as he continued past in the direction of the secret room. He weaved through the dusty stockpile in the cavernous cellar with Bahja at his heels. He came to the metal door with the brown leather weaving. Jem’ya was sitting on the floor. She looked up. He watched her face change at the sight of him. Tareq’s aching muscles braced for her reaction.
To see his face was like seeing her brother impaled on that gold-hilted sword again. She saw Tareq’s face, and, like an evil spirit, rage possessed her body with animalistic strength.
“Murderer!” she screamed. She jumped up and threw herself against the gate. “ Murdererrrr !” she screeched at him, her fingers curled to claw out his wet eyes.
Frozen, Tareq stared at her. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. His voice was quiet. “Open the gate,” he told Bahja. His maidservant hesitated, and then pulled the key ring from the pocket of her white dress. She slowly opened the lock and Tareq reached for the door, his eyes glued to Jem’ya. As soon as he stepped inside the room, Jem’ya attacked him. She was a whipping sandstorm of tears, screams, punching, scratching and kicking.
Tareq was silent as he restrained her. He took both her wrists in his large hands and held them between their chests. He put his right leg between hers and hooked his feet behind her heels to lock her legs in place. Baring her teeth, Jem’ya growled and cursed in frustration as she struggled to pull her arms and legs from his grip. The hatred in her wild eyes pained him. Tareq’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“I was defending myself,” he said softly. “I didn’t know it was your village. Jem’ya…if I’d known…” He felt her twisting in his grasp again. “Jem’ya, please.”
His remorse was barely detected by Jem’ya. Her anger was deafening. His smell, a mix of sweat and alcohol, was making Jem’ya nauseated. She wanted to see him bleed. “My name on your lips is like honey in the slimy mouth of swine. You heartless monster!”
Tareq looked up at the wall behind Jem’ya’s head to get a break from her tormenting glare. Emotions were building up inside him. It was like a levee about to burst.
Bahja took the moment to speak up. “Tareq, who is this woman,” she demanded.
He swallowed. “She is Jem’ya Okobi . The healer.”
Bahja gasped. “Why are you doing this?!”
Tareq met Jem’ya’s eyes. “Jem’ya, I’m—”
“Do not speak my name again!” She was trembling all over with fury and tears continued coursing down her face. “I won’t allow you the privilege of that anymore. I am not your healer. I am not your Jem’ya. I am Black Africa. Black Africa!” she roared. “I am every black African man you’ve ever slaughtered like an animal , every black child you’ve orphaned without a second thought, and every black woman you’ve allowed to be violated and sold into slavery in your degenerate kingdom!”
Tareq saw her work her mouth and knew exactly what she was going to do. He ducked out of the trajectory of her spit, and grew angry. One hand still holding her wrists, he grabbed Jem’ya’s mouth and chin and lowered his face inches from hers.
“A bloody lip would not suit such a flawless face, eh? So, I beg you, tread lighter with me,” he warned. He felt like he was going mad. He could bind her hands and threaten her to prevent her attacks, but it would not be as simple to quench the consuming hatred inside of her.
His temper ebbed and Tareq realized what he’d said. He could never strike her. He wished he’d never said it. He relaxed his grip on her. His thumb smoothed across her lips as he let his hand slide away from her face. He released her wrists and her legs. He stepped back from her. He saw her hand lifting, but he didn’t stop her.
She slapped him, so hard that the tears in his eyes sprang out and flew across the room. The smack echoed through the cellar. Bahja gasped. His cheek began to burn like a dozen bee stings.
To see his face was like seeing her brother impaled on that gold-hilted sword again. She saw Tareq’s face, and, like an evil spirit, rage possessed her body with animalistic strength.
“Murderer!” she screamed. She jumped up and threw herself against the gate. “ Murdererrrr !” she screeched at him, her fingers curled to claw out his wet eyes.
Frozen, Tareq stared at her. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. His voice was quiet. “Open the gate,” he told Bahja. His maidservant hesitated, and then pulled the key ring from the pocket of her white dress. She slowly opened the lock and Tareq reached for the door, his eyes glued to Jem’ya. As soon as he stepped inside the room, Jem’ya attacked him. She was a whipping sandstorm of tears, screams, punching, scratching and kicking.
Tareq was silent as he restrained her. He took both her wrists in his large hands and held them between their chests. He put his right leg between hers and hooked his feet behind her heels to lock her legs in place. Baring her teeth, Jem’ya growled and cursed in frustration as she struggled to pull her arms and legs from his grip. The hatred in her wild eyes pained him. Tareq’s eyes brimmed with tears.
“I was defending myself,” he said softly. “I didn’t know it was your village. Jem’ya…if I’d known…” He felt her twisting in his grasp again. “Jem’ya, please.”
His remorse was barely detected by Jem’ya. Her anger was deafening. His smell, a mix of sweat and alcohol, was making Jem’ya nauseated. She wanted to see him bleed. “My name on your lips is like honey in the slimy mouth of swine. You heartless monster!”
Tareq looked up at the wall behind Jem’ya’s head to get a break from her tormenting glare. Emotions were building up inside him. It was like a levee about to burst.
Bahja took the moment to speak up. “Tareq, who is this woman,” she demanded.
He swallowed. “She is Jem’ya Okobi . The healer.”
Bahja gasped. “Why are you doing this?!”
Tareq met Jem’ya’s eyes. “Jem’ya, I’m—”
“Do not speak my name again!” She was trembling all over with fury and tears continued coursing down her face. “I won’t allow you the privilege of that anymore. I am not your healer. I am not your Jem’ya. I am Black Africa. Black Africa!” she roared. “I am every black African man you’ve ever slaughtered like an animal , every black child you’ve orphaned without a second thought, and every black woman you’ve allowed to be violated and sold into slavery in your degenerate kingdom!”
Tareq saw her work her mouth and knew exactly what she was going to do. He ducked out of the trajectory of her spit, and grew angry. One hand still holding her wrists, he grabbed Jem’ya’s mouth and chin and lowered his face inches from hers.
“A bloody lip would not suit such a flawless face, eh? So, I beg you, tread lighter with me,” he warned. He felt like he was going mad. He could bind her hands and threaten her to prevent her attacks, but it would not be as simple to quench the consuming hatred inside of her.
His temper ebbed and Tareq realized what he’d said. He could never strike her. He wished he’d never said it. He relaxed his grip on her. His thumb smoothed across her lips as he let his hand slide away from her face. He released her wrists and her legs. He stepped back from her. He saw her hand lifting, but he didn’t stop her.
She slapped him, so hard that the tears in his eyes sprang out and flew across the room. The smack echoed through the cellar. Bahja gasped. His cheek began to burn like a dozen bee stings.
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