The Soles Of Damini Manor

CHAPTER 1: WHAT'S WORSE THAN SCUFFED SHOES? FAKE FUNERALS

Kola

It's been two weeks, fourteen hours, thirty minutes, and three seconds (now four) since Mom joined the group of missing black women in Manhattan—those whose disappearances aren't prioritized.

The deep timbre of the church bells reverberates, sending the flock of white-throated sparrows into a frenzy. Their wings flapping in disarray as they scatter from the rooftop. I swing my legs along the roofline, peering at the pointed steeple of Lẹ́kò's only church, its spire piercing the sky. Surrounding it, a field of daisy wildflowers are dancing with the wind, while the Nigerian green and white flags flutter on scattered strings.

I adjust my headphones, slowly slipping off my head from idleness. I don't expect to listen to any music from up here. Ace bar is next door to the church. It's useless to come to the bar's rooftop on a Sunday and expect to hear anything except the thunder of the bells and the wind sloshing against the daisies, swaying them horizontally.

I tear my gaze away from the rooftop scene and as if on cue, the churchgoers below disperse—not one by one but four by four, impatiently. Women in strangely large hats that cover their entire foreheads and men in worn-out jeans clutching their bibles under their pits. They look deflated. Lines of disappointment decorate their foreheads. Their plan must have failed from the frustrated way one woman grips her silk wrapper firmly. Dad's plan to find Mom has failed miserably.

I told him a fake funeral was a bad idea, Mom isn't dead. For one, there is no body, no note and no ransom call. It was a clean exit. She stacked her paint brushes and palette's in their box the night before—a habit she reserves for her trips. Then on that evening she left to get Kanyin's cake, and we were all seated, waiting for her to get back. But no, after careful misinformation from a group of not blood-related aunties that a fake funeral in Mom's honor is like a call to her, a symbolic way to get her attention and compel her to come home. Dad insisted we exhaust every option.

"Ow!" A voice hisses.

I cross one leg over the other, balancing on the roof's edge while my gaze shifts from the ridiculous scene below me to the source of the sound. Kanyin is sitting behind a large white satellite dish. Hiding would be more appropriate because in her hand is a brown paper bag clinging to the shape of a wine bottle. The other hand is in her box braids, massaging a spot at the top of her head.

"You're too young to be drinking. I'll tell Dad," I threaten, knowing fully well she doesn't care.

Kanyin moves closer to me, imitating my seating style and planting her bagged wine between us.

She peers down at the church like I was doing some seconds ago. "Some would say we are too young to lose Mom, and yet here we are."

I wipe a small droplet of drizzle from my forehead aggressively. "She is missing, not dead," I snap, meeting her widened eyes. I'm not one to give up, especially not on the only person that truly gets me. I haven't let my doubts ruin me and I will not start with Kanyin's words.

She grabs the wine bottle that separates us, taking a large swig. Distaste clouds her expression as her brows furrow and cheeks crease.

"I know," she mutters, her features relaxing as she recovers from the sour taste. "This place gives me a weird feeling," she says, folding her hands together as tiny droplets coat her exposed arms.

I agree with my sister. I rarely ever do, but I do now. Lẹ́kò makes my skin crawl. To be honest, anywhere with people gives me that feeling, but a small town, inspired by a Nigerian state in the heart of South Carolina, isn't my go to scene.