Burnt Crosses

A bright ember flame danced across the surface of a wooden cross surrounded by white-cloaked individuals just beyond the White House’s fence. Secret service members flocked to the gates as rioters attempted to climb over, throwing themselves into the front lawn to be grabbed by the Asantewaa and thrown back out.

“Are you sure we’re safe here?” Ade worried, winging his hands together as he paced around the spacious second-floor living room. A maid came in carrying a tray of tea and set 4 cups on the table, an eerie calm emanating from her that felt like it was threatening to spill over into my nervous energy. As she gently poured the tea, that familiar calm seemed to wash over the room as the steam rose from the glass. The scent of lavender dominated the room instantly.

Beside me, Malcolm took a cup, his hand still shivering as he raised the cup to his lips. As the tea flowed through his tense body, I felt like I saw the stress melt off of him onto the floor. Even his hands stopped shaking.

This was the response I was expecting when I heard Themba’s speech. I’d honestly expected worse. I thought they’d give him the biblical treatment and put him on a cross. Instead, they burned an empty cross and shouted every slur and insult they could from the other side of the gate.

“The secret service is doing everything they can internally, the military is protecting the gate, and the Asantewaa is picking off the stragglers,” he announced with his eyes glued to the window, the orange glow from the large cross as its embers danced reflecting off him. It felt like ages passed as I stared at his motionless back. His crisp dark blue inauguration suit still hugging his tight frame, his muscles bulging as he folded his arms, his jawline shifting as he ground his teeth…

After setting his now-empty cup back on the table, Malcolm marched up to Themba with a fresh cup in his hands. He gently wrapped his arms around Themba’s waist as he passed him the tea.

“Drink. Relax your shoulders and your jaw,” Malcolm spoke almost too softly for others to hear.

“Thank you, baby,” he sighed as he complied, his feet still not moving from the window, but his shoulders visibly lowered.

The cross continued to burn until the Asantewaa doused it with a hose, spraying those standing on the gates with ice-cold water, effectively stopped anyone else from throwing themselves off the tall gate and hurting themselves.

“Mx. President,” Themba’s personal guard, Tony, called from the doorway, with his hand pressed to his ear. “The perimeter has been secured,” he announced. Tony was a bulky, taller agent who often followed Themba. He seemed to be on 24-hour duty, but apparently, there’s a night shift guy hiding somewhere. He was frequently paired up with Charles, Malcom’s guard of similar build, but slightly smaller.

Those four had been a unit since election night. Charles and Tony were assigned together that day; apparently, Themba got to pick them from a unit of guards. He picked my guard, Dani, too.

“Thanks, Tony. Keep us on High Alert until morning. I’m worried the display might have been a distraction,” Themba ordered, almost sounding actually presidential. Ade walked up to him, gently taking and squeezing his shoulder.

“This is the most stressed I’ve seen you since you stepped in-,” he grumbled.

“Don’t bring it up,” Themba whined, sounding more like himself. “I still remember how squishy it was against m’damn shoe.”

I saw Tony restrain a smile, choosing to clear his throat instead. “I’ll deliver any updates from the front lines, Mx. President.” With that, he returned to his post opposite Charles at the door, gently pulling it closed behind him.

“I can’t believe they’re still burning crosses in 2025,” Adesanya sighed. He sat back on the couch with a grunt, finally taking a sip of the tea resting on the table. He stretched his free arm across the back of it and rested the mug on his knee. “Those people can never accept change,” he continued, glaring at the vacant window.

“They don’t have to accept it. Either they keep up with the rest of us, or they get left behind,” Themba asserted. “We don’t have the luxury of enjoying the society that was painstakingly built on our ancestors’ backs. Unfortunately, we must build something better, which we’ve always done anyway,” he affirmed.

I was just grateful his coming to power didn’t change his tune.

“We need to embrace the work done by former presidents, like President Orange, to move forward effectively,” he stated once, gaining the only boos he ever got on the campaign tour. “I understand your discomfort with that statement, but how much wrong did he unearth and put on the world’s display to be fixed?” The auditorium grew silent. “How many problems arose that he was ill-equipped to fix, but that highlighted a much bigger issue in the government’s foundational systems? While I will never applaud that wrinkled ball sack of a person, I will learn from his mistakes,” he asserted. “I’m sure there’s a majority of you who would like to re-elect President Olde as well, but I assure you that would only continue to perpetuate the issues that were unearthed and left unfixed during those four years, even with him holding a senate and house majority.”

Some titters from the crowd let me know he was on thin ice, but he still had them. They were hearing him out at best, and I was right there with them. The aunties in the front rows with their church fans had turned to the side like their sermon was threatening to go left. The press section was filled with black journalists who leaned closer, as if a scoop threatened to fall from Themba’s rehearsed lips. Even with the paper-bag test at the door, Themba never saw less than a packed stadium.

“Since I applied for my name to be on the ballot, my slogan hasn’t changed, and my mission stays the same every step I take towards the White House. I will secure reparations or I will die trying.”

Compared to the larger venues we ended with, I missed our first humble Detroit show, in the Fox theatre, using the one free night in a packed schedule, with the sets being moved in and out as Themba spoke and the mic going out when someone tripped on the cord. As we snowballed forward from one Black Mecca to the next, we faced more and more criticism. And racism…

On our route to Houston, our pre-Juneteenth rally, Themba’s bus was pelted with tomatoes in an archaic showing of disrespect. In St. Louis, we’d almost had to cancel because a police blockade wouldn’t let us enter. We had to get escorted in and out by the (damn) National Guard. That, coupled with Themba’s completely unchanged speech, led to civil unrest as white people demanded entry to the one space that dared to exclude them.

Of course, Themba already knew what he was getting into (coulda shared that one with the class, but that’s neither here nor there) when he planned the tour. He claimed he wanted to “bless the land” in every majority-black city in the country if he had the time, and thanks to our early start, we were able to go twice, visit the Indigenous reservations, and drop in on batches of other minorities in transit. We successfully spoke to every hood from Oakland to the DMV before the debates started, not once speaking to a majority white crowd. In fact, by the time any non-St. Louis white person had heard his name, it was from the debate announcer.

He answered each question with such conviction, I felt him turning the hearts of his opponents. “Candidate Morris,” The debate moderator started, sounding completely disinterested (and pissing me off). “How do you plan on aiding the growing student debt problem?” This question was personal as Themba stood with a mountain of student debt gnawing at his heels like a hungry, chained wolf. It snarled and barked until Themba would scrape coins together to throw a petty payment at it, silencing its howling until the next full moon.

“I believe the solution to the student debt crisis has been staring us in the face, but the capitalist spearheads that have been dependent on that soul-crushing debt exchange haven’t allowed for the necessary change to completely eradicate it. As I believe my most honest answer would anger those with their billion-dollar teeth sunk deep into the necks of my running mates, I’ll choose to leave my answer open-ended.” Then he saw he still had time on the clock. “Actually, my solution is simple enough; I believe I have time for it. I’d just make college free. Trade schools, too. And conservatories. Actually, I’d make attending them a job and have people get paid for it.”

It was a wonder he’d ever gotten elected with how much shit he stirred, but no one could talk him down. He had reached such a stride during his campaign tour that he was prepared for anything those twisted, money-controlled peons had to say to him. He could easily swat them away with succinct logic.

Now, as I sat with him in the now still and at peace White House, I wondered what made him so strong. My worry (of course) persisted. I wondered if he’d be safer once he left the office; if he’d be granted the same freedom past presidents lived the rest of their lives with; if he’d get to start a family with Malcolm like he wanted to and watch those kids go to college and get married one day.

I picture an older Themba, fat from all the snacks he could never give up, but still in shape from skating circles around me on his quads. I imagined his long grey locs; he always said he’d grow out as they swayed in the wind behind him, Malcolm in his in-lines just a few feet behind him. I’d watch them as they danced around the edge of the rink, as their children and grandchildren filled the floor with giggles as they played and fell. That was the future I wanted for my friend.

As the White House staff cleaned the remains of the kinda burnt cross from the sidewalk, I wondered if he’d live to be re-elected.