he stormed through those long corridors, leading us back to the classroom as we ran behind him. By the end of that day, we had a new teacher.

Years later, we’d sit with our backs against a tree as we ate snacks together on our lunch break. That was the first time he’d ever mentioned wanting to be the president.

The light runner breeze was just enough to keep us from sweating as the spring broke into an unsteady summer. Knowing Michigan, by the weekend it would be cold again, so we enjoyed the sun while we had it. In front of me, I watched a car honk as it weaved around two cars doing the exact speed limit (I presumed) before racing off past us, the roar of its engine ringing in my ears. In the short silence between cars passing, I heard the rustle of a bag before turning to catch Themba with a bag of Better Made Sweet BBQ chips.

“Wow,” I lilted. “You wasn’t gone share? Aight. Imma remember that, nigga,” I complained, turning back around. Then I felt a soft thump against the back of my head as a duplicate bag landed on the ground next to me.

“I bought two, bitchass,” he laughed as he continued to eat one chip at a time, savoring each one like he’d never eat them again.

“See, I knew you was my dog,” I smiled while tearing them open.

I’d always loved watching the clouds move above me as they’d weave intricate, ever-changing patterns in the sky. I’d wished for the gift to paint in my next life, but I knew how annoying I’d be. I’d have entire galleries of work in my mom’s garage and she’d complain about not being able to park her car. Instead, I began to hum, and then sing, as though I was reading the clouds as sheet music. I let the sky craft a song from my vocal cords, though the song had no words, it’s beautiful melody told the story of a dancer who moved fire with her very being. She could calm volcanos with her stomps, or she could bring tornados with her sleeves and a twirl.

Out of my illusion Themba barked suddenly “What if I ran for president? Would you vote for me?”

“Nope,” I chirped plainly.

He almost broke his damn neck whipping that big ass head around to look at me, making eye contact before we both broke out laughing. He sat down a bit closer to me, facing the bright blue “Enlightened” building on the west side on the road. Again, a silence nestled betwixt us, only broken by the cars speeding and honking as they passed. We watched as others began to gather and set up chairs, traffic thickening as the dream cruise threatened to start at any given moment.

“Seriously though,” Themba said, his empty bag balled up in his hands. “If I ran for president,” he stopped himself. “When I become president, will you be my vice president?”

“I thought you were about to ask me to be your first lady,” I sighed in relief.

“I’m not with that gay shit, bro,” he joked.

“I’m tellin’ yo boyfriend.” I threatened.

Just then, the alarm on my phone ending our short lunch break chimed. I poured the rest of the chips into my mouth, stuffing my cheeks to the brim as Themba led us back across the (almost stop-and-go packed) highway. We walked into the laundromat just as the other attendants finished their cleaning tasks.

“I hate when y’all sit in the middle of the damn road like that. Y’all raising my blood pressure,” London scolded maternally.

She was a beautifully dark skinned woman with a round nose and almond, deep-brown eyes. London was a few years older than us but trained us, so she was kinda like our work mom. She had so much mom energy we weren’t even surprised to find out she actually had kids.

“I love sitting out there,” Themba smiled, covering his ears with his hands. “I love the sound of the cars as they drive past.”

“That’s not my problem,” she huffed, her fists resting on her wide hips. “The speed limit over here is 45, so niggas doing damn near 70, and y’all little asses jaywalking.”

“I’m very careful!” Themba assured. “I even make her hold my hand so we stay together.”
“He does, I hate it,” I agreed.

London giggled a little bit as Themba glared at me, and I retorted by sticking my tongue out at him.

London listed off a small number of tasks for the both of us to tackle before we locked up for the night, making sure she covered all her bases before letting the others clock out.

I sat behind the counter, keeping an eye on Themba while he swept around the customers loading and unloading washing machines and dryers, or paying with their coins. Occasionally, Themba would be interrupted by someone who got a quarter stuck in the one broken washing machine we called “Washington’s Karma”, but otherwise it was a pretty boring shift. And I spent most of it imagining the hell fire that would erupt if Themba became president. By the time we’d clocked out I had walked through every option from somehow world peace, to the second ice age.

After Themba drove us home in his black 2012 Ford Fiesta he’d bought from some mythical other friend he supposedly had, he pulled out a Pikachu rolling tray and his Poke ball grinder. Elite choice for someone who wanted to be the president. What a cursed job.

“Why do you wanna be president anyway?” I asked as I took my second hit and passed the joint back.

“I was sitting in the park the other day,” he started excitedly, like I’d hit the special interest button. “There was this random trail of water, and you know me.”

“You followed that shit?”

“Yop.” He cheesed. “And at the end of it was a flyer to get people to sign up to run for office and shit.”

“Okay, but what’s that got to do with being the president?”

“I ain’t no regular nigga, bro. If I’m gonna do it, I gotta go for the top. You know, make the changes I wanna see in the world n shit.”

I was simply not convinced. But then I started to really think about it. Themba had always taken command in every space he’d entered. He ushered in change in every system he was apart of. Even at the laundromat, he’d campaigned for London to be promoted and for the current manager to be fired, and he won. Maybe he did have what it took.

“Okay, if you run for president, I’ll be in your white house family, or something, but I’m not gonna be your VP,” I conceded.

“Good enough! Themba for President 2024. Reparations or Bust!”