The smoke quivered in my palm, that sluggish worm of fleeting echoes. Like a scarred hand to the trigger, I grasped the allure of death. But I didn’t want it fast. I liked slow things: roads, weather, gani-boiling, sex, and yes, smokes. “Get that damn thing out your mouth!” Kuraa shouted through the busted screen. I paid her no heed on the porch, drinking what little morsels life had to offer before dripping them out through cracked lips. I wanted to leave. Smoke made doors.

“God-... ATAKAA!!!” The screen slid shut behind her as Kuraa stormed out. “What the hell did we say about those?” Turning, we locked eyes: her salty brown with an eager mabui and my sticky brown with its absence.

I sighed, a waft of reek settling at my feet. “A good smoke is a good way to burn a good life.” I recited. I snatched the worm and quelled it in the dewed grass, wincing as the disco of smoke danced away. “You happy?”

Her face transmogrified from disappointment to a smile that tinted the world lacquer red. “Attagirl.” She plopped down beside me, craggy-cut black hair swaying like glossy sparrowhawk feathers. “Always happy with you.”

I grunted in protest, edge masking a blush. “That’s sweet, but how can you be happy here?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, quirking a soft brow. Our fingers laced and I was home again. The porch became a sandy stone shelf, our geriatric house grew to a thinning forest, and the gravel road flooded with jelly-clear waters. Then it all snapped back.

“What do you mean? This isn’t home, Kuraa. We don’t see stars at night: we see smog. There aren’t any utaki to light sandalwood or pray or clap at. Naimunchuu is the only Yara god that came, and she’s been screwing us every which way. So what if I smoke? It’s a memory.”

She drooped her bobbed head and cozied onto my shoulder. “Memories are memories. ‘Me-mo-ries’. You smoke now, kindling the pleasant days. Do you remember Isamu, the dirty money-man? Or when our Chahi was beaten dead? Or those times we stole juicy tankan from the Onoshii’s courtyard because your anmaa never had enough for dinner? It’s big and loose here.” She ruffled my seaweed mane, furling gashed places and tangling the singed. “We can write our new names.”

We sat for a while, glued to that sentence. Far above the anemic clouds, the frantic whirring of an aeroplane added to the ambiance of automobile honks. An acornless chipmunk twitched on the chunky pavement, its anxious innards popped under a long-gone tire. Giant souls staggered through cities and reaped every last drop of metal. This was a fast land. I liked things slow. I didn’t like our stifling hush.

“You don’t get it, do you?” I finally spoke. She shook her head. “You’re named Kuraa because you’re nimble. You’re a singer and a rascal, and you’d lose your gold without your tongue,” I said, placing my index finger on her lips. She playfully tried to bite it. “I’m named Atakaa because I’m extremely pretty, very charismatic, and also incredibly strong,” I continued, patting my bicep. She laughed a dazzling laugh. “Our names mean something. You’re a bird and I’m a lizard, and we perch on the same kuba. Our together-tree. Over here… they only have cottonwoods.”

“We can grow another kuba. We can grow.” She quietly insisted. Her words broke me.

I sat up, on the verge of tears, and clutched her hand like a lifeline. “But we can’t. Our language died decades ago: we voice corpses. Why does no-one seem to mind that? Anmaa always says, ‘we are in English now, have to speak it,’ but I know how much she misses aafa and abuchi. You always—”

“DON’T say I don’t mind it, Yara Atakaa!” Kuraa interrupted, pain creeping through melody. “You understand how much I have going for me here? Only you. I’m not just some nimble crutch. I miss it too. I miss the bitter taste of goya and sweet pork under the Rat star. I miss my crazy ichuku, who convinced all the kids he was a spirit-seeing yuta, despite being a man. I miss living in the queen islands. But that’s gone and so are we. We make the most of things, Atakaa, because we’re both strong. Yes, we’re surrounded by cottonwoods, but they’re not burning,” she eyed the fallen smoke, “or reeking. We can suffocate on sorrow or sing our music.”

“But I don’t know how to sing anymore, Kuraa-gwaa,” I whispered, staring into the brackish skyline. “My heart is mute. My mouth is dry.”

Scanning my face, word-by-word, she picked me apart. “No. You just need healing.” She booped my nose, jolting a raw giggle from my tumultuous chest. She was homelier than any smoke. Kuraa bounced up like the sparrowhawk she was, flying across the porch to the busted screen. “And luckily for you, I’ll be your ukuri for the evening.”

TRANSLATIONS

gani — crab

mabui — a soul that can be lost

utaki — Ryukyuan place of worship

tankan — type of citrus fruit

anmaa — mother

kuba — type of palm tree

aafa — grandmother (affectionate)

abuchi — grandfather (affectionate)

goya — bittermelon

ichuku — cousin

yuta — female psychic or priest

-gwaa — suffix of endearment

ukuri — family priest