A Kettle of Vultures by Sabrina Lamb

Author:Sabrina Lamb
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Strebor Books
Published: 2010-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

My 2000 Honda seriously clashed with the rich ambiance of Heaven’s Gate, a gated community for the filthy rich located in Forsyth County, north of Atlanta. From the security guard’s facial expression as he surveyed my car, he probably thought that the Beverly Hillbillies were relocating—here—tonight. The tree-lined, winding entrance split off into smaller roads leading to tennis courts, man-made lakes, bike trails, and walking paths. Each luxurious home was set on multiple acres, nestled among majestic live oaks dripping with Spanish moss.

The circular drive, with a twenty-five-foot water fountain flowing in front of Eba’s breathtaking mansion, contradicted the image of the limping, sullen basketball player and leeching entourage whom I had observed earlier. Seth apologized for not accompanying me. “My lover Basil is introducing me to his parents. Isn’t that delicious?”

A petite, smiling girl with a short Afro answered the doorbell, gestured for me to remove my shoes and escorted me into the expansive, sunken living room, barely decorated except for the seventy-two-inch plasma flat-screen television mounted on the center wall. The petite, smiling girl returned shortly thereafter serving, what she called a tabrihana, a fruit drink. Mickie, in his black socks, walked into the room, waving, but continued to bark into his cellular phone: “Phil! Phil, are you listening to me? I’m telling you dis kid is the perfect image for Nike. He’ll bring you fucking Africa! Africa! When has any athlete since Olajuwon and Mutombo brought you Africa! Can he tawk? What kinda question is zat? Would I screw you ovah? Huh? Huh?” Mickie said, winking at me. “Okay, okay, get back to me,” he concluded, disconnecting the line, and stuffing his iPhone into his jacket pocket.

The felonious entourage emerged from the rear of the home like oil from an oil tanker, followed by Eba, who had changed into a floor-length caftan. Opening the eight-foot-high front door for his retinue, Eba said, in a husky, Moses-parting-the-Red-Sea voice, “I’ll git wit you muthafuckas later.”

“Awright, man, awright,” the entourage chimed, like a Wu Tang chorus, as they boarded their bicycles, chained to a bicycle rack outside, and pedaled down the circular driveway.

The petite girl stood on the edge of the living room, still smiling, glancing repeatedly from Eba to myself. Mickie filled in the silence. “Eba, you remember Iris.”

“Of course, welcome to nyumba, my home. Please meet my Hanifa.” Hanifa cautiously stepped toward me, then shook my hand with such conviction, as if finding a lost twenty-dollar bill between paychecks.

“Jina lako nani? Wewe nani,” Hanifa asked sweetly.

“Hanifa wants to know your name,” Eba said.

“Iris. My name is Iris,” I answered, confounded by her warmth.

“Unasemaje nafurahi kukona? (How do you say it is nice to meet you?)” Hanifa asked Eba, tugging vigorously on his caftan.

“It is nice to meet you,” Eba replied slowly.

Hanifa practiced, “It’s nice to meet you. It’s nice to meet you,” under her breath as she shuffled through the dining room, to another expansive area beyond it.

“Dinner awaits, Iris Chapman.” A gentleness emerged from Eba as comfortable

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