EXCERPT
CHAPTER 1
Happi
Thursday, July 26—3 Months, 9 Days Since the Arrest
Chicago, Illinois
She was mine before she was anyone else’s. All mine. Partly mine. Now she belongs to you and them and shirts and rallies and songs and documentaries. They say she had A Bright Future Ahead of Her and She Was a Star Whose Light Burned Out Too Soon. She Was Going to Make a Difference. That’s all true, but it’s not the Truth. Kezi was more than her brains and her grades and her voice. She was more than her future. She had a past. She was living her present.
She could have been mine.
Should have been mine.
She was my sister before she became your martyr, after all.
Even as I sit as still as a lion stalking her prey, inside, I’m racing. My mind is buzzing with the thoughts I don’t say. My heart is knocking erratically against my sternum and is always one beat away from bursting through my chest. I should be used to it. But you never get used to strangers sliding their arms over your shoulders in solidarity, to apologize for something that isn’t their fault. Not when Kezi being gone doesn’t feel real to begin with. How can it, when I didn’t get a chance to see her face one last time before they incinerated her body and put her essence in an urn?
My parents are already inside the auditorium, seated in their place of honor in the front row. I will join them eventually, but not until the millisecond that I have to. When everything went down, we made an agreement. I will play along and be a cheap carbon copy of the daughter they lost, a constant reminder to the world that she was One of the Good Ones. But before the lights shine on us and cell phones are trained at our brave, heartbroken faces, I will be me. The Prodigal Daughter.
I glance at my own phone. Nothing. New phone, who dis? I guess.
I sink into the hard bench outside of the Harold Washington Theater where the National Alliance for the Progression of Black People’s Chicago chapter is hosting its annual Salute to Excellence ceremony. I try to breathe. I don’t want to salute anything. I don’t want to be in there. I just want to pretend that this slab of wood is a cloud, that I’m a regular girl laying outside and soaking up the final drops of sunshine at the end of a mundane day. They call it the golden hour, a photographer told me a few weeks ago, when we were waiting for my mother to be finished with makeup for a photoshoot that Essence Magazine was doing about “America’s New Civil Rights Leaders.” The new normal.
He was fiddling with his camera, removing and reattaching the giant zoom lens of his Canon, and was apparently one of those people who couldn’t stand silence. Others see me and can’t help but speak. I can read the panic in their eyes when the realization crawls into their psyches: Come on, say something nice, don’t sound stupid. But instead of the I’m so sorry’s and the You’re so brave’s, he prattled on about the magical moments just after the sun rises and right before it sets. It was a breath of fresh air, actually.
“Way less shadow,” he said. “Nowhere for your subject to hide.”
“I think my sister mentioned it to me once,” I volunteered. “She was a YouTuber.”
His eyes widened in terror. Of course.
“Oh yeah! Oh, man. I’m so—”
“It’s fine.” I had spoken too soon.
That was then. Now I’m wondering how long you have to sit outside to get a tan when I sense the shifting of light through my closed eyelids. Someone is standing over me and blocking the sun. My heart is no longer knocking at my chest; it is about to crack through my rib cage, my guts, my skin, my top. Like a bullet, only bigger. My eyes spring open, and I hurl my purse across my body reflexively. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Any deranged rando can recognize you out here and—
“Ow!”
It’s even worse than I thought. It’s Genny.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. She’s an integrative biologist and basically lives in her laboratory. Mom, Dad, and I had been visiting Chicago for a few days, but Genny stayed behind in Los Angeles. I didn't mind.
“I just got in,” Genny says as she rubs her shoulder. Bummer. I was aiming for the face. She hands me my bag. “Why are you not inside? They’re about to start.”
“This is my alone time,” I say. I stretch with my arms wide above my head until I notice a blond man parked in a car across the street watching in interest. Our eyes meet. He smiles. I frown and hunch over instinctively. We are never alone.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“And that’s my cue.” I stop the alarm and switch my phone to silent. Any messages from Santiago will have to wait. Not that he’s gonna answer anyway. “Sorry,” I mutter.
She shakes her head. “Naw, I get it. I shouldn’t have surprised you like that. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
We’re never on the same page. This is weird.
I shrug as I heave myself up to smooth the black cigarette pants I convinced Mom to let me wear and adjust my tucked-in ruffled beige blouse.
“I thought you said you couldn’t make it.” I glance at her from the corner of my eye. She’s rolling an enormous hardside spinner suitcase back and forth on the sidewalk. It’s a sensible black, of course. But surprisingly large for an overnight trip. And I’m supposed to be the vain one.
Genny pauses midspin.
“I moved some things around…Kezi was always going on about how important Chicago is to Black history. She told me over lunch that Obama moved here before law school partly because of this guy.” She looks at the doors of the theater behind us, at the clunky neon letters that spell Harold Washington, the first Black mayor of Chicago.
“Oh. I thought it was because of Michelle’s pheromones.”
She blinks.
Over lunch.
I hate when she does this. Gushes about all the sisterly things they had without me. Resentment oozes through my pores when I remember that so many of Genny’s memories with our middle sister are more recent than mine. I was only a year younger than Kezi and had lunch with her exactly once since starting high school. Genny and Kezi were about seven years apart, and they had a standing weekly date.
I hate myself for wanting to compete for the title of Closest to Kezi. And for what? I lose every time. None of that will bring her back.
We enter the theater, and I don’t stop to wait for Genny, who is asking an usher to store her luggage someplace safe. I keep walking, on the brink of jogging, anything to make the gazes that follow me down the aisle of the auditorium a blur, inhuman. I plunk down into my seat with none of the grace and class that years of ballet, tap, and jazz lessons would suggest I have. Or what seventeen years of having Naomi Smith as a mother would demand.
“Let the public consumption of our misery begin,” I whisper as I cross my arms.
“Tut.” My mother doesn’t need to use real words for me to understand her. Clicks and side-eyes suffice to get her point across: You better get your act together, girl. She turns in her seat and grabs my father’s hand. Their fingers meld into one on her lap. I ignore the flash of a camera that goes off to capture the very casual, completely unstaged exhibition of their courageous love.
The lights dim and funky soul music jingles to life as Genny slips into the empty seat beside me. She looks forward decidedly and remains silent, but I know the tap, tap, tapping of her index finger on her armrest is because she wants to tell me off for abandoning her outside with the overly chatty usher. But she won’t. Because acting right in public is first nature to her. It doesn’t have to get nose pinched and poured down her throat, like with me. It’s another thing she and Kezi have in common.
Had.
“Yes, welcome, welcome!”
The president of the NAPBP’s Chicago chapter stops at the acrylic podium and nods at the applause filling the room. He adjusts his baby-blue silk tie and smiles so wide that his lips practically reach the back of his head.
“Welcome to our annual Salute to Excellence ceremony! We are so blessed to have the individuals that have rocked this city and our nation—” he bows slightly in my family’s direction “—with us here this evening.”
Applause.
“Yes, indeed, these people have shaken up our communities and given us a whole lot to think on. You know, I’ve stayed up nights pondering who we are.”
Pause.
“What we deserve.”
“Preach!” a woman shouts from the back.
“And what we will no longer stand for.”
“Tell ’em!” I turn to witness a man in the middle row jump up from his seat.
The chapter president pulls out a handkerchief from deep within one of the many pockets of his pinstripe suit and mops the sheen of sweat that has somehow already sprung up on his forehead.
“We have a ways to go, it’s true. But right now, we celebrate and acknowledge the accomplishments we’ve made.”
This all sounds good. The crowd is inspired. My parents’ previously intertwined hands have even dissolved from their unity blob to clap emphatically at the man’s words. But I’m still without a sister. I still can’t reconcile what happened to her, only three months out. I don’t know if I ever will. I bring my hands together robotically as the show begins in earnest, first with a stirring rendition of the Negro National Anthem, where everyone but me seems to know there are second and third verses.
The show drags along. There are spoken word poems and both high school and HBCU marching band performances. Certificates of academic achievement for recent graduates are passed out. Genny’s hand, the fingers of which have long since stopped pattering in annoyance, has just inched its way closer to where my elbow lays on the armrest between our seats when the students on stage whoop in self-congratulation. I jerk my arm away. She glances at me in simultaneous pity and irritation. There are other various demonstrations of salutation-worthy excellence, and then it’s finally time for the keynote speaker.
“Our next guest never planned on being famous. She never thought that she would be called to carry the load that she walks with each day. She never imagined that she would receive the phone call that every parent dreads, but that so many Black moms and dads are forced to answer far too frequently in this country.”
The once celebratory crowd now settles into a familiar hush, the quiet that’s reserved to show respect. To acknowledge that someone strong is about to speak. My mother smooths her skirt in her lap as she waits for the man to finish his intro. She lets out a shaky breath, and my dad gives her knee a gentle squeeze to bolster her strength.
“Naomi Smith is a resident of Los Angeles, California, and co-pastor of Resurrection Baptist Church along with her husband, Malcolm Walker Smith. She is the mother of three beautiful young women—one of whom is no longer with us today. Keziah Leah Smith, known to her friends as Kezi, died senselessly by the hands of the very people who were supposed to keep her safe. Her death in April following her unjust arrest at a social justice rally has shaken us to the depths of our souls and beyond. And yet, Naomi has stepped forward with a grace and resolve that is truly admirable, speaking for so many families that have been forced to walk down this treacherous road. Today, she will receive the NAPBP Courage Award on behalf of Kezi.”
Mom stands and releases another slow exhale through her lips. Dad looks up at her from his seat with an encouraging nod and smile. As she makes her way onto the stage, the crowd begins to clap. It starts slowly at first, as if people are afraid to make too much commotion. But soon everyone is on their feet, hands smacking together thunderously as the chapter president opens his arms wide and then envelops her in a hug, perfectly angled for all the cameras to catch. Mom takes her position behind the podium and smiles as everyone eventually stops their applauding to take their seats. As she begins to address the audience, she isn’t Mom anymore. She’s the family spokeswoman. The practiced public speaker. The polished preacher addressing her doting congregation. To some, the way that she has stepped into this role with such dignity and speed could be explained only as divinely ordained.
“I’d like to start off by thanking the NAPBP for inviting me and my family here today. It is a great honor to be among some of the most hardworking people of our generation, and I humbly accept this award on behalf of my daughter Kezi. Lord. Sh—she should have been here.” Mom pauses to clear her throat.
“The day that Kezi was born, I looked down at her and she beamed right back up at me. She was all gums then, of course, whooping and hollering like a little tornado. But even as she sighed her first breaths on this side of creation, she stopped long enough to grin and gurgle at me and let me know that she saw her mama. That was Kezi. Outspoken and ready to shout from the mountaintops, even when she didn’t have the words yet. But she was aware enough to stop and acknowledge me for bringing her into this world.
“Unsurprisingly, Kezi grew up to be a champion for the people who can’t speak up and the ones who get ignored when they do. She made it her duty to whoop and holler for the overlooked. When she told me that she had created a YouTube channel to do her part to fight injustice in this country, all I could do was look at her and nod. Now, I’m not one to be speechless, let me tell you—”
I snort loudly from my seat, and Genny nudges me harshly in the ribs.
“—but so often, Kezi would say something that would stop me from forming my next thought. Just like that, any words would be taken right out of my head, and I’d just gaze at her in awe. Don’t get me wrong, I thought that was a hefty task to undertake on some website. But if anyone could do it, it would be Kezi. And not only would she do it, she’d be great at it. And she was. She had thousands of followers, got to write amazing think pieces—she even had the chance to speak on TV once. Major organizations like yours recognized her work.”
She nods once at the NAPBP president. Then to her captivated audience.
“But online activism wasn’t enough for Kezi. It wasn’t long before she wanted to do things in the real world, march in the streets and wave signs and scream and shout to be heard. And this scared me. Rattled me to my core. Every day on the news, I was seeing someone get beat up, shot by police, worse. I didn’t want that for any of my children. No—”
Mom pauses again to clear her throat, and I see my dad straighten up in his seat.
“No one does,” she whispers. Stops. The room freezes too. I glance at Genny—this part of the speech is new.
“My own father lost his dad at a young age, you know. My grandfather never got justice. He was yet another Black man lost to the mysteries of the night in the Jim Crow South. But at least he was around long enough to fall in love. Cultivate a family. Get to know himself a bit. M-my daughter will never have that.”
These past few months have been a never-ending performance for Mom. She’s been reciting the same lines over and over again on an endless loop of repetition. But that just meant that she was always on point. You could ask her any question, and she’d be ready, because she knew how the show ended. Booming applause. Tear-filled eyes. Deep breath sniffles.
My mother is a natural speaker who can draw in the crowd, pull them right up against the door to our pain and then guide them back out, farther away from what we had experienced and closer to the promise of hope. To a day when things like this didn’t happen anymore. She has gotten particularly good at separating herself from these moments. She’s playing a part, after all, her true expressions of grief folded into a tiny box only to be unleashed in the privacy of her home. Uncorked with a bottle of wine. They never see that.
Until today. Right now.
The room is as silent as death as my mother mourns. The unbreakable barrier between her heartbreak and the public shatters into a billion shards. I feel the pricks in my own eyes.
“My baby,” she gasps. “Kezi.”
A wail as deep as the ocean and just as blue escapes her lips. I am suddenly hot, my blood rushing through my veins and arteries, not nearly fast enough to my brain to tell me what I should do. Because I have to do something. Genny looks stricken, equally uncertain how to react. Her fingers find the loose rubber band she’s taken to wearing on her right wrist. She snaps it hard against her skin. Again and again and again. The flush spreads up her arm.
I wonder how bruised Kezi was when she died. How long she screamed before her throat burned and she couldn’t anymore. If she even screamed at all. But I can’t wonder long. Wondering takes me there with her, and she keeps leaving in a blaze of agony, over and over.
The worst thing that could ever happen to my family did happen, exactly one hundred days ago. Each day has brought one more brick on our backs, added one more link in the iron chains that unite us through blood and fire. Politicians make promises about what they plan to accomplish during their first one hundred days in office, that period of time that is still early and hopeful, yet substantial enough to make a difference. But no one talks about the first one hundred days into a death. How you still expect to see your sister unceremoniously dump her textbooks on the kitchen table. How your nose still anticipates smelling the avocado and honey hair mask she does while editing videos on the weekend. Or how her room has become an untouched museum. A shrine. A crypt.
She can’t be dead.
Speaking about her in the past tense still feels weird on my tongue.
If I just close my eyes—
We’re still here.
My dad is the muscular and mute type. He is content to stay in the shadows and let my mom be our collective voice. But that won’t fly today. Not when she is standing before a crowd of hundreds and about to collapse with exhaustion. With despair. Because even in a perfect world from here on out, even if all her speeches and interviews lead to not one more drop splashing into the rivers and seas of the blood of the innocent, Kezi will still be gone.
So Dad makes noise. He leaps from his chair and calls out to his wife.
“It’s all right, Mimi.”
It doesn’t take him long to reach her, to wrap his broad arms around the shuddering body of the only person in his life who knows what it feels like to have a part of your human legacy extinguished. Genny, who shuns most attention, walks purposefully to the stage as well. To be the brace to the family backbone.
I know what I should do now. I don’t need to look to my left or my right or behind me to realize that these people expect me to join my family and share in our communal torment. To help us hold each other up. But only a tissue-thin wall stands between my aching sadness and the withdrawn mask I wear.
So I can’t. I can’t keep my end of the bargain.
I rise from my seat too. Genny’s eyes find mine. Even as I turn my back on my oldest sister and parents onstage, as I drag my feet down the aisle, slowly enough that every shocked face remains in focus and human, I know her gaze still follows.
Something to know about me is that I hide.
I burst through the double doors.
I run away.
